jueves 16 de febrero de 2012


Niña Blanca

© Elio Ruiz, 1991

            En el principio fue la leche. De las gordas y negras ubres de su madre láctica mamó la savia que tiñe el espíritu del color de los dioses que saben bailar. Sus oídos despertaron al son de los cantos que siempre reflejaban añoranza por la patria perdida. Aprendió a caminar con la planta de los pies en contacto con la tierra, la espina dorsal recta y alzada la grupa, como ha de ser en toda mujer, criatura destinada a soportar las pesadas cargas de la vida.

            Pasando el tiempo comenzó a oler como los que la alimentaron con sus guisos: boniato dulce, baboso quimbombó, bollos de carita; yuca hervida, con ajo, sal y limón; harina de maíz con chicharrones de puerco; jutía ahumada, frijoles negros; malanga frita; tasajo rojo, ardiente, picoso; espesos ajiacos, zumos de la caña de azúcar; raspadura de melaza; fufú, hecho de plátano, ni verde ni maduro, pintón; guanábana, chayote, sandía y melón; y otras delicias, llevadas por primera vez a su boca por manos que eran el resumen de todos los sabores. Quizá por ello le crecieron unos labios que sabían besar.

            Luego aprendió a nombrar las cosas en las dos lenguas, sin distinguir otra frontera que el olor que de ellas emanaba. Sólo después de olerlas, brotaban de sus labios las palabras, en castellano o en lucumí. Cuando se le hizo consciente que a Padre le disgustaba que ella hablase con los negros, guardó las palabras de éstos para estos y para sus sueños secretos.

            A ella misma la llamaban en la Casa Grande de una manera y en los barracones de otra. Con los hijos de los esclavos jugaba tan libre como los animales, mientras no tuvieron edad para ir a la plantación. Un mal día se los llevaron también. Más tarde fueron de ellos otros rostros, miradas y voces, las que la veían y decían NIÑA BLANCA, ya no simplemente Niña como antes. Nunca más tuvieron oportunidad de jugar, excepto los domingos y días de fiestas religiosas, cuando por orden de Padre los dejaban bailar.

            Entonces sonaban los cueros.

            Padre gustaba de ver bailar a los negros y se animaba en particular con las esclavas. Movían sus vientres, senos y caderas, contrayendo la pelvis, frenéticamente, al ritmo de las percusiones de cuero, madera, hierro y semillas dentro de los güiros. Los esclavos tocaban y bailaban hasta después de la caída del sol, cuando los mayorales les regresaban al interior de los barracones.

            Esos días Padre solía embragarse de alcohol y deseos. En el apogeo de las celebraciones, señalaba a algunas de las esclavas, entre sus favoritas. Los mayorales las apartaban, para llevarlas a las caballerizas. Con el tiempo, les crecía el vientre y solían parir criaturas pálidas, que podían tener los ojos y el pelo de albinos. Por esto, vivían estigmatizados como gentes sin color, debido a lo cual eran malqueridos por sus propias madres y entre ellos mismos. Dichas esclavas demostraban tanta fertilidad en parir bastardos, como incapaz resultó ser su legitima esposa de darle, a él y a sus propiedades, un heredero varón con quién perdurase su ilustre apellido –reconocía amargamente Padre, mirando la crecida prole de mulatos y cuarterones de la dotación.

            Frente a los jolgorios y orgías de su señor, ya que marido no lo fue desde el nacimiento de La Niña, Madre se encerraba en las habitaciones de ella en la Casa Grande a repetir avemarías, mientras la Iyá, nodriza africana con quien pasaba La Niña la mayor parte del tiempo, cantaba y bailaba a los orichas: dioses que de subir a la cabeza de un elegido, allí permanecen mientras haya música.

            Según afirmaba la Iyá, los propios orichas hacían sonar incontenibles los tambores, cencerros y chequerés. Sus caballos, como llamaban a los poseídos, sudaban a mares, daban saltos, caían de rodillas, revolcábanse en el lodo, subían a los árboles, volaban, tragaban brasas de fuego y escupían verdades, con sonidos de sus entrañas, capaces de traspasar el tiempo y la distancia que los separaba de África.

