They called the younger Josema "Maria Mulata" for the reason he was as troublesome as he was smart. Those little black birds who'd hop onto the ground and nick a crumb or two of food from your plate while you weren't looking, those little ones, yes, with their narrow beaks and round little eyes and fanlike tails, were his namesake. Farther up north people called them crows despite them not being crows. In spirit, however, they were the same. Here we thought they were the endearing lovechild of crows and ravens, hence the moniker, but they were smaller, sleeker, more limber, and José María, with the way he ran about, seemed to embody them in all forms but physical.
Every weekend he'd take the ferry to the city and speak to tourists, who in their ignorance thought him one of them because he was lighter-skinned and could speak English — a part of his master plan. José Macario would be with him every step of the way, pretending to do something else, and José María would give these tourists directions. "Oh, my family comes here every year," he'd always say with expert delivery, "so I know all the places to go. Plaza Bolívar is just down that way. I'll walk you there."
And the tourists would go, "Ain't it dangerous for a kid like you to go by yourself?"
"Nonsense!" would be his answer. "It's the northern coast. Everyone's too casual for their own good."
And when they'd get comfortable, and when they'd be talking for longer than expected, they'd exchange hugs and go on their merry way. José María would trot on home with a skip in his step.
The tourists would find they were short of a million pesos.
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To Give Papaya and Suck a Rooster
FantasyOn the island of Chisquitán, a part of the Islas Esmeraldas archipelago, there exists only a few towns and a swathe of untouched jungle. It isn't as popular an attraction as other places. The bustling city San Felipe, for example, is only a ferry or...
