CUANDO LA TIERRA ERA MALA
Sergio Escobar
El d�a que la tierra nos pareci� mala, decidimos salir a la b�squeda de una donde las cosas fueran cultivables, y a traerla de abono. Asi empez� nuestro viaje, con la idea franca de ir por lo que no ten�amos y volver.�
Cuando por el r�o de barro navegamos, nuestras balsas corr�an como peces locos que buscaban donde sembrar sus ovarios; en el v�rtigo de aquel viaje, muchas veces olvidamos que buscabamos la tierra que quer�amos o nos hac�a falta. Cuando lograbamos ver parte de ella desperdigadas, un barranco, dos metros del valle, alg�n �rbol guardando un pu�ado en su tronco muerto en forma de copa, deten�amos las veloces barcazas volc�ndolas y nadabamos hasta la rivera; entonces enterrabamos las manos en esos terrones llorando con frenes� y cargabamos con todo lo cargable posible, por supuesto, no era tarea f�cil alcanzar y enderezar las barcas para continuar el viaje como tampoco era f�cil navegar por aquella vena de fango corriente plagado de monstruos. M�s con todo segu�amos el viaje, empujados hacia adelante por el curso irrevocable del r�o y la ansiedad, luchando contra la nostalg�a que nos devolv�a las velas y el coraz�n, centradas eso si nuestras naves por la angustia que amenazaba invisible desde las orillas.
As� fue nuestro viaje, no supimos al final como volver atr�s con lo que hab�amos conseguido. Quiz�s fue porque olvidamos despu�s de tantos a�os que era lo que nos hacia falta y hab�amos ido a buscar. Tantos cambios del cielo y las orillas nos cambi� de piel y confundi� nuestras razones de viaje; o tal vez porque lo poco que hab�amos ido consiguiendo se hab�a ido malogrando con los azares ordinarios del viaje, por ejemplo, la interperie de la noche y sus encuentros con el d�a causaba en algunos de nosotros raptos de locura que hac�an que tir�senos por la borda el montoncito de tierra acumulada hasta ese punto; entonces, los dem�s nos arrojabamos sobre �l para evitar un da�o mayor o la tentaci�n de seguir sus pasos, y luego lo castig�bamos como un perro, neg�ndole por varios d�as el derecho a beber, a comer y a tocar la tierra. Tambi�n llegaba a suceder que ca�a una lluvia invisible y cuando nos dabamos cuenta de ello ya era tarde: mucha de la tierra se lleg� a da�ar as�, moj�ndose, pudri�ndose hasta que ten�amos que arrojarla de nuestras vidas. Tambi�n se secaba a veces a causa de helados vientos nocturnos que le dejaban como roca, imposible de revolcarla para que se aireara, y antes de que su peso hundiera las naves o las us�semos como armas unos contra otros-, tal como lleg� a suceder en no pocas ocasiones la arrojabamos al r�o de barro con fuerza como queriendo culparlo y golpearlo por nuestros infortunios. Y a la larga mucho de lo que recogimos no serv�a para cultivar nada porque nos hab�amos equivocado de tierra. Muchas veces a causa de la confusi�n creciente- en contra de la predicci�n de los eruditos y conocedores de viajes, seg�n la cu�l la confusi�n deber�a decrecer a medida que pasara el tiempo. Con el tiempo adoptamos el h�bito de consolarnos de nuestro extravio cont�ndonos cuentos, recitando poemas, o cantando como los negros. Sobra decir que los temas de nuestras interpretaciones sol�an ser sobre gente que caminando monta�a abajo va a dar al infierno y no puede retornar, gente que se pierde en el mar o por debajo del mar durante 10 0 2000 a�os, o gente que pierde el rumbo en su propia ciudad o casa. Nos consol�bamos por turnos para no pelear, y asi, mientras uno interpretaba su parte, los dem�s nos sentabamos en coro y hac�amos silencio para escucharle, a excepci�n de las partes de su relato en que se comet�a un crimen o una fechoria que era cuando interrump�amos su narraci�n con gritos e insultos como si �l, el narrador, tuviera la culpa de las desgracias del h�roe, o grit�bamos vivas y urras cuando el ladr�n se escapaba de sus perseguidores o el amante raptaba a su bienamada y levant�bamos en hombros al narrador que de sorprendido pasaba a c�mplice y replicaba gracias a nuestros victores y hasta derramaba l�grimas francas de agradecimieento por nuestra solidaridad con su causa. Creo que a la