            Otra cosa era cuando había baile de maní. Llegaban invitados de varias leguas alrededor. Eran, como Padre, los dueños de las plantaciones, ingenios y numerosos esclavos del valle de Trinidad. Vestidos con sus mejores galas y sobre vistosas cabalgaduras o carruajes, se hacían acompañar de esclavos domésticos, de librea y peluca empolvada; tras ellos venían los gladiadores, escogidos entre lo mejor de sus respectivas dotaciones: cuerpos semidesnudos, lustrados. Extremidades entizadas con tiras de tela. Odio en las miradas.

            Una vez reunidos los convocados y después de los intercambios de consideraciones, saludos, ofrecimientos, y hechas las apuestas, pasaban a la arena donde se desarrollaban los combates. El maní era una lidia de esclavos que, como casi todas las cosas venidas de África, llevaba tambor de por medio.

            El dueño de la hacienda introdujo en el maní la modalidad de la lucha a muerte. Buscando grandes emociones, armó a los bailarines con manoplas y estacas. Era su diversión favorita; y se daba el lujo de arriesgar una pieza –como llamaban a los negros- cada fin de zafra. Un buen danzante de maní gozaba el privilegio de no ir a las plantaciones, sino que se ocupaba de tareas dentro de la misma hacienda y de ejercitar sanamente su cuerpo. Bajo promesa de libertad, si vencía, aseguraba que el Amo ganase varias veces más su propio precio.

            Un Día de los Reyes Magos, Niña Blanca sorprendió a todos con su comportamiento.

            Por decisión de Su Majestad, Rey de España y Virreinatos de ultramar, el seis de enero era de obligatorio festejo para los africanos. Se les permitía vestir atavíos rituales y nombrarse ellos mismos reyes, reinas, sesionar en Cabildos. Desde la mañana, recibían aguinaldos de sus amos y se les concedía permiso para tocar, bailar, cantar, representar las historias de sus mitos salvajes e infantiles, como solían decir amos, curas y mayorales.

            Aquel memorable Día de Reyes, desde la salida de Olorun, el sol, mágicamente esperada con cantos y ceremonias, sonaban los tambores. Estaba pronto por llegar el ocaso. Padre galopaba sobre la joven esclava escogida, pegándole con el fuete y brincando sobre ella –atisbó en distintas oportunidades Niña Blanca desde una rendija-; o contando sus dineros, una y otra vez, hasta quedarse dormido.

            Ella tenía entonces nueve años de edad. Siguiéndole los pasos a su nana, se fue al monte con los africanos. Allí celebrarían ritos de despedida a Olorun. Sólo no acudían los esclavos que se consideraban distintos por estar en el servicio doméstico y preferían la iglesia de los blancos antes que el Ilé o Casa de los Orichas; es decir, la maleza, manigua, monte o reino de los espíritus. Allí limpiaron sus cuerpos con yerbas santas.

            La Iyá era de las dignidades importantes, pues cantaba de solista y le fueron colocados al cuello, como moforibale, vistosos collares conservados en tinajones sacados de la tierra, bajo una gigantesca Ceiba. Los tamboreros, que eran tres, ocupaban sitio distinguido. Fueron obsequiados con frutas, aguardiente y hojas de tabaco secas que los participantes depositaban entre sus instrumentos sagrados.

            Niña Blanca hizo suyo cada movimiento de la danza, sonido de los tambores, oración, conjuro, súplica en lengua Yoruba. Sintiéndose a su vez tan fuera de sí misma como dentro del todo que vibraba, de pronto sintió el estallido de algo incontrolable, que la obligó a moverse y silbar como el viento.

            Corrió en todas direcciones y habló lengua arcaica, de sonidos viscerales. Sólo el más anciano entre los esclavos reconoció en aquellas sílabas el idioma olvidado del pueblo que llegó desde el desierto –en el principio de los tiempos- a fundar la nación Yoruba. Allá en el África.

            Mujer y hombre a la vez, danzó como pocas veces se vio antes; y bailando llegó a la Casa Grande, donde causó el estropicio de un tornado. Cuando Padre la quiso contener y atrapar, le obligó a retroceder con la mirada. Madre, avergonzada de su propio fruto, se encerró a rezar. Dijo que sólo saldría de allí por órdenes de Dios.

            La Iyá de inmediato comprendió que ella quedaba de esa forma señalada como legítima descendiente de Oyá Yansá, dueña del cementerio y los vendavales; y de Alafi Changó, rey de reyes, el más viril de los orichas, señor de la música y del fuego. De manera que supo tratarla como era debido. Le susurró palabras lucumíes y logró sosegarla escupiéndole a la cara buches de hidromiel. La que fue su nodriza sabía que, siendo las cosas como de pronto aparentaban, era esta la forma de los dioses de decir que la Omó estaba dotada del don de poder tratar directamente con los muertos. Si no se le refrescaba la cabeza a tiempo, podía enloquecer.

