LITMIR.BIZ

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and “after Aníbal.” His only defect is an irremediable addiction to nasal powder; I hate it, but he adores it more than his children, me, money, everything. Before the poor man can respond to my scolding, the plane door opens, and in wafts the warm, humid air of the tropics of what in my seasonless country we call Tierra Caliente—the Hot Land. Two armed men enter, and on seeing our stupefied faces, they exclaim:

      “Oh, God! You aren’t going to believe this: we were expecting some cages with a panther and several tigers, and it looks like they were sent in a different plane! A thousand apologies! How embarrassing, with the ladies and the children! When the patrón finds out, he’s going to kill us!”

      They explain that the property has a very large zoo, and evidently there has been a coordination problem with the guests’ flight and the one bringing in the beasts. And while the armed men fall all over themselves apologizing, the pilots emerge from the plane with an indifferent expression that says, We don’t owe explanations to strangers; our job is to follow a flight plan, not review the cargo.

      Three jeeps are waiting to drive us to the hacienda’s house. I put on my sunglasses and safari hat and descend from the plane, unaware that I am taking my first steps in the place that will change my life forever. We get into the vehicles, and when Aníbal puts his arm around my shoulders, I feel calm, ready to enjoy every remaining minute of our stay.

      “What a beautiful place! And it looks huge. I think this trip is going to be worth it . . .,” I tell him in a quiet voice, pointing to two herons taking flight from a distant shore.

      Absorbed, in complete silence, we take in that magnificent scene of earth, water, and sky that seems to stretch out beyond the horizon. I feel a burst of happiness, the kind you don’t see coming, the kind that invades you suddenly and enfolds everything and then departs without a good-bye. From a cabin in the distance, in the unmistakable voice of Roberto Torres, come the notes of “Caballo Viejo” (Old Horse) by Simón Díaz, that hymn to the Venezuelan plains that older men have adopted as their own throughout the continent, singing it to chestnut mares when they want to throw off their reins and hope the mares will do the same. “Cuando el amor llega así, de esta manera, uno no se da ni cuenta . . .” (When loves arrives this way, you don’t even realize it . . .), warns Torres as he narrates the old stud’s feats. “When love arrives like this, you just can’t help it . . .,” the plainsman justifies himself, ultimately demanding that the whole human species follow his example, “because after this life, you get no more chances,” in a tone full of popular wisdom and rhythm, the accomplices of warm air heavy with promise.

      I am too happy and caught up in that view to start inquiring about our host’s name or his life story.

      “The man who owns all this must be just like that: one of those old, crafty politicians, with plenty of money and mares, who think they’re the king of the town,” I tell myself as I lean my head against Aníbal’s shoulder again. Aníbal, that hedonist huge man whose love of adventure died with him only a few weeks before I gathered the strength to start telling this story, woven from moments frozen in the nooks and crannies of my memory, peopled with myths and monsters who should never be brought back to life.

      THOUGH THE HOUSE IS ENORMOUS, it lacks all the refinements of Colombia’s traditional large haciendas: there is no chapel, stable, or tennis court; there are no horses, English riding boots, or purebred dogs; no antique silver or artworks from recent centuries; no oil paintings of virgins and saints or gold-painted wooden friezes over doorways; no colonial columns or varnished figures of ancestral Nativity scenes; no studded chests or Persian rugs of every size; no hand-painted French porcelain or tablecloths embroidered by nuns; no roses or orchids cultivated by the proud lady of the house.

      Nor do I see the humble servants once typically found on my country’s rich estates, people who are almost always inherited along with the property—long-suffering folk, resigned and immensely sweet, who for generations have chosen security over freedom. Those peasants in ruanas—short ponchos of brown wool—with missing teeth but always smiling, who respond without hesitating to any request, doffing their old hats with a deep bow of the head: “Right away, sir!” “Eleuterio González at your service, here to serve!” and who never found out that the concept of tipping existed in the rest of the world. They are almost extinct today, because the guerrilleros taught them that when the Revolution triumphs, someday in the not-so-distant future, they could also have land and livestock, weapons and booze and women like the bosses’, pretty and free of varicose veins.

      The hacienda’s bedrooms are off a very long hallway and are decorated in a Spartan fashion: two beds, a nightstand with a locally made ceramic ashtray, a cheap lamp, and photos of the property. Thank God, our room’s private bath has cold and hot water, not just cold, like almost all the farms of the Hot Land. The interminable terrace is dotted with dozens of tables with umbrellas and hundreds of white plastic chairs. The size of the social area—equal to any country club—leaves not the slightest doubt that the house was built to host on a large scale and receive hundreds of visitors; from the guest rooms, we deduce that, on weekends, they must be counted by the dozen.

      “Imagine what the parties are like!” someone in the group comments. “They probably bring the Vallenato King in from Valledupar, with two dozen accordions!”

      “Noooo, more like Sonora Matancera and Los Melódicos, together!” someone else says, with a sarcastic tone that lets just a bit of envy show through.

      The property manager informs us that the hacienda’s owner has been held up by a last-minute problem and won’t arrive until the next day. It’s clear that the workers have received instructions to take care of our slightest need so our stay is comfortable and pleasant, but from the very first moment, they let us know that the tour of the place excludes the second floor, where the owner and his wife and son have their private rooms. The workers are all men, and they seem to feel a great admiration for their boss. Their high quality of life, superior to that of servants of other rich families, is clear from their confidence and utter lack of humility; these peasants seem to be family men, and the work clothes they’re wearing are new and well made. They are more discreet than the young men on the landing strip; unlike that group, they aren’t carrying weapons of any sort. We move into the dining room for dinner. The main table, made of wood, is enormous.

      “This could feed a whole battalion!”

      The napkins are white paper, and the food is served by two efficient and silent women—the only ones we’ve seen since we arrived—on dishes from the region. Just as we had anticipated, the menu consists of a delicious bandeja paisa, a typical dish of the Antioquia region and the most basic of Colombian cuisine: beans, rice, ground meat, and fried egg, accompanied by a slice of avocado. Not a single thing on the property reflects a particularly refined or luxurious ambiance. Everything on this estate—more than seven thousand acres between Doradal and Puerto Triunfo in the burning Colombian Magdalena Medio region—seems to have been planned with the practical and impersonal taste of an enormous Hot Land hotel, and not in the style of a large country house.

      Nothing, then, on that warm, calm tropical night—my first at Hacienda Nápoles—could have prepared me for the world of colossal proportions I would discover the next day, or for the size of that kingdom that was so different from any I’d seen before. And no one could have warned me about the colossal ambitions of the man who had built it all, from only stardust and the spirit that makes myths that forever change the history of nations and the fates of their people.

      AT BREAKFAST we are told that our host will arrive at noon, and will have the pleasure of personally showing us his zoo. Meanwhile, we’re going to take a look at the hacienda from dune buggies, those vehicles designed for young people with no responsibilities, to ride over the sand at high speeds. They consist of a very low, almost ground-level frame that can resist anything, two seats, a steering wheel, a gearshift, a fuel tank, and a motor that makes an infernal racket. Wherever those vehicles go, they leave behind a little cloud of smoke and dust and a wake of envy, because someone who drives a dune buggy is radiant and tan, in shorts and sunglasses, with a pretty and slightly scared girl beside him, her long hair flowing in the wind, or with a half-drunk friend who won’t change

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