An early morning in April, while the Caribbean air was still fresh, I was on my way to catch the bus to Aracataca, a sleepy little town at about an hour’s drive from the sea, squashed between mountains and the swamp. The tropical heat that challenges the mind’s jurisdiction over the senses converting the people around the equator into a slow paced and joyful society, would incite my inevitable daily quest for shade as soon as the merciless sun would rise.