
The afternoon they turned off the light

My grandmother Elena was born in Uyuni. Life quickly took away her parents, and later gave her several siblings who, in orphanhood, became like her own children. Eventually, destiny led her to establish a pharmacy that ended up becoming an extension of herself.
She wasn't affectionate with her son or her three daughters. Nor was she with her four hundred and fifty-three grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Her entire life was dedicated to her blessed pharmacy, which only closed when she had to attend mass; blessed because it had a chapel full of candles and saints that delayed our dinners and cured all the sick people in the town.
In Uyuni, both light and water appear when they feel like it; the rest of the day is survived with candles, kerosene lamps, and water barrels. It was not inexplicable, then, that a few weeks ago, the grandmother had tripped over the doorframe leading to the haunted courtyard of her house. The fall shattered her hip, and the rest of her body began to crumble. Her daughters quickly transferred her to the city of La Paz, where surgery dampened her spirits. For her, death became a very acceptable option in the face of possible disability.
Recovery continued in our house. We prepared a small room where I see her sleeping right now; I stroke her hand and, in a way, bid farewell. A few days later, they took her to San Gabriel Hospital, located in the distant neighborhood of Miraflores.
Her daughter Juana feels that it's the final stretch, even though it's hard for her to say it. She knows that the hours are getting shorter, and she must make the most of the last breaths to say goodbye. Her nerves are on edge. She has ceased to be my mother to become a little eight-year-old girl again, seeking the warm breath of her mother.
I no longer see her at home; in fact, I no longer see anyone at home. In my solitude, I think that announced deaths do not leave such bitterness. Besides, there comes an age when living simply becomes a long act of courage.
I have an improvised lunch and then search for motivation in my sea of youthful apathy. Boredom suddenly calls for nostalgia, and I think of a dear childhood friend. I write him a letter and put it in an envelope with several drawings. I plan to spend the afternoon going to the post office, buying some magazines, and, if it doesn't get too late, going to Tiquina Street to get a couple of pirated movies.
"Just in case, I'll put on a jacket; in this city, you never know when it's going to rain," I tell myself before leaving. Trips to the city center seem very fast to me, as I almost always fall asleep due to the pressure. I board a trufi, settle in between two hefty passengers, and prepare to dream.
When I wake up, it's nighttime. I'm the only passenger in the trufi. As I open and close my eyes, I realize that the car's engine is off. I still don't understand the sudden total darkness, now accompanied by drizzle. Maybe I slept for hours in this vehicle; perhaps it's an omen of my grandmother's passing. Whatever it is, I can't stay here. I pay the fare and decide to walk; only five blocks remain to the post office.
I progress through the first block without much novelty. In the second, my glasses, full of drops, don't allow me to see anything. In the third block, a chilling wind makes the drizzle disappear. During the fourth, buckets of water start falling. In the fifth and final block, the sky begins to pelt the earth relentlessly.
I realize I've taken the wrong sidewalk, although I only have to cross the street to drop off the letter that prompted this journey. I think again about my grandmother. In these moments, death must be like this for her: an open door that's very difficult to reach.
The traffic lights have stopped working, making it impossible to cross the street. I carefully look and notice that cars are moving without drivers: they are squeezing between each other. I try to take refuge from the cold, the sleep, the madness, and especially the hail, in a kiosk.
An elderly woman who runs that place pushes me because she needs to protect her merchandise using large blue plastic sheets. I try to see her face, but it disappears completely. The street is now a river, the storm deafening the surroundings. A hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me into a giant and dark office.
On the ground floor, documents, computers, chairs, and desks are floating. There's a balcony on the second floor where several people are. Many are consoling the elderly woman, whose face I can't make out. I think it's Elena saying goodbye, although I can't be sure.
Fear permeates the air. Seeing so many people cry makes me think of my relatives. I calculate where they might be, and it seems like most of them are safe. I have to let them know I'm okay and call them incessantly; however, nothing works. After about twenty-five attempts, I can finally leave a message at home: "I'm fine, don't worry."
With my soul in place, I slowly go upstairs. From up there, you can see the street through a huge window. The water level has risen significantly; cars are piled up, unable to breathe. Motorcycles float beside them like toys in a pool. Bottles, boxes, cardboard: everything becomes a mass swimming with the waters.
Suddenly, a desperate nine-year-old girl appears, walking on what's left of a planter. She's scared and starts screaming. It seems like she's asking for help from someone nearby; the window prevents us from understanding what's happening. Suddenly, we see ropes and a firefighter rescuing her. The action is met with applause of emotion that the protagonists will never hear. They walk away downhill. It seems the storm has ended.
In the blink of an eye, the river disappears. Some office workers take advantage and rush out of the place. I find no trace of the lady. Surely, she is okay, even though her business has turned into a mountain of garbage. I stand at the door, realizing I was so close and yet so far from the post office. I look up at the sky. No traces of the night remain; the day has returned, even though the sun continues to hide behind a couple of clouds.
A group of firefighters makes their way and digs into the mountain of garbage behind me. They unearth a child who had stopped breathing. The few present stand still: my heart stops beating as I contemplate death so closely. I feel fear, sorrow, terror, and sadness until the air is filled with the most chilling scream I had ever heard in my life: a woman nearby had just let out all her emotions in a terrifying shriek.
Quickly, the firefighters cover the child's body and hide it in the office we just left. A knot forms in my throat, making it hard to breathe; my ears repeat the woman's scream over and over again. The horror prevents me from moving until some idiot, shouting "mazamorra, mazamorra!" makes us flee.
Now I'm in the middle of a stampede of silent fools. We run wherever we can: we are headless chickens in the midst of a catastrophe. I stop to catch my breath and come face to face with the worst of realities; I see a huge puddle and remember that it was a large pedestrian tunnel.
A bit further down, the ambulance lights give some color to the mud that smears the bodies on the ground. Some are already in bags; others are covered with cardboard. The police ask us to move along. It's impossible; death has a magnet for my eyes. I suffer with each step; I want to be an actor, but I can barely resist being a spectator. I am useless. Leaving and being safe will be the most productive thing I can do.
After walking two or maybe ten blocks, I realize it will be impossible to return home. I head to my aunt Charo's house in search of refuge. The journey is full of mud and dirt. My fears make me see people sprawled in the garbage, all with the face of the deceased child.
When I'm finally safe, I lose all memory. I wake up at midnight; my mom and her sister are devastated by my grandmother's condition. My dad and my uncle discuss the consequences of the storm in the city.
I remember that when I returned home, the asphalt turned into mud and stones. I couldn't sleep that night or the next. The press tortured me for days, repeating the few videos of the tragedy. Journalists were ecstatic when new images appeared, playing them until they lost meaning. Citizens blamed politicians for the lack of prevention; politicians returned the favor, blaming citizens for clogging the sewers with their trash.
Three days later, Elena passed away. To this day, my mother speculates. She claims that she left on a date specifically designed not to forget her.
The 22 of the 2 of the 2 thousand and 2.