Confesiones a un Árbol: Chimbote's "Loco Catita"

CHIMBOTE’S “LOCO CATITA”

1980 —Natalia Romero and her husband Fernando Navarrete,

with Catita. (Courtesy of the Romero Bernuy family)

“How much did you get on your test?” Or, to be more exact: “Cuato te a tacao tu pato?” Catita asked me that noon in 1971. We students from the San Isidro Elementary School No. 3151 had just been let out for lunch, before returning for the second half of the double-shift school days back then. And there he was, standing on the corner of Aviación Avenue and Huáscar Street, a sack of notebooks in hand, repeating the same question to every student. It was the first time he spoke to me, though I already knew him; by then, he was a widely popular character in the neighborhoods in the port city of Chimbote.

Inés Romero Bernuy was fourteen years old when, on March 19, 1963, she arrived at the main train station on Chimbote’s Olaya Street. She came with her entire family. Her parents had decided to move from Sihuas to this port so their seven children could attend high school. They hauled their bundles and headed to their new house, located a block and a half from the train terminal: the ninth block of Pizarro Street. Along with them came “La Muruquita,” a good woman who had lived with the family since she was twelve.

On September 26, 1950, in a humble dwelling on what is now Lot A 17 of San Martín Street in Barrio 12 de Octubre, Doña América Ramírez Mattos gave birth to a baby boy. He would be the first of thirteen children—eight sons and five daughters—she would eventually have across two marriages. The firstborn was named after his father, Don Federico Castro. His full name was Federico Juan Castro Ramírez, but on the streets of Chimbote, everyone would come to know him simply as “El Loco Catita.”

Before that noon in 1971, I had seen Catita in different parts of Chimbote, but I saw him most often on the ninth block of Pizarro. My father owned a soda and beer depot, and my older brothers and I operated a heavy-duty cargo tricycle to supply businesses in the nearby barrios. That was how we regularly ended up on that block of Pizarro to deliver orders to the Mujica Chávez store. It sat next to an auto body shop that doubled as the headquarters for Don Ángel Laguna Ruiz’s rhythmic ensemble, Los Beltons. Catita frequented both places, clutching his sack of notebooks and tapping his foot to the beat of the chancalatas—small groups that played along with records using a drum kit, hand-beaten tumbas, and even a plastic comb to scrape the güiro.

Shortly after her arrival in Chimbote, Inés started high school at the Inmaculada de La Merced school, located at the time on the first block of Alfonso Ugarte Street. One day in 1963, Catita burst into the school assembly. Some students ran away in fear, but Inés wasn’t frightened; the two were already friends. They had met on the ninth block of Pizarro. Catita was thirteen then, and he had begun a friendship with Inés’s family that, over time, would become deeply endearing.

Catita was a healthy baby at birth, but at age one, he fell ill with meningitis, an ailment that caused intellectual disabilities, marking his life forever. He grew up and became a man, though in truth, he remained a child at heart. He didn't attended elementary school, and at age ten, he left home to roam the streets of Chimbote as a vagabond. Shortly after, he settled on the ninth block of Pizarro, yet this did not alter his nature as a persistent wanderer. The rigors of the weather never slowed the light pace of his calloused, bare feet.

As often happens in many towns, Chimbote has had various local characters, but Catita was my favorite. His life always fascinated me. In high school, I even wrote a short composition about him for a class assignment. I remember him tall and dark-skinned, with a prominent belly and backside. A big kid with language limited to short phrases, yet friendly and profoundly interested in books and notebooks. He would station himself at school entrances and ask students for a notebook or inquire about their exams. He was the kindest soul I have ever known—innocent in the best sense of the word, and as tender as bread fresh from the oven.

The ninth block of Pizarro was his house, but Inés’s home was his sanctuary. Under that roof, he received daily meals and care. He tended to his personal hygiene there, and the family would even shave him and cut his hair. He slept there too, though sometimes he would stay on the sidewalk across the way, in front of Doña Blanca Ascoy de Martínez’s house, always on cardboard, as he never accepted mattresses. Inés’s family looked after his health when he fell ill. Due to his life on the streets, he occasionally returned home with injuries; once he came back with a broken arm, and the neighbors took up a collection to pay for his treatment at La Caleta Hospital. One day in 1972, Doña América, his mother, wanted to take him from Pizarro Street to her own home in Barrio La Victoria, but Catita refused his mother’s offer.

“La Muruquita” is an important character in this story. Her name was Humberta. She lived with the Romero Bernuy family from childhood until the end of her days, helping with domestic chores and raising the children and grandchildren. At some point in her life, she was baptized and adopted the surnames of Don Abraham Romero Cadenillas, Inés’s father. Interestingly, La Muruquita was deaf-mute, and in her hours of shared confidence with Inés, they created their own sign language to communicate. Thus, Humberta, Inés, and their unique language made it possible to not only talk with Catita but also to nurture a deep friendship with the entire family.

When Catita was a boy, people in his neighborhood initially called him “Castrito” (Little Castro), since he carried his father’s name. There was no shortage of neighbors who, to provoke a reaction, would ask, “What’s your name?” And good young Federico, trying to say “Castrito” in his broken speech, would answer “Catita.” That was how the nickname “Loco Catita” was born, the name by which all of Chimbote knew him.

Catita was a big kid until the end of his days. He dedicated his life to collecting notebooks, eventually amassing about forty sacks full of them; he would tear out the written pages and keep the blank ones. He stored them at the back of the family's yard. Beyond his obsession with notebooks, there is a little-known side to Catita’s life: at Inés’s house, he helped punctually with errands, like buying husks and alfalfa for the guinea pigs. He washed his dish and tidied the cardboard where he slept. He offered to carry bundles from the market. From there, he would bring food for Rinti and Tina, the two dogs at the house, who loved him dearly. “Eto pa’ la pela” (“This is for the dogs”), he would always say. He was a connoisseur of good coffee and enjoyed it daily. Since he rarely laugh, he used this trait to “trade” laughs for coffee.

One day in 1996, the Rodríguez Montes family—relatives and neighbors of Inés—needed to build on their property. This project included the area where Catita stored his notebooks, and they had to be moved. Sadly, Catita felt slighted; he grew distant from Inés’s house and the ninth block of Pizarro... though he always returned for a good cup of coffee. Three years later, he passed away. He left this world on March 28, 1999, struck by a Tico taxi—a subcompact car—on Chimbote’s Pardo Avenue.

I was in Peru a few weeks ago and took advantage of my stay in Chimbote to visit the Divino Maestro cemetery to leave a notebook for Catita. I found the old barefoot wanderer resting in Pavilion Santa Lucía A 13. It brought me great joy to be near him again. I spoke to him and say a prayer. The inscription on his niche felt perfect: “I have not died; I am only asleep. I will die the day people stop coming to see me.”

As I finish these notes, I leave a suggestion here: Would it be possible for the authorities in Chimbote to declare the date of Catita’s birth or death as “Notebook Day”? Perhaps an institution could collect notebooks on that day for neighborhoods or schools in need. More than the material value of the initiative, we would preserve the moral value of our beloved local character: the eternal student who stood at school gates asking for a notebook or inquiring, “Cuato te a tacao tu pato?”

New Hampshire, USA

September 2015