When I was a child, I traveled on vacation to the town where my mother was born, Pecaya, in the mountains of Falcón state, Venezuela. Approximately 200 families live there. Their houses date back more than 200 years, made of adobe and painted white doors and windows made of brown wood, their roofs made of tiles.
The main streets are paved, and the others have stones or dirt. It has a small square and civil headquarters, the church, and supplies around it. I felt like an adult because I walked unaccompanied throughout the town, bought trinkets, drank soft drinks, and watched the goats pass by with their young. The neighbors rode on donkeys carrying firewood, sacks of corn, carafes of cocuy.
It was hot during the day, and at night, the temperature dropped. In the afternoons, I went with cousins and friends to bathe in the crystal-clear stream, and we saw the flocks of parakeets and parrots shining with their green and yellow colors, looking for their nests between the hollows of the hill and the trees. Some children threw stones at them.
In Pecaya, we learned about birth, death, seeing the goats give birth, and how they killed the goats. We made trips to the cemetery where we saw the skeletons. At night, we saw the sky with stars. Pecaya was synonymous with freedom, joy, and adventure.
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Elvin - Venezuela
Great essay, Elvin!
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