            Con la autoridad que le daba ser la única que la entendía, pidió permiso a Su Merced para llevársela lejos de la hacienda, so pretexto de tranquilizarla. Dijo que un paseo por el valle, la visión de los perfiles azules de las montañas, las cabelleras de las palmas reales al viento, le harían bien. Salieron del lugar sobre una carreta que la esclava condujo, llamando por sus nombres a los burros que la tiraban. Reconocían su voz, no precisaban de riendas.

            Dieron el largo paseo y llegaron al cementerio. Los tres días con sus noches que allí permanecieron, llenaron su alma de una paz antes desconocida. Fue así que la Iyá confirmó que estaba ante una elegida, nacida para reina.

            Sin embargo, a la vuelta del paseo y sin motivo aparente, recayó en trance de convulsiones durante días y semanas. Doctores mandados a traer desde muy lejos los consideraron síntomas de la Enfermedad Sagrada, así llamada desde que la padeció el emperador Julio Cesar. En consecuencia, recomendaron al padre no contrariarla, para no empeorar el mal. Con el dictamen propiciaron que viviese liberada de un destino previsto de mujer blanca, que la llevó a ser cada vez más negra. Vestía, caminaba, reía, cantaba, bailaba y presumía como una lucumí; y ya pasaba más tiempo entre éstos que entre los suyos quienes, poco a poco, la fueron olvidando sin comprender que la perdían.

            Así lo expresó el Licenciado Barrera, llevado ante el caso por un esclavista de las cercanías. El recién llegado desde La Habana traía consigo ejemplares de una obra suya sobre enfermedades típicas de los esclavos, gracias a la cual gozaba de notoriedad entre los propietarios ilustrados, que no era este el caso del Padre de Niña Blanca. Fue él quien definió su padecimiento como “enfermedad de negro” ya que, en su avezada carrera a lo largo y ancho de la Isla, vio comportamientos similares en gentes de esa pinta, sin que importara mucho la latitud de su procedencia africana. A juicio suyo, la hija del Amo estaba enferma de nostalgia.

            En consecuencia, prefirió seguir las instrucciones de sus colegas sin éxito, dejando a la paciente hacer y decir libremente mientras la observaba. Su temor consistía en que dicha enfermedad de negro, llamada nostálgica, socavaba la voluntad de existir. Sabía de esclavos con los mismos síntomas que decidieron arrojarse en pozos de agua convencidos de que de ese modo regresarían a África.

            Padre le escucho gravemente. Inquieto por su reputación, prometió al médico de esclavos una fuerte suma si libraba a su hija de semejante mal, indigno de su raza, religión y linaje. El licenciado meditó un poco antes de comprometerse. Al fin, tomó un ejemplar de su obra, titulada “Reflecciones”, en el capítulo referente a la enfermedad diagnosticada, y de allí leyó la receta para tratar la nostalgia:

            -Probaremos suministrarle ácidos vegetales maridados con alguna pequeña dosis de Crémor de Tártaro, o sal calcinada de la laguna de la higuera, -se detuvo, levantó la vista de la página, chispearon sus pupilas y continuó; o de Glauber, con todos sus alumnos y familias, como también el nitro fixo, el arcano duplicado, disuelto o bien en naranjadas, o bien en infusiones de chicotas, zerrajas, cardo santo, y demás sustancias afines, mezclado con pulpa de tamarindos o espíritu de nitro dulce, sin que esté de más someterla a sahumerios de vinagre o pólvora, porque son estos humos de mucho ayre comprimido y elástico, como ya lo supieron los sabios alquimistas y lo confirman en nuestro tiempo los versados filósofos de la materia.

            Padre miró perplejo al médico, pero al cabo de un rato de pensarlo le autorizó a probar sus remedios. Así lo hizo el Licenciado, ante la muda desaprobación de Iyá, misma que debió poner las aguas a hervir para preparar las pócimas malolientes. Durante la siesta escapó de la Casa Grande, rumbo al monte cercano. Allí inició su guerra secreta contra el brujo blanco.

