Zigzag meter | profile

After we zigzagged the six hundred meters that separated the makeshift cabin from the abandoned dock, I felt an involuntary rush of joy take over my senses. The projected scent of soft herbs had permeated the atmosphere and a blinding pulse of the sun was enhanced by the mother-of-pearl of the rainbed. We were silent, perhaps for as long as Javier needed to resolve his doubts (suspicions) while he played with the deformity of the smallest toe on his right foot. Across the river, people emerged from the huts to wait in the upper floors of the towers for the collection boats to arrive.

Javier raised his furrowed eyebrows. In any case, convinced by the useless noise, he thought he would flee to an underground retreat. His brow furrowed like that; It appeared to be criss-crossed by grain canals. He looked at me:

– Will we really make it?

The days in the hut were warm and long and passed. Even though it wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience at the beginning (heat-humidity-mosquitoes), we felt comfortable as the weeks went on. First, we learned the art of local farming – we even harvested sardines at the neighboring fish farm! –, we adopted the customs of the inhabitants of this region of the Orinoco and, above all, met great people, true survivors.

The central room of the property that welcomed us seemed to whimper with limp slime; The bed, wet from constant Garúa, gave it a waxy appearance and the indeterminate numbers gave it a tropical purity. The cinders that the boats spat out were absorbed by the tall, damp, silent and willing bushes, the soothing hue. The sapote plants received the rays of a strong sun. The singing of some nameless birds completed the picture of a magnificent spectacle.

As the sun set, the honking of freighters rang out as they sailed into the wide river, carrying and transporting goods, especially lumber. Javier, who had now fallen asleep, woke up with a start. He tried to concentrate on the unusual but pleasant dream he had while sleeping the final conspiracy. He told it to me: A child slid across the golden dust of a large dune that released solid shoots of sand into a rectangular lagoon strangely full of foam. The boy was not afraid and even pierced the viscous plate and plunged into the depths of the great dune lagoon, where seven queens waited on their throne. In front of the women’s examination table, the fish child opened his skinny chest with both hands, pulled out the purple, bleeding heart and handed it to the eldest of the seven.

Suddenly Juan arrived, our contact from the village, whom we had met while exploring the river basin before settling on the bank. He didn’t speak Spanish, or rather, he didn’t speak Spanish. He gave us the canoe and paddles, we gave him the agreed money and he set off. But not before we give ourselves clues through signs and guttural sounds that we immediately interpret. The Orinoco River is rough, any distraction or bad maneuver would cost us our lives.

We paddled upriver for about two hours until the satellite device gave us the exact location to wait for the miracle that happened about forty minutes later. A dozen paiches on open pilgrimage, protected from the cogote and the dive. Suddenly I understood that everything there fit together in one syllable.