| What Are Trees Good For? |
July, 2004
By Nacho Cadena |
It was around ten o'clock that morning,
I picked up my white hat with the wide brim and my
wicker basket, the only thing I had prepared carefully,
nearly meticulously. I aimed my car southwards and
by then the heat of Vallarta was already starting to
play its games. How pleasant!
With the same admiration as always,
I took the highway to Conchas Chinas, Mismaloya, La
Boca de Tomatlán, the more you see of the ocean,
the more you like it and if the traffic allows you
to turn left, you end up captured, charmed by the magic
of the jungle of the mountain. How can it be that Nature
should be able to create that range of greens all by
herself?
I had decided in the morning to
visit that nearby village called El Tuito. I had no
schedule to follow, no appointments, no commitments. just
my whim of gaining one day of life traveling around
the roads, visiting their nearest neighbors: the ocean
and the mountains.
The road begins to move away from
the coastline and Nature is changing her skin, and
without radio or stereo in between, I hear the harmonious
chords of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony announcing this
visual metamorphosis of everything that surrounds us.
 When
you pass Boca, you lose sight of the ocean, but right
away I found myself along the Río Los Horcones,
with that immense volume of water that flows downstream,
snorting, and then splits in two when it comes upon
the huge rocks that lie in the river; rocks in the
shape of woolly mammoths, elephants, volcanoes, look
at them carefully and you will keep on finding different
shapes. I can hear the noise of the water all the way
to here, all the way to the road.
It's a real problem, you have to
keep on stopping, you catch glimpses of the coconut
palms, the majahuas, the parotas, even the barcinos
and you have no choice, you have to stop and greet
them all. The rocks in the mountains are full of water
rivulets that sometimes just drip, sometimes they spray
like a shower and sometimes they combine to form small
waterfalls that end up in the ditch alongside the road
and then escape mischievously in search of their level
of the topography.
In a straight line, without stopping
so often, it doesn't take more than 40 minutes to reach
El Tuito. The climate has changed already. It is cooler.
Incredible, two localities so close to each other and
yet so different in climate and vegetation. There is
no more jungle, now there are woods. There is no more
heat, now it is cool.
Without realizing it, I passed the
village and there along that curve to the left, right
at the top of the hill, I perceive an enormous cedar,
with a huge canopy and without asking anyone, I decide
that it will be my destination that day.
Like a magic carpet, I spread that
cool cloth of mine on the ground, the same one that
has accompanied me ever since my native Hermosillo;
its sole purpose is to establish territorial limits
between what's mine and what belongs to the ants and
other bugs that inhabit the area. I am just an intruder
with the desire to ask them to lend me a little plot
under that cedar tree and thus gain one day of life
filled with happiness.
With great care, worthy of the very
best, I lower the wicker basket that -along with Nature-
I have never lost sight of. One by one, I take the
contents out of it. By now it is two in the afternoon
and it turns out to be a real treasure: a few slices
of prosciutto ham, a hunk of country-style paté of
rabbit, two good portions of cheese, one Camembert
and the other Roquefort, extremely blue I might add,
a fistful of red cherries and a big chunk of rye bread.
Of course, there's the bottle of red wine there too,
a Côte du Rhône, not bad for the occasion.
I took out my "Opelier" (the big
knife that French chefs bring with them to the markets
to cut into the merchandise with) and I gave it the
first slice of bread.
I found myself in great company.
No one spoke Spanish, but they all understood that
language that is spoken among little animals in the
fields.
Once I finish my country banquet,
I share the crumbs with visiting bugs and I lie down
with my arms behind my head in lieu of a pillow, looking
up into that cedar's huge web of foliage that acts
as an enormous umbrella for me.
Little by little, I lose focus and
in a state that is neither awake nor asleep, sheltered
under the immense tree, I meet the elegant, discreet
figure of Allegra, my personal counselor on the beautiful
things in life.
We were in front of some woods,
an army of trees, of distinct shapes, various heights,
different foliage and colors.
What Are Trees Good For?
 Out
of the blue, I ask Allegra, "What are trees good for?"
To give shade. To host pilgrims
under its foliage. To serve as a pretty shelter with
its shade for the field workers' lunch and the visit
from their beloved ladies. To give shade and cool the
traveler. To serve as an umbrella for the farm worker
when it rains. To give shade, Allegra repeats between
gritted teeth.
So that the birds may build their
nests in it and procreate to fill the world with song
and joy and decorate the skies with their pirouettes
in flight.
Trees serve to bring happiness to
children, so that they may hang swings and ropes from
its branches and build tree houses on their trunks.
They serve for children to climb
on, along with their cats, and for them to hide in.
Paper comes from trees, so they
serve for poets to write poems and writers to write
stories, novels, tales.
For the romantic ones, to embrace
beneath the tree or to carve that heart with an arrow
in it that says "John loves Mary".
For lightning to strike them and
not cause damage to neighbors and also for the doggie
to answer his calls of nature.
To Be Humble
Trees serve to make us humble, sensitive,
prudent, realistic. That happens when you fall off
the highest branch of the tree. They serve to teach
women to flirt, to show them how to swing their hips,
how to move, like they do when they sway in the wind.
They serve to teach us men and women, when the wind
is strong, how to bend without ever cracking, or breaking.
They serve for the magical hands
of artists to make beautiful figures out of their trunks
like those made with ironwood by Maria Astorga in the
desert of the Seris Indians.
To Give Shade
To purify the air, to oxygenate
the atmosphere. To avoid erosion.
The hours passed. I fell asleep
after that exercise that began with my question, "What
are trees good for?"
For a man to open up his wicker
basket under its shade, cut a chunk of bread, enjoy
a few slices of good prosciutto ham and quench his
thirst with a swig of wine, to share a moment of life
with the bugs of the field and invoke his Allegra and
create his own special setting to ask himself: "What
are trees good for?"
I leave you with that thought.
Nacho Cadena
nachocadena@lapetitefrance.com.mx
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