My name is Julio Tarqui. I am
Aymara. People call me 'negro'
because I have brown skin. Currently,
I live in the city, but I don't really like it. In
the city I feel that I am just a fly, I can never
stay in any one place for very long; either they kick
me out, or I leave on my own. Although the truth is that they
usually kick me out. I cannot even walk peacefully on the street.
When I walk by, young ladies whisper about me. "Look at that
cholo," they say, as if I couldn't hear them. - "Look at his rags,
his hair, his nails!" - they say. Fancy young men brush off their
coats and pants, as if seeing me gets them dirty. Surely they
look at me as if my face were caked with dust. They don't know
how to hide their disgust, their discomfort. is it because of my
skin color that they confuse me with dust? But yes, I am mud!
just like them, just like everyone; I am neither dust nor a dust
cloud. The thing is that ... they are of another class. "Don't look
at me, don't touch me" - That's who they are. When they see
me, they are offended. It seems that just walking past them I
am insulting them. Their faces change; they get annoyed. That's
why I don't like going downtown to go to work.
I live on the hillside. That is where my house is, where the sun
shines bountifully; a little further beyond the other houses.
Every day I go downtown, even on Sundays. I make very
little money. Fortunately, I live alone; nobody depends on


me. I am my only responsibility, my only weight.
My mother is dead. I never knew my father. I do
not have any brothers or sisters. I take care of my
solitude; I keep it to myself. Sharing my life would be
to share the misery with which I live. I would never do that,
with anyone. I prefer to die like this; alone. I am a construction
worker. I make houses, large and beautiful, for those people
who have a lot of money. But I live in a small room made of
adobe. Up there on the scaffolding, burning under the sun, I  go every Friday. I feel good there; it is not like being on the
think of this irony, I think of my misfortune. I ask myself, "Why  street. It is as if I were not in rags there, but in clothes. They
so much for so few? And why I am with so little, if there are  serve delicious chicha [maize beer], and it is even sweeter to
so many like me?" I have never been able to answer my own  the sound of "Tu orgullo". That's my favorite song; my favorite
question. I have never stopped wondering.                  cueca. I like it because it is a deception, and deceived, I like to
Beautiful cuecas [national music genre]! The ones they play at  dance and sing. I know it's not true, that "you pay for what you
"La Chola Flora". I didn't know that chicheria [maize beer bar], do," as the lyrics say. I've never seen those people who mistreat
me, who look down on me, pay for what they do. It's not true
either that life is like a seesaw. I just go to work and back. I mix
cement and then I mix it again. Nothing more! Everything is a
lie in that cueca; it doesn't mean anything real. That is why it
means so much to me. When I tell my friends this, they laugh.
"Have a drink, Julico!" - they say. And I also laugh, what else
can I do?... "Cheers!" - I say. And so we drink. Everything is
laughter at that table! And we joke, and we gossip. Nobody
says anything; there are no flies nor dust there. We hug each
other without disgust because we are all dirty. In that moment
I can sing and dance freely. Those are the moments when my
heart rejoices. I forget about the rest. My memory is lost. I am
dying life, but I take no notice.
ERNESTO FLORES MERUVIA
BANCO MUNDIAL         Concurso de microcuentos "Si tus ojos vieran
I GRUPOBANCOMUNDIAL  mi historia" - Banco Mundial Bolivia 2021