Avatares de un Campesino

It is a tribute to roots and the unbreakable connection with the land

CHAPTER I: JUAN'S PATHS

Juan's Dawn

It was the early morning of an ordinary Thursday, when the night sky had unfurled like an infinite canvas. Thousands of stars dotted it, gently twinkling their silvery brilliance.

In the midst of this breathtaking scene stood a small mestizo farming community, its settlement spread across a plain guarded by two mountain ranges, and a rocky slope that descended to the bed of the great river, which rushed down from the mountains and flowed gently towards the mighty Amazon.

To the northwest, dominating the landscape, rose a majestic volcano that, like an eternal sentinel, watched over and guarded the secrets that, through the years, had transformed the history of that community and its surroundings.

This colorful landscape bestowed upon the place a mystical aura, as if each of the mountain ranges had witnessed the trials and tribulations of the farmers who made up the village.

Now, after so many years, the community still retains that magic, found only in special places. That ability to make time seem to stand still, and for memories to come alive simply by closing one's eyes.

In this environment, time passed at a different rhythm, marked by the cycles of nature and the ancestral traditions that its inhabitants kept alive in every activity they undertook.
The houses huddled together, some close and others far apart, scattered like seeds thrown at random, seeking warmth in the invisible night of the plain, barely illuminated by the light of kerosene lamps, like fireflies spread across a vast field.
In one of the large huts sat Juan. A twenty-eight-year-old man who, by a twist of fate, had returned to the place where he had spent his second childhood, in the company of his uncles and cousins.

Juan retained a kind and serene expression on his face, and dark, bright eyes that concealed a wealth of lived experiences. He still had his genuine smile, which illuminated his face with the same warmth that the morning sun illuminates the snow-capped peaks.

His sun-weathered skin remained smooth because of his youth. His strong, calloused hands revealed the story of a man accustomed to hard work from a young age.

He wore the same clothes he had worn the day before to accompany his uncle to his final resting place: a black felt hat, a suit consisting of a well-worn frock coat that matched his trousers and white shirt. His outfit was completed by his shoes, which, although a little dusty, still had good soles, ready to walk the paths that destiny had marked out for him. The clothes he wore that day, and on four other occasions, he had bought with the money he had painstakingly earned working in the city, and so he kept them like treasures, reserved only for special occasions.
He stood in his aunt's courtyard, the cold dawn accompanying him, biting his cheeks with the chill of an iceberg, though he barely noticed, lost as he was in contemplating the infinite firmament unfolding above him.
The Milky Way stretched majestically, traversing the sky from horizon to horizon, while the full moon performed its farewell ritual behind the western mountain range, its last rays bathing the landscape in its final silvery glimmers, as if it wished to etch its presence in every corner before disappearing.
With a deliberate gesture, he lifted the brim of his felt hat so that nothing would obstruct his gaze toward the sky. His eyes, eager for light, scanned the constellations; some formed familiar figures that reminded him of the stories his uncle told him in his childhood, while others offered him no close connection.