I remember stories my mother told me when I was a kid about the even harder times they had when they first moved to this neighborhood in the late 60s. It was called Bella Vista (gorgeous view), and it must have been a beautiful view indeed. Pristine nature by two rivers that provided fresh water. Fertile land that gave to those who worked it generously. Nobody sold anybody vegetables or fruits. We just traded if there was something we did not have.
She told me the stories every time I complained about house chores. One of those chores was to carry water from the river; not directly from it, but from manantiales or water holes people found or mined; cold natural underwater currents we used to drink and cook.
Everybody had to carry water while they waited for the government to install the pipes. Kids carry as much as they could hold. It was a rite a passage. I remember carrying half a bucket, which got reduced on the road to 1/3.
I did not complain about the chore itself but about the embarrassment of other kids carrying more water than me.
They were healthier, stronger; sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. Girls could carry as much as boys.
Most of us had fun most of the time.
Almost 50 years later, after the town saw its boom (a rural golden age that allowed most people to build their houses or expand their little ranchos, we are back to the times where everybody has to carry water from somewhere; from whoever gives you permission to fill your bucket from their pipes or from the shortest distance that will represent less work.
In the 80s most houses were pretty. December was a wonderful time because everybody painted, adorned with Xmas lights, had music, drinks, and traditional food, and kids got new clothes (estrenos).
In 2022 even the houses that used to belong to the wealthiest families look abandoned.
It is as if the seed of decay was planted in the ever fertile soil and it bore fruits aplenty.
There are pipes now in every house or rancho, but those pipes not always bring the precious liquid.
I see myself now carrying water again to have my old mother's clothes and bedsheets washed, asking for permission from the backyard of this house, which happens to border the river.
In their humble patio a young man tells me no problem, I can come every time I need to, as long as he too has water (two different pumping systems; ours failed this time).
People feel their buckets or whatever container they have and even bathe here.
There is another house across the street where I fill the buckets too when there is not enough water coming from the other house's pipes. This neighbors have an electric pump that allows them to keep enjoying the service when it loses pressure.
I appreciate that old sense of solidarity, the walk down memory lane, but I am saddened by the abject poverty, the weight they carry beyond the water, the childhood that looks at you with a sense of curiosity and frustration, as if they know already that they have no future. There will always be a wild free spirit that will fly against all odds, but we know the odds.
I ran into this woman and her daughters several times. We did more than three rounds.
We greeted every time. We were hoping there was some late news about the repairs or the parts to our pump so that we could say this is the last tour.
I am not very optimistic about the regularization of the water service. I know I may be doing this every time I come to help with my mother's care more regularly than I used to when I was a kid.
I look at the future of this town with the same suspicious look this kid shot at me.
I was moved by his poise, his sense of responsibility. I do hope he can see a golden age or have the chance to leave and have a future.
I wrote when I was in college a piece for a local paper where I anticipated Yaguaraparo would suffer a fate similar to Garcia Marquez's Marcondo (One-Hundred Years of Solitude).
Now, I am almost sure that would be the case of this and many other Venezuelan towns if these monsters remain in power.