            Fueron cuatro semanas de idas y venidas de ambos alrededor de Niña Blanca quien, lejos de mejorar a los ojos del autor de sus días, parecía estar cada vez peor. Cuanto más le hacían y deshacían, más y más desvariaba. Por último, ni siquiera quería ponerse los costosos vestidos que le hacían traer de Europa, sino que se empecinaba en vestir con ropa burda y andar descalza, como negra de dotación.

            Temeroso de seguir propiciando comentarios sobre el extraño caso de su hija, que volaban a la ciudad de Trinidad y trascendían la mar en barcos que comunicaban el Puerto de Casilda y el de Veracruz –ciudad esta última donde un papel periódico publicó la noticia- Padre despidió al Licenciado Barrera, pagándole malamente sus esfuerzos. Acto seguido decidió que no se hablase más del asunto. Si su hija había enloquecido, qué se le iba a hacer. Eran designios de Dios. El Licenciado Barrera partió como vino, cargando en una mula vieja sus bártulos repletos de tratados e instrumentos, ante la mirada satisfecha de la Iyá.

            Sin embargo, cuando un Obispo se detuvo en la plantación camino de la costa con destino a la Nueva España, reparó en la existencia de Niña Blanca y su insólito comportamiento. Preguntó al dueño si también poseía esclavas blancas, contraviniendo lo dispuesto por el Papa, a lo que aquel contestó:

            -Señor Obispo, esa es mi hija. Está loca. La hemos tratado con eminentes médicos de la Colonia y la Península y no mejora. Su locura es querer ser negra. Así, como lo escucha. Si la salva usted, Monseñor, se la doy para monja.

            El Obispo miró una vez más a la muchachita. Venía de un río cercano. Cargaba agua con otras jovencitas negras, la grupa altiva y los senos prometedores, a pesar de la esquivación o vestimenta de esclava. Adivinó su Excelencia la cintura avispada bajo el cafetán; y percibió, en las caderas, el vaivén de las danzas prohibidas. Suspiró. Luego deslizó la lengua por los labios resecos. La confusión de ver blanca con culo de negra, y negra con cara de blanca, le perturbó sobremanera. Recobró, de un golpe, la angustia de su juventud, que tanto pecado le llevó a cometer, escondido en los retretes, bajo las sábanas maternas y más tarde en las celdas monacales, cuando su padre decidió convertirlo en santo varón. Durante la noche, entre las paredes de la Casa Grande, resonó el fuete de Monseñor, castigando sus carnes.

            Al amanecer movió la campanilla con la que llamaba a sus criados. Ordenó sacar de los baúles la mitra y la sobrepelliz, la Sagrada Biblia en latín antiguo, el crucifijo tallado con madera de la mesa donde Cristo Nuestro Señor celebró la Ultima Cena, reliquia heredada de sus antepasados cruzados; así como otros atributos que creyó oportuno llevar sobre el cuerpo, o tener a la mano, en vista de las graves circunstancias y el extrañísimo caso de demonismo que le rodeaba.

            Hizo llamar a Padre y le comunicó:

            -Satán posee a vuestra hija y es mi deber exorcizarla antes de partir. Sacaré a la luz el súcubo lujurioso que se esconde tras su inocencia. Vaya y reúna a los esclavos para que presencien la grandeza de nuestra fe y les sirva de escarmiento. Haga salir a la madre de las habitaciones donde esconde su vergüenza, para que tenga ella también oportunidad de dar paz a su espíritu. Que asistan mayorales, capataces y criados y cuanto súbdito de la Corona haya en sus dominios. Lo ordena la Sancta Inquisición.

            Con las últimas palabras se puso en pie, realzando la pompa de su jerarquía. Padre comprendió que nada podía argüir, sino simplemente obedecer.

            Fue así como los criados y arrieros que acompañaban al Obispo devinieron en jueces del Sancto Oficio. Investidos en breve ceremonia y disfrazados con hábitos prontamente cortados en telas de las cortinas, al poco tiempo se les vio salir, con más dignidad que si hubiesen acabado de desembarcar procedentes de Roma.

            Los esclavos no entendían de qué se trataba esta vez. De cualquier manera, se alegraban de no tener que trabajar y estaban animosamente dispuestos a presenciar lo que fuese. Vieron, sin embargo, que los Amos permanecían sentados, cabizbajos y asustadizos, y esto sí que los intrigó. Luego observaron a los mayorales traer a Niña Blanca, a viva fuerza. De la misma forma la obligaron a sentarse ante los hombres blancos vestidos con largas túnicas. Sólo entonces comprendieron que el asunto iba directamente con ellos mismos. Un rumor de protesta se generalizó entre la negrada, lo que llevó al Obispo a mirarles con furia, decirles palabras que no entendieron y amenazarles con gestos que abarcaban el universo. El silencio se impuso, al punto que Monseñor pudo escuchar el vuelo de un abejorro que rondó su cabeza.

