On the Rambleta, where all the contributions from citizens or groups in terms of food, drink, hygiene, cleaning and sanitary products, as well as buckets, shovels, brooms, etc., are being wonderfully organized, they have also installed showers and sinks. and all the necessary drinking water available to the volunteers who from there head towards the walkway that connects with Alfafar and Benetúser. I headed there and, after handing over my bags with sanitary, hygiene and cleaning products, I asked one of the girls who collaborate in the coordination and classification of products what they needed most. He told me that the main thing now was to bring cleaning products such as bleach, detergent, etc. I went to the nearest Consum to refill. There were lines of people shopping for the same purpose. It was exciting to see the people united and coordinated to deliver the required help on time.
After bringing back several bottles of what had been suggested to me, I undertook the first pilgrimage to Alfafar and Benetússer, crossing the bridge of hope or pont de la solidaritat, which is what they have named that footbridge that crosses the now wealthy new channel towards the towns. de l’Horta sud. From the bridge I could see the brown current of the river. The one that always remains dry. I seemed to find myself in another country, on another continent, on another planet or bad dream. I came across people, serious faces, some with a little more light and even a smile, corresponding to that generation of young people from neighborhoods, from institutes, schools or universities who have once again shown me that I was very wrong every time I have returned. to mean, along with a friend of my generation or in some other circumstance, that today’s youth no longer have the commitment and desire to do things that they had before. How old one gets. How wrong.
Once on the other side of the river, I learned in minutes from all the young people I met. They taught me, without them knowing it, how to face what a few more kilometers of walking had in store for me. How to line my socks and part of my jeans with garbage bags and thick tape, and how to put my sneakers back on. I put on the mask, plastic gloves. I carried all of this in my backpack, along with the Maglite multipurpose knife and a little water and fruit.
With calm and determination, little by little, like the hundreds I was meeting, I arrived at Alfafar before the dantesque and apocalyptic image of destroyed and stamped vehicles next to the ditches. It seemed like you were in one of those apocalyptic films that American cinema has been offering us for a long time. In one of those stories that we have believed only happen on screens, and that suddenly surprise you by having absorbed you, your loved ones, your place and your time into a cruel celluloid.
As soon as I entered the town, I began to see people removing destroyed furniture and mud from inside the commercial premises, workshops, and basements. The police were directing us to the volunteers. The idea, apparently, was that we would not travel freely on the main road, since they were trying to have it ready for army cars, tractors and other vehicles that help clear the streets. Entering a perpendicular street, I continued zigzagging. And suddenly I saw a group of kids helping the owners of a huge bass, an old one with wooden beams, in which they kept dragging the mud out. I told them if I could help them. They told me of course. I found one of those completely brown brooms leaning against the wall and proceeded with the activity. The kids with whom I was sharing the work came from different parts of Valencia. They did not become university students. Among them, there was a girl who was also sweeping the mud, somewhat sad and serious, while her parents and I think her uncles continued without rest and with imperturbable faces. It was one of the daughters of the owners of the premises. At one point we were close to each other, pushing away the wet mud from the ground. It occurred to me to tell her: We look like workers from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, don’t we?… It took the girl a few seconds to understand my idea. A few seconds in which I thought that maybe I didn’t know that Roald Dahl story, or even any of his films. But suddenly, he looked at all that mud everywhere that looked like chocolate, and with a smile he continued sweeping with the same vigor as any of the adults in his family or any of the kids he didn’t know.
Telling stories serves to provoke the imagination to take us to other places where hope lives a little more securely. That’s why, with them, with stories, we can relieve certain moments. The smile of that girl from Alfafar gave meaning to my day. Maybe yours. Soon I left there, new stores in Alfafar and Benetússer with mud were still waiting for me or, rather, new chocolate factories.
At the end of the day, and returning home with the motorcycle, I knew that something would never leave my memory. The confirmation of some words that were hanging on a sheet on the Pont de la Solidaritat, and that I was able to read when I crossed it on my way back. A few words from an author who, like certain warnings and alarms, preferred to ignore the incapable and negligent rulers in the year of his centenary: Allò que vale es la consciència de no ser res si no se poble. Along with Estellés’ words, he waved a small but dignified flag that someone had left firmly attached to the railing. The wind made the seneyera shake. He seemed to breathe, to come to life once again, after having suffered a mortal wound.