larga estos momentos llegaron a ser lo mejor y m�s hermoso de nuestro viaje, esos momentos en que olvid�bamos toda sed y toda hambre. Llevados por la fantas�a del relato donde la dura y escamosa tierra o el agua movediza se cruzan con caballos alados de maravilloso color; nada, quiz�s, nos lleg� a llenar tanto como un hermoso poema que en el morir de la tarde dec�a esas palabras que nos apretaba el pecho y que no pod�amos decir, y que al oirlo nos liberaba de todo el peso llevado hasta entonces sin saberlo y en silencio. Entonces, romp�amos a llorar sin verg�enza y echabamos al r�o toda nuestra pena, nuestra nostalgia, toda nuestra incertidumbre y las barcas se mec�an aun m�s con nuestras convulsiones e incluso terminaban contagiando al r�o de barro que agit�ndose parec�a acompa�arnos. Como el viaje se hizo largo los relatos y poemas se agotaron y tuvimos que empezar a repetirlos hasta que nos sobrevino una cr�sis porque por bellos que fuesen perdieron su encanto de tanto repetirlos. As� que algunos, los mas avezados nos dimos a la tarea de introducir ciertas variaciones para evitar la monoton�a y darle algo de pasto a la sediente imaginaci�n de nuestros camaradas. La cosa nos gusto mucho a todos y cogiendo confianza nos atrevimos a inventar historias, poemas y canciones de nuestra propia cosecha. Un d�a se me ocurri� no inventar nada sino simplemente contar nuestra propia historia. La sorpresa de mis compa�eros de viaje fue tan grande que aun la recuerdo ahora, sus rostros petrificados e hipnotizados me miraban con una mezcla de piedad y horror al reconocer su propia suerte y destino en ese relato que se desenvolv�a ante mis ojos. Luego sin ni siquiera haberme dado tiempo a terminar mi historia, bajaron sus cabezas y clavaron sus ojos en las ondas ariscas del r�o o en el horizonte tapado por la espesa noche, guardando silencio por muchos d�as. Pasado el tiempo, cuando habl� el primero dijo que me adjudicaba la tarea de contar nuestra historia y todo volvi� a la normalidad. M�s tarde fueron desapareciendo de las barcas uno a uno; este se arrojo a las aguas del r�o; aqu�l nado a la orilla y dijo querer quedarse a vivir con los micos; otro desapareci� sin dejar rastro ni palabra de un d�a para otro; el otro amaneci� muerto recostado en mis piernas a manera de almohada; estos dos enamorados uno del otro decidieron anclar su barca debajo de un �rbol inmenso, verde e inocente. Y una ma�ana al abrir los ojos comprend� que me hab�a quedado s�lo definitivamente en aquel viaje; mi �nico compa�ero vino a ser el rollo de papeles en que hab�a empezado a contar nuestra aventura. T� que ahora hallas esta barca vac�a en la que yace una calavera abrazando este rollo de papeles relatando nuestra desventura, no me olvides y cu�ntame entre los personajes de tus relatos.
WHEN THE LAND WAS BAD
Sergio Escobar
The day the land seemed bad to us, we decided to go in search of soil where the things where cultivable and bring it back as fertilizer. Our trip started like that, with the frank idea, of looking for the things we did not have and coming back.
When we were zipping through the river of mud, our rafts were rushing around like crazy fish, looking for a place to lay their ovum. In the vertigo of that trip, we forgot many times that we were looking for the land or soil we wanted or were in need of. When we managed to see part of it scattered, a ravine, two meters from the valley, we saw a dead tree holding handfuls of soil, in its cup shaped trunk. Therefore, we capsized our barge, and swam over to the brook where the tree was. We immediately dug our hands into the soil crying with frenzy, loading, everything possible. Of course, to straighten the boats was not an easy task to accomplish, as it was not easy continue the trip navigating through the current of mud plagued with monsters. Nevertheless, we continued with the trip, pushing forward through the inevitable course of the river with anxiety, fighting against nostalgia, this was motivating and lighting our hearts. Our boats definitely well balanced, invisible frustration radiating, at the same time threatening us from the shore.