            Quien más sufría era la Iyá, pero tuvo que contenerse. Su Eleddá, o Angel de la Guarda, necesitaba nutrirse de los espíritus circundantes, por lo que ella precisaba energía de tipo muy distinto a la del rencor. Dominó las lágrimas que le asomaron los ojos ante el espectáculo de ver a su niña tratada como una criminal, bajo el consentimiento de los Amos, y la miró a los ojos con la bondad sin límites que siempre le prodigó. En gratificación, percibió la luz de una sonrisa, de la más límpida y serena bondad que la Iyá conociera.

            En ese instante inmortal, el Obispo sintió que nunca había visto criatura tan bella como Niña Blanca, pero lejos de abandonarse al disfrute de ese sentimiento, interpuso entre él y ella la cruz:

            -¡Besa la cruz, Satán, no me engañas! ¡Bésala, demonio!

            Madre sintió un salto en las entrañas. A Padre se le hizo un nudo en la garganta, consciente de que tanto de la habilidad de Monseñor como del comportamiento de su hija, dependía su propio futuro. Si la hacienda era declarada hogar del demonio… De pronto, todo quedó en suspenso:

                                    ¡MAFERE FÚN, OLOFI! [1]

            Escucharon los presentes, el Obispo tras de sí, y luego, frente a frente, en voz de la propia rea. Se tornó y vio a una esclava robusta, de intenso negro aceitunado y rostro perturbadoramente sereno, que lo desafiaba con la mirada.

            Versado en demonología, Monseñor supo inmediatamente detectar en la imagen de la esclava, otra manifestación de lo mismo que le ocupaba, sólo que esta vez podía enfrentarse, además, a la raíz del mal. Señaló con la cruz a su rival:

                                    ¡VADE RETRO, SATANÁS!

            A lo que la Iyá respondió igual que antes, como Niña Blanca y alguno que otro esclavo de la dotación formada frente al juicio.

Con el valor y la fuerza que infunde la fe, el Obispo alzó la voz y el imperativo apotegma contra el diablo se escuchó muy lejos, leguas a la redonda, rebotando contra las montañas de Escambray. No logró más que sumar voces al coro antifonal de negros, pues negra era también Niña Blanca o el demonio que llevaba dentro.

Creyéndose en ridículo, ordenó a los mayorales arrestar a la Iyá y ponerla de rodillas ante sus pies.

-Cien azotes por blasfemia- dijo, y los mayorales rasgaron de inmediato el vestido de la negra, dejándola desnuda hasta la cintura.

Niña Blanca, de un salto, se interpuso entre ellos. Llevaba en la mano una vaina de flamboyán, inequívoco atributo de Oyá-Yansa. La sostuvo sobre su cabeza moviéndola en forma circular. A cada vuelta de la vaina escucharon los presentes el silbido del viento. No tardó en arremolinarse frente a la Casa Grande, cargando consigo la hojarasca de un bosque cercano, el polvo de los barrancos, el aullido de los perros jíbaros, el cacareo de las gallinas cluecas, el siseo de los reptiles selváticos, el coro de los muertos errantes, seguido de una tromba marina con fuerte lluvia y granizada de caracoles, hipocampos y peces ciegos, bajo fulminantes centellas que devoraron el terror de los incrédulos. Por si quedaban dudas, en el cielo aparecieron los colores de la temida diosa.

-¡Maferefún Olofi!- decían a coro los esclavos, al ver cómo los Amos huían y poníanse a buen resguardo. El viento hizo girar al Obispo sobre sus propios pies. Su imagen de peonza, con la sotana invertida, llevó a los esclavos a un estado de frenética hilaridad, de felicidad casi olvidada. No los contuvo siquiera las descargas que dispararon al aire los mayorales, pues el Obispo giraba, giraba y giró hasta el Camino Real y allí el viento le dejó caer, pesadamente, sobre el lodo.

