The Vortex by José Eustasio Rivera

Author:José Eustasio Rivera
Language: eng
Format: epub

Part Three

I am a rubber tapper. I live in the fetid river mud, in the solitude of the forest, with my malarial crew, slicing trees that bleed white blood, like the blood of gods. Thousands of miles from my birthplace, I dread all memories of it, because all are sad. My parents? They grew old in poverty, awaiting the return of their absent son. My younger sisters? They waited with patient optimism and trust until no longer young, hoping for a dowry that never materialized.

Sometimes, as I hack at the bleeding bark with my hand ax, I take a notion to vary the arc of its swing just a bit and cut off those worthless fingers that never could hold on to money. What are hands good for, if they don’t produce, don’t steal, and don’t redeem? These hands have wavered when I asked them to end my suffering. And to think that so many denizens of the jungle endure something similar.

Who created the gap that yawns between our aspirations and reality? Why were we given wings to live flightless lives? Poverty and aspiration, stepmother and tyrant, drove us forward, but to no avail. By looking to the heights, we’ve neglected the most fundamental necessities. Turning to those necessities, we’ve lost whatever we had gained. As a result, we are heroes only of mediocrity.

The man who saw the resources for a happy life almost within reach has not been able to get rich and leave Amazonia. The man who aimed to win a bride has settled for a concubine. The man who has resisted abuses has been crushed by magnates as impassive as the trees that witness his daily battle against fever, leeches, and insects. I had tried to discount my high hopes, but an exaggerated force lifted them to the stratosphere. High hopes, lost triumphs, forlorn dreams. Look what has become of this poor dreamer!

Slave, don’t complain of your toil! Prisoner, don’t lament your imprisonment! Little can you imagine this limitless green dungeon, surrounded by immense rivers on all sides. You ignore the torture of watching rays of sun play, at dusk, on the far bank of a river that you’ll never be able to cross. The leg irons that bite your flesh are kinder than the leeches that nibble at a rubber tapper’s ankles.

I have three hundred rubber trees on my circuit, and to tap them all takes nine days. I’ve cleared around the base of each tree, cut its shrouds of hanging vines, lacerated a large area of bark, placed buckets for it to drip into, and made an access trail between my circuit and my camp. Patrolling the trail to keep it open, I often come upon a rival tapper or a renegade trying to steal rubber. Then the clang of machetes rings in the forest, and the buckets of white blood often get an admixture of red drops. But no matter. Every drop contributes to the ten liters that the overseers demand of us every day without fail.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.