That's how our trip went; by the end of the trip we did not know how to get back or what to do with what we had. Maybe, it was because after so many years we had forgotten what we needed or what we were looking for. There were so many changes, from the sky to the riverbank that made our skin change and had confused our reasons for the trip. Maybe, it was because the little we conceived was turning to nothing, with the random fate or luck of our trip. For example, the harshness of the night and the sudden encounter with the day, caused madness in some of us, this provoked us to throw what was now the little pile of dirt overboard. Then, the rest of us threw ourselves over it, to avoid a big loss, or the temptation to follow in their steps. We punished them like dogs, denying for several days their right to drink, eat or even touch the land. An invisible rain was falling, but when we finally realized this, it was too late. A lot of soil was drenched and rotted away to the point where we had to throw it overboard. It, in addition, sometimes dried out because of the night's icy winds leaving the soil like rocks, impossible to around for ventilation. Before the soils weight sank the barges, or we used it as weapons against each other, which happened very often, we forcefully threw it into the river of mud, like we blamed it for our misfortunes.�
In the end, much of the soil that was gathered was not cultivable because we had mistaken the land. Many times, the increasing confusion that occurred was contrary to the erudite and the trip expert's predictions saying that the confusion would decrease, as time went on.�
With time, we adopted the habit of cheering ourselves up over our loss, telling stories, reciting poems or singing like blacks. Its too much to say, but our interpretation themes, were usually about people walking down mountains beyond hell with no return, people who got lost in the sea or under the sea, for over 10 to 200 years, and people who wander aimlessly in their own city or home. We cheered ourselves up, by shifts avoiding fights. While one was interpreting his part, the rest of us, sat together, silently listening to him, with the exception of narrated crimes or when a misdeed was committed, we would interrupt the story with shouts and insults, like it was the narrator's fault for the hero's misfortunes or we shouted Vivas! And Hoorays!! When the thief ran away from his pursuer or when the lover eloped with his beloved woman and we would lift the narrator on our shoulders, that in surprise ended up being empathetic and replied thanks to our victories and even shed sincere tears in appreciation of our solidarity for his cause. I believe that in the long run, those moments became the best part of our trip, at those moments we forgot all the thirst and hunger. Lead by the tale's fantasy, where the hard and rocky land, or the restless water, crossed with winged horses of marvelous colors; maybe nothing made us happier than a beautiful poem, at the sunset. We released all the weight on our chests, which had carried until then, without knowing, in silence.
Then we broke into tears, without shame, throwing to the river all our sorrows, our nostalgia, all our uncertainty, and the boats rocking, even more with our convulsions and we ended up contaminating the mud river that agitated, seemed to keep us company.�
As the trip went along, the tales and poems ran out, and we had begun to repeat them again, until a crisis struck down. Because, although they were beautiful, they lost their charm as they were many times repeated. Then, some of us, the most creative of our group, to avoid the monotony, were given the task to introduce some variations and give diversity to the stories for our comrades, thirsty of imagination. We liked this activity a lot and taken confidence, we dared to make up stories, poems, and songs from our own minds. One day, it occurred to me, not to make anything, instead, simple told our own story. My fellow colleagues' surprise was so big, that I even remember their thunderstruck and hypnotized faces, were looking at me with a mixture of compassion and horror, when they recognized their eyes on the unfriendly waves of the river or in the horizon covered by the thick night, kept in silence for many days.�
The time passed, when the first one said he was giving me the task of telling our story, and everything returned to normal.�
Later, they were disappearing from the boats one by one. One of them threw himself into the river. The other swam to the shore, saying he wanted to stay and live with the monkeys. One more disappeared from one day another, without a trace or not even a word. Yet, another was dead in the morning, leaning against my legs, like a pillow. Afterwards two of them, who were in love, decided to anchor their boat under a huge tree, green and innocent. Finally, one morning when I opened my eyes, I understood that I was definitely left all by myself in that trip; my only friend was my roll of papers where I started to write of our adventure. Now, that you have found this empty boat, in which lays a skeleton hugging this roll of papers retelling our misfortunes, don't forget me, among the characters in your tales.��
Translated by: T. Pratt��
