There is no such thing as a nostalgic or "saudadic" child, but there are
melancholy ones. When I was about five years old someone told me you
could dig a tunnel all the way to China. We were living in Central
America and I thought I could save my family the expense of the plane
fare by digging my way home. If someone had got as far as China, I could
surely get to Mexico, which was much closer. I asked my father to tell
me the exact direction of our house there and he drew me a map. I
started digging a tunnel in a corner of the garden.
I was on the point of abandoning the hole - by that time quite deep -
when I suddenly hit something solid: a possible treasure chest. The
three following mornings, I dug around that hard surface and completely
forgot the original plan. Then I extended the treasure hunt. In the end,
I made holes all over the garden, but never found anything more than a
few earthworms and the water tank. Naturally, my parents began to lose
patience. They ordered me to call a halt to the excavation. I obeyed,
but it seemed to me that I should put the holes to good buy anabolics steroids use by burying
something in each of them. In one I hid some marbles, in another a toy
train, and in a third a horrible paperweight with a snowscape. In the
main hole, where the treasure that turned out to be a water tank had
been, I placed the map my father had drawn for me. I thought that some
future child - who, coincidentally, would also be Mexican and living in
that same house - could reconstruct the story of the holes. Making use
of more modern instruments than mine, that child would find the map and
come to visit me in Mexico. And if too many years went by and I died,
there would at least be a trace of my passage through that garden. From
that moment, the garden stopped being an invitation to return to Mexico
and became instead the promise of the future discoveries of that other
child: I was cured of my precocious melancholic temperament - like a
patient in the Middle Ages - by a bit of earth.
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