Upon my arrival, my first meeting was with Fredy Epiayu, the project leader at Hilo Sagrado, with whom I had previously spoken by phone. I was anxious and at the same time worried about not finding all the right words, or about not being polite enough to avoid clashing with the culture, about which many myths exist. But my encounter was very pleasant, as I found myself with a young, attentive, down-to-earth, and cheerful person, interested in learning about the future of the foundation, but very willing to answer each of my questions about his culture.
The next day, we began our journey to the village by taking the Maiapo Highway, a road with no signs and only desert, arid land, dry vegetation, and many varieties of cacti. About 20 minutes into our journey, Fredy pointed out to the driver an entrance on the right with a very small, hand-lettered wooden sign. We continued on our way, and although it was impossible to continue, we got off and walked for a few minutes until finally, I managed to see the first house in the community.
The houses were made of mud, built by the community. There's a shelter made of brush where several women are weaving, and next to them, a man with a chichorro (a traditional Wayuu hammock); Fredy introduces me and tells me that I must first explain to Rafael, the delegated authority, what we're going to do and ask his permission to be there. Everyone is very serious but very attentive upon my arrival. After obtaining permission, I address them all and begin our presentation.
I began to identify the face and name of each of the women, of varying ages but generally very thin, with dry skin badly burned by the intense sun that shines in this area. The entire conversation is moderated by Fredy because most of them don't speak Spanish, only Wayuunaiki, the traditional language. Many children are leaving school and, seeing my presence there, become interested and curious.
After a while, they're no longer so serious; laughter and people talking can be heard in the air. A few women get up to prepare a snack, and I see children in the distance sucking on pineapple peels. Everyone eats and there's a lot of laughter, but it wasn't until the next day that I learned that the reason they couldn't stop laughing was because some had never eaten pineapple before, and the acidity bit their tongues.
Our first meeting with women entrepreneurs is coming to an end, and some women have to leave because they have to walk for hours to get home under the scorching sun. I stayed to chat with the women who live closest, and it was there that I began to learn about their personal stories, their ages, number of children, and the characteristics of the population.
I was surprised to find a very young population, contrary to what their faces appear, with many children although many others, unfortunately, had died.
Their main economic activity is livestock and handicrafts. However, they currently don't have many livestock because the land is very arid and access to water is limited. On the other hand, they have changed their traditional handicraft techniques due to the need to sell at low prices and at least maintain a minimum income at home.
In each of the meetings and conversations, I discovered their joy, their ability to overcome difficulties, and their ability to share with other cultures. One of my tasks was to photograph each of the women, families, and children, to share this beautiful experience. When it was Ligia's turn, she told me she wasn't sure her age and said, "Around 28," but she couldn't read or write. "I'm very distressed because I don't even know how to sign my name." We began to look at the photos, but the constant crying of her youngest daughter, Reneris, worried me, and I asked her the cause of her tears. She, in her limited Spanish, replied that she had nothing to feed her children. When I came to see Reneris, she was biting her hand, intending to eat it. At that moment, my heart sank, and from the depths of my being, I tried to gather the strength not to cry in front of a mother who experiences this every day. It's a truly heartbreaking situation, the daily hunger and thirst, especially for Wayuu children.
While reading about malnutrition after my trip, I found photos of malnourished children, recognizable by their swollen bellies, glassy eyes, and straw-like hair. A shiver runs through me because many of the children I've met match these photos, not to mention their skin problems, their squinty eyes, and their plagues. However, they are happy and affectionate children; they love to color and are distracted by any tool, box, or jar, and are always on the lookout for new developments.
After this experience, which I had dreamed of with beautiful landscapes and the natural paradise of La Guajira, I return with a life experience where the bare minimum for a dignified life doesn't exist, where basic necessities like access to water can take hours to arrive, hunger, fatigue, and pain abound. However, their joy for life, their happiness, their desire to share, and their artistic talent are the greatest memories I take home.
That's why, by working together every day and joining forces with the Sacred Thread Foundation, we can give hope to an ancient culture struggling to exist.