Confesiones a un Árbol: The Earthquake of May 31, 1970

THE EARTHQUAKE OF MAY 31, 1970

Industrial Avenue of Chimbote

after the earthquake

The afternoon of May 31, 1970, was unfolding in Chimbote like any other Sunday. People were enjoying the sunny day, never suspecting that at 3:23 p.m., a massive earthquake would shatter all human creation with mortal ferocity—as if Nature itself wanted to scatter the city’s bones across the ground to discover, amidst the rubble, the steel from which its people's character was forged.

At that hour, the speakers of the old San Isidro cinema dominated my neighborhood with the music of Javier Solís and Leo Dan; songs like Sombras Nada Más and Santiago Querido served as a prelude to the matinee screening that was about to begin. Across from my house, at La Pampa del 21 de Abril, local soccer derbies were being played before a dense crowd that packed all four sides of the field. And beyond the Old Cemetery, at the stadium formerly known as Vivero Forestal (now Gómez Arellano), the Chimbote Soccer League’s tournament was underway—a competition that should have concluded that afternoon, but in truth, never ended.

A minute before the fateful hour, I left my father’s grocery store—located on the corner of Aviación Avenue and Unión Street—to head to the bathroom at the back of the corral. I paused for a moment in front of the door, listening to the clamor of the crowd from the soccer field, and wondered if I should be there too, alongside my younger brother Alberto, who was part of that multitude at that very moment.

I was still holding that thought in my mind when, suddenly, the music from the cinema and the uproar from La Pampa were eclipsed by the fearful howling of every dog in the neighborhood. Immediately after, an unknown sound invaded the world. It began as a low, hollow, and powerful roar, and escalated into the apocalyptic bellow of a mythological beast breaking its chains deep within the earth. Then, a colossal cataclysm shook Chimbote and the entire Ancash region. I felt a desperate need for my mother and ran to find her.

As I fled, walls collapsed in my path. Once I reached the street, I witnessed the most dramatic scene I have ever beheld: on both sides of Aviación Avenue, as far as the eye could see, I saw arms raised in supplication toward the sky. People of every age and walk of life—some standing, others on their knees—cried out their sins and begged the God of Creation for forgiveness. Then my mother saw me and said, “It is the end of the world; we must stay together.”

I was only nine years old on the day of the earthquake, but those forty-five seconds remain in my mind, immune to the contamination of oblivion. They have accompanied me always and will do so forever. Its scenes will undoubtedly replay one last time in the final film I see before the curtains close and the lights go out.

I remember that while the earth was moving, my mother counted her children to verify if we were all there: “One, two, three, four, five...” Three of my siblings were not with us at that moment: Alberto and Olga (the two youngest) and Roger (the eldest). Alberto had been at La Pampa watching the match, and Olga was in her bed. She was born on Christmas 1965 and did not walk until she was five years old. She was born with an illness, and half of her body lived held captive within an armor of plaster.

Amidst the stampede of people running from La Pampa, Alberto would make it back home on his own. Later, my mother would tell us that on that day, he didn't seem to be running but floating through the air, arms outstretched, as if wanting to embrace her from a distance. The cases of Olga and Roger were different.

All these memories wander, crouching in the darkroom of my mind, needing only a sliver of light to come rushing back. Starting in 1994, I lived in London for nearly a decade. I resided in seven different neighborhoods across the English capital, and my lodgings were always near an underground Tube line or a surface train. Every passing train would shake the earth in such a way that my heart would skip a beat, believing it was an earthquake. In 2003, I moved to New Hampshire, USA, where I live in a town just steps away from the railroad tracks. Locomotives run through here, pulling freight convoys of a hundred cars. Instinctively, the upheaval of the trains hurls me back to May 31, 1970. The truth is, we, the children of the earthquake, were marked with a cross of ash—much like the sons of Aureliano Buendía in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

During the first seconds of the quake, while the rest of us rushed into the street, my brother Roger ran back inside. Even though he had severely dislocated his elbow playing basketball the day before and wore his right arm in a sling, he ran to the bedroom to rescue Olga. It was a life-saving act. When the earthquake ended and we inspected the damage to our home, we found my sister’s bed crushed against the floor. A brick wall had collapsed right on top of it.

That day, Chimbote was devastated as if Attila’s hordes had galloped through the city, leaving "not one stone upon another." My neighborhood had no large buildings, with the exception of the Saint Francis of Assisi Church, which was also destroyed. I remember it as a beautiful structure, shaped like an ark, with low-relief pelicans designed upon its walls. We neighbors loved to call it “Noah’s Ark.”

The entire Ancash region was destroyed in forty-five seconds by the greatest natural disaster in Peruvian history, and one of the most devastating earthquakes in human history. The epicenter was Chimbote.

The following day, Chimbote rolled up its sleeves, buried its dead, and began the process of reconstruction. The barrios formed a massive communal organization. Squads of volunteers went street by street and house by house to clear the rubble. International aid arrived, generous and timely. La Pampa del 21 de Abril was transformed into a vast camp, with tents pitched for those who had lost their homes.

My brothers and I joined the volunteer squads. At the end of each day, we received a ration of supplies consisting of frozen chicken, canned beans, a wheat-based staple called trigol that substituted for rice, cooking oil, and powdered milk. The lack of water was a serious problem, but families obtained it from open wells in the ground; at home, my mother would fill every available bucket and pot, letting the sediment settle so the clear water on top could be consumed.

At that time, Chimbote and all of Peru were hungry for good news. And it arrived. On the very day of the earthquake, the 1970 World Cup was inaugurated in Mexico. Forty-eight hours later, after a forty-year absence from world tournaments, the Peruvian national team stepped onto the pitch wearing black armbands for their debut against Bulgaria. The spectators held a minute of silence for our tragedy. After trailing two-nil, Peru fought back to win three to two. Four days later, we defeated Morocco three-nil. The popular polka of the era, “Perú campeón, Perú campeón...”, echoed in every corner of Chimbote and throughout the farthest reaches of the homeland.

Weeks later, the local team, José Gálvez FBC, began a sensational campaign in a Vivero Forestal stadium that had no walls, doors, or bleachers. It was a journey that would culminate in Chimbote’s first-ever entry into the Peruvian professional soccer league. Our anthem was born then: “To Chimbote, beautiful land, today I sing for you... In music, the Rumbaney; in volleyball, our city's team; in soccer, José Gálvez—José Gálvez is the champion.”

Sometimes, a people needs great challenges to discover the steel from which they are made. Chimbote was reborn from its rubble, emerging like a colossus to meet its destiny. Today, it is a beautiful, large, and optimistic city. As for me, I have always believed that the earthquake of May 31, 1970, baptized my family’s unity with fire.

New Hampshire, USA

May 31, 2014

Ps: Part of this story was published on 26-02-2011 on the author’s “Memories Corner" Blog.