Sin esperar por recuas y criados disfrazados de oficiales de la Sancta Inquisición, Monseñor corrió rumbo al mar. Llevaba el espanto prendido al rostro, como si lo ocurrido no fuese sino el inicio de las terribles jornadas del Apocalipsis, con carcajadas de negros esclavos descendientes de aquella tribu expulsada de Tierra Santa, en lugar de trompetas de Jericó.

La gran desbandada no se hizo esperar. Tras los Amos y mayorales, mayordomos y esclavos domésticos se encerraron a retranca. Temían el alzamiento de la negrada, tantas veces esperado en las noches de pesadilla. Pero sólo hubo fiesta durante tres días continuos, con toques y cantos a los orichas, que contagiaron las dotaciones de las haciendas vecinas. Juntos, todos decidieron irse a los cerros a fundar Palenque, con Niña Blanca al frente, como legítima Omó-Oricha manifestada.

Oyá y Changó habían demostrado su inmenso poder. Con sus sagrados nombres se conoció, por décadas, el palenque que fundaron y mantuvieron los fugitivos y sus descendientes en las serranías del Escambray.

La noche de la revelación, tras una ventana en el piso superior de la Casa Grande, Madre miraba, sonriente, el festejo de los negros. Estrujábase los senos bajo el corpiño. Musitaba algo en voz baja, que pudo ser tanto una oración más, como la continuidad de la interminable plática que sostuvo durante años consigo misma, rosario de culpas desgranadas desde la noche sin fecha que decidió vengarse de los agravios cometidos contra su honra por el hombre que le legaron sus padres en España y la Iglesia ante el altar, a pocos días de embarcar hacia América, por voluntad de un pariente que la favoreció en el testamento.

Recordaba vagamente la Niña de hermosos rizos de oro que alguna vez sostuvo dentro del vientre y salió a la luz entre sus piernas, para convertirse en causa principal de su infelicidad conyugal. Ahora tendría la edad de aquella bellísima mujer que los esclavos llevaban en andas, como a una reina. Sólo Dios sabría lo que fue de ella.



                                                FIN


[1] “Alabado sea Olofi” (Olofi: Dios Supremo de la mitología Yoruba)

