Under the yarey hat

The Camagüey sun rises like a slab of white light stretching across the plains, as flat as an open palm. The still air gives off the scent of dry earth, ancient dung, and a resigned green that struggles to cling with desperate roots to the reddish heart of the province. In this vast sea of ??pastures and endless savannas, time isn't measured in hours, but in the slow, unwavering rhythm of a man bent over the furrow.

His name is Ramón, Rafael, or simply "the old man." In truth, his name is the least important thing; he is the living embodiment of a lineage. His yarey hat, worn smooth by years, serves as a refuge for a wisdom that cannot be learned from manuals. His hands, like relief maps, tell stories: a callus represents the hill of Tuabaquey, a scar traces the course of the Hatibonico River, and the deep cracks in his palms are the furrows he carves into the land day after day.

This man's day begins when the mist still clings to the lowlands. His main tool, a hoe, becomes an extension of his own body. He doesn't cultivate food in the abstract; he speaks to each banana plant, examines the color of the sweet potato leaves, listens to the whisper of the wind that may or may not bring the long-awaited rain. He is aware that he is waging a silent and monumental battle: feeding a country with his own hands.

Around him, the landscape presents a paradox. If there is a tractor, it rests in his shade. Irrigation depends on the whims of the clouds. Yet he persists. His resilience has a moral, almost physical, quality, comparable to the robustness of mahogany wood.

When the sun reaches its zenith, the heat becomes oppressive. The old man seeks refuge beneath a carob tree, removes his hat, and wipes his brow with a handkerchief that was once white. He takes a sip of his water and contemplates his plot of land. In his tired but bright eyes, there is no sign of defeat, only a constant evaluation, an ancestral calculation. There, in that small piece of land, his kingdom, his pride, and his worries are condensed.

At dusk, when the sun transforms into a colossal ember sinking into the horizon, painting the grasslands gold, the old man gathers his tools. His back arches in a perfect curve, the very architecture of effort. He walks towards his modest house of planks and a roof, with the slow but sure step of someone who knows that tomorrow, without fail, the plain will be waiting for him again.

As long as the plains breathe, he will be there with his yarey hat and his hands like maps, the deepest root and the most essential fruit of this land. (Martha Karla Gutiérrez Pacios/ Journalism Student, Radio Cadena Agramonte) (Photo: Taken from the Internet)