Confesiones a un Árbol: The Chimbote - London

THE CHIMBOTE – LONDON – NEW HAMPSHIRE AXIS

Eduardo, 1994. Jorge Chávez

International Airport. Lima, Peru

Year after year, I board and step off planes that cross blue oceans and varied nostalgias. I have left from and arrived at Jorge Chávez, Heathrow, and Logan airports so many times that a Chimbote–London–New Hampshire axis has become part of my life—a trilogy I love without jealousy or guilt.

Each of these places holds a special meaning and marks a stage of my path: Chimbote is the cradle and the springtime of my youth; London is the middle stage of maturity; and New Hampshire is the serene autumn of reflection.

In Chimbote stands the house where I first opened my eyes and where my father closed his for the last time. There is the sea whose waves lulled the nights of my childhood. Also, the old stadium where I cheered at the top of my lungs for the goals of José Gálvez FBC. The echo of the songs by Los Rumbaney, who made Chimbote a musical powerhouse, still reverberates. And in every corner, the memory of the 1970 earthquake lives on—those forty-five seconds that turned the children of my generation into men.

A couple of decades ago, when I took that first plane to London, my crystal ball didn't tell me that new loves awaited me in British lands. Between the goals of Chelsea and Arsenal, the Underground stations of Baker Street and Notting Hill Gate, the daily routine, and the city’s exciting multicultural life, my affection for this great city grew on me without me even realizing it.

And this affection became deeper when I met my wife in London, and it was here that my only daughter was born. The arrival of a child creates so many ties to their birthplace—both small and large—that I soon realized my heart had become hopelessly chained to the English capital.

Life gives you surprises; surprises are what life gives you, as the Rubén Blades song goes. And one fine day in 2003, I ended up moving to New Hampshire. I was forty-two then and done with starting over, but my wife had two good reasons: after living in Europe for fifteen years, she wanted to return to New Hampshire, her homeland, and she also wanted our daughter to grow up in the quiet landscapes of the American Northeast.

If London seduced me with the beauty of its parks, tree-lined avenues, and gardens, New Hampshire won me over with the natural exuberance of its flora and fauna, the carnival of its wildlife, the explosion of its rivers and streams, and a climate split wide open by an axe—a dramatic interpretation of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

Year after year in New Hampshire—as I tame the garden's overgrowth each spring, endure the scorching heat of summer, rake the dry leaves in the fall, and clear the snow in the winter—I watch my daughter grow, my wife’s hair turn gray, and I lose what little hair I have left.

Every time I board a plane, a part of me knows that I am in the hands of the Creator more than the pilot’s. In the end, planes are just aluminum vessels suspended in the air like paper kites. At thirty thousand feet, the urge to talk to God arises, and inevitably my mind slides through the Chimbote–London–New Hampshire axis.

Chimbote will always be special to me. Despite the frustration its contrasts cause me—the best of people with authorities of a dismal level, more material progress but also more insecurity—the truth is that my bond with this South Pacific port is unbreakable.

I once said that my relationship with Chimbote is like those painful loves that bring unease to our lives, yet we cannot stop loving. We say goodbye over and over, but we end up returning because we cannot live without them. That is how my love for Chimbote is.

And what is my favorite place in the city? I have no doubt it is the Plazuela 28 de Julio (now Plaza Grau). The connection is emotional. During my childhood, I visited this place daily with my shoeshine box. It was here that I embraced Grau as my favorite hero. On its benches, I talked with adults who read proper newspapers and spoke of social issues. On those same benches, I saw girls sitting in skirts or dresses, and I began to take an interest in their knees.

I have already said that my wife was the force behind the move to New Hampshire. A decade later, I can feel her doubts. She hasn't admitted it in so many words, but I know she longs for London. The first time she hinted at it, “No way in hell!” I replied. Maybe I want the same thing too, but I’m tired of moving. The last word hasn't been said, and whatever happens, will happen.

Who knows where my bones will end up. In the meantime, I’ll keep traveling. My daughter has three passports: one through her father, another through her mother, and another for her own birthplace. I am sure she will inherit the passion for travel and will continue flying around the world. “Wings and fair winds!” will always be my message.

Today I walked the two blocks that separate my house from the Salmon Falls River, and I sat on a lonely bench. Without haste, I waited for the evening to end. I thought of Chimbote, London, and New Hampshire and felt them as an axis that has connected my life. I reflected on the travels, the moves, and so many other things. And I went back home with these ideas spinning in my head.

... Then, I began to write them down with the desire to see them published before November 27, the date I turn fifty-three.

New Hampshire, USA

November 2013