miércoles 16 de noviembre de 2011

SUGAR RAMOS
A true story
(c) Elio Ruiz, 2004-08


Ultiminio Ramos Zequeira told us his story while seated in the living room of his humble Mexican home, surrounded by a black and white photographic background. He came to the world in the year 1941 in a neighborhood in the city of Matanzas, at the north end of the Cuban island. There, at barely eleven years old, he began learning the art of boxing while his father made money betting on the fights. At fifteen, after several years of intense training under the supervision of his master "Kid Rapidez," Ramos jumped to the professional arena in the old Sports Palace of Havana through his father, a man whose desire to managing a champion of the world was so strong that he had fathered thirty-two children with two women. Only with the last one of them "Ultiminio" (Ultimate) would he realize his dream. However, the radical political split of Cuban society would turn the dream into a nightmare.
On his way to conquer the island's national title, the young Ramos caused the death of one of his opponents, the well-known and very young "Tigre Blanco" (White Tiger), victim of Ramos's killer right punch. The incident made him doubt whether to continue with his aim of becoming national champ. To his great surprise, the deceased young boxer's own mother encouraged him to continue his career and to conquer the championship, as Ramos eventually did. At the ceremony he dedicated the belt to "Tigre Blanco," to a thunderous applause from the crowd gathered in Havana's Sports Palace. His manager then would take him on a Latin American tour in 1959, just about when Castro's Revolution would change Cuba forever.
He fought in Venezuela, Panama, Puerto Rico and Mexico; this last country welcoming him as one of its own. His skillful dancing of Cuban music made him very popular amongst ladies in the land of the Aztecs. He decided to stay there while the political scene in his native land was sorted out. Ramos never imagined that it would be a permanent absence, although his father warned him early that he should never return to Cuba if he wanted to become great among greats in the sweet science. The elder Ramos distrusted the new rules of game in Havana.
The night of his debut in Mexico City the judge's decision went against Ramos, a shameless act, taking the victory away from him. To his own surprise, the public emphatically disagreed with the verdict and proceeded to set fire to the arena "Mexico." After this great show of sympathy, ferocious loyalty and support by the Mexican fans, the new "Sugar" realized that he had found a new homeland from which he could continue his career and his way to glory. The government who took power in Cuba had definitively decided to ban professional boxing.
Under the supervision of "Kid Rapidez" (also trainer to four future Cuban world champions*), and the management of Cuco Conde; on his way to winning the world championship, Sugar Ramos would have to fight a fearsome fighter from Ohio, featherweight Champion of the World Davey Moore * * , or "Little Giant" as the sport's media called him in the United States. In Mexico nobody could ever beat him. At home, he was undefeated. Responding to the Cuban boxer challenge, Moore said to the press, "If Sugar Ramos wants to take the championship away from me; of course he'll have to kill me first."
Exactly a year before, Cuban Boxer Benny Kid Paret was killed by the hands of Emile Griffith at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Nobody wrote a poem lamenting his murder, but about the fight, Norman Mailer wrote a note:
"Paret died on his feet. As he took those eighteen punches something happened to everyone who was in psychic range of the event. Some part of his death reached out to us. One felt it hover in the air. He was still standing in the ropes, trapped as he had been before, he gave some little half-smile of regret, as if he were saying, "I didn't know I was going to die just yet," and then, his head leaning back but still erect, his death came to breathe about him. He began to pass away. As he passed, so his limbs descended beneath him, and he sank slowly to the floor. He went down more slowly than any fighter had ever gone down, he went down like a large ship which turns on end and slides second by second into its grave. As he went down, the sound of Griffith's punches echoed in the mind like a heavy ax in the distance chopping into a wet log".
Complex and dangerous times came down following the Missile Crisis that put the world at the edge of nuclear war and Cuba as the eye of a historical hurricane. Sugar Ramos didn't understand the expectations created around the fight with Davie Moore, only because he was born in Cuba. For him, it was as simple as making good on the promise that he had made to his father when he was only a nine year old boy: become a World Champion.
Finally the fight was scheduled for March 23, 1963 (just one year after the fatal Paret-Griffith fight at MSG), on the baseball field at Dodgers Stadium in Los Angeles, California. The odds were for the African-American boxer ten to one. The Afro-Cuban would fight for his native city "Matanzas" and the name was printed on one of his pant's legs. Ironically "Matanzas" means slaughter in Spanish.
Songwriter Phil Ochs narrated the situation developed this way:
“It was out to California young Davey Moore did go,
to meet with Sugar Ramos and trade him blow for blow
He left his home in Springfield, his wife and children five;
the spring was fast approaching, it was good to be alive.
His wife, she begged and pleaded, "You have to leave this game.
Is it worth the bloodshed and is it worth the pain?"
But Davey could not hear above the cheering crowd
He was a champion, and champions are proud.
Hang his gloves upon the wall, shine his trophies bright clear,
Another man will fall before we dry our tears
For the fighters must destroy as the poets must sing,
as the hungry crowd must gather for the blood upon the ring”.
Sugar Ramos remembers today the feeling he had gotten that something bad was about to happen days before the fight when a heavy rain began to fall and didn't stop in Los Angeles. For a moment, even his coach entertained the idea of postponing the match arranged to take place under the stars. But like the saying goes, there's always calm before the storm. Finally the rain stopped, and the bell sounded for the first of fifteen rounds, televised coast to coast.
"A savage war was developing" that night, wrote the Los Angeles sport columnist Melvin Durslag. Starting from the ninth round, Sugar Ramos took control of the fight and in the tenth, Davey Moore was knocked out. The audience was stunned.
After his defeat, while he stood in the dressing room, Davey Moore collapsed into a coma due to cerebral injuries ***. Some people talked about a Cuban revenge. But no, it was only a weird, mysterious coincidence!
The bout and the aftermath were certainly the biggest sporting events news of the year to the point that the Vatican was forced to release a statement against professional boxing; it also inspired Bob Dylan to write a song titled "Who Killed Davey Moore?"
Who killed Davey Moore,
Why an' what's the reason for?
"Not I," says the referee,
"Don't point your finger at me.
I could've stopped it in the eighth
An' maybe kept him from his fate,
But the crowd would've booed, I'm sure,
At not getting' their money's worth.
It's too bad he had to go,
But there was a pressure on me too, you know.
It wasn't me that made him fall.
No, you can't blame me at all."
Devastated by the news broadcasted about the severity of Moore's condition, Sugar Ramos went to Los Angeles Memorial Hospital to visit the ex-champ. He arrived just in time to witness the courageous gladiator's last breath; he was so overcome with grief that he cried as if he had just lost one of his own brothers. Once again in Ramos's career, the victim's mother went to him and consoled and encouraged him to continue with honor, his boxing career. Sugar Ramos declared to the press: "I want to be a Champion of the World, but not at this price."
Two weeks later Sugar Ramos returned to Mexico City where the people give him a treatment reserved only for true national heroes. Multitudes waited for him at the airport with mariachis. The crowd took control and carried him to the Palacio Nacional, where a grateful President Lopez Mateo greeted him. He became a huge celebrity in Mexico capable of filling stadiums and bullfight plazas. It was the beginning of his glory days.
Like a dandy, he hired the services of a valet who became his inseparable companion. The valet was a hunchbacked man that according to myth would bring good luck. Because of his shape people began calling him "The Pigeon". If any contender refused to come to Mexico to fight him, Sugar Ramos looked for them anywhere escorted by his curious valet. Eventually they went to Japan, where the champion had a bad dream. He dreamt of a double funeral, into which he and his trainer were both present like astonished witnesses. There was something certainly very strange about the funeral. When the supposed family members opened the coffins, there were no bodies inside; instead there was money, a lot of money in gold coins. Sugar Ramos woke up and told the nightmare to his master who shared a room with him. "Kid Rapidez" calmed him down and told him: a dream is only a dream, my son, something like watching a movie. He advised him to relax and go back to sleep.
The following day he would defend the title against a difficult boxer known for his karate skills. His trainer and second on the corner for this fight and for many more was the legendary Angelo Dundee, former trainer of Mohamed Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard and others. Sugar Ramos was not able to clear his mind all day, before and after the fight. It was the only time that he remembers not calling his father before a fight.
"When we arrived to the place where the bout against Seki would be taking place", recalled Angelo Dundee, "they already had set up the ring but there weren't seats anywhere. I asked somebody about when they were going to bring the chairs and the man told me that in Japan the fans preferred the floor to sitting in chairs. When Ramos knocks out Seki, I turned toward Cuco Conde and told him: indeed Japanese prefers the floor". ****
On his way back to Mexico he called Cuba, as he always did when returning from one of his fights, to tell his father that once again he had successfully defended the title. He was shocked with news, which stopped his breath: his father and his grandfather had both died on the same day of that awful funeral nightmare in Osaka, Japan. Hearing the news was like the end of his world. He could not stop crying, alone surrounded by strangers, and then he realizes that his tears wouldn't stop falling, like the rain in Los Angeles before his fight with Davey Moore. Due to the political climate in his native Cuba he could not attend the funeral of his relatives and as he states: "With my father's death I lost the desire for fighting, I lost the willpower."
In one year and half he flew all around the world, even fighting in Africa before Mohamed Ali did it. The people of Ghana welcomed him at the airport as one of their own. However, other Ghanaians put a spell upon him so that he would lose before the local fighter. Mario "The Pigeon", opportunely informed, responded carrying a large crucifix as they left the dressing room heading for the ring. It seems that this act of faith was not enough to stop the spell of the African witchdoctors. It was a tough fight. Sugar Ramos won on a split decision. He almost lost it. For an instant, the African fighter put him on his knees. But Sugar Ramos composed himself and was able to finish and win the fight in the tenth round before an emotionally electrified audience.
Troubles go alongside fame. Certainly, the bed could be another dangerous ring. "In a boxer´s life there are occasions that one woman is a problem. There are boxers that know a lot of women and then get a big deal of problems. Ultiminio is a good kid that gets working out good and behaves professional but he doesn't give up to be a young man, strong, handsome, a celeb champion and for that, believe me, always there are women around", remarked his manager****.
The first defeat came down by the Vicente Saldivar´s left hand, a Mexican fighter who snatched away the title of the featherweight division. Then, Sugar Ramos upgraded category to the light welterweight, alternating victories and defeats in the ring as well as in business. One of these was a funeral parlor that carried his name as his own name had become a sort of trademark of death.
He lasted in boxing a few more years by dancing in the ring, until he met the unavoidable and ultimate defeat that awaits all gladiators. A young hungry fighter arrived and took the Champion's belt before the eyes of the world. His name was Carlos Ortiz, a legendary Puerto Rican Champion.
After retiring from sports he dedicated himself to his other love, music. Even today he can be found singing ballads, rumbas and even rap, in some clubs in Mexico City. Some people recall him as "the killer boxer". He still carries the infamous record of two opponents killed in his career; he still cries for both.
In 1998, executives of the boxing business remembered Sugar Ramos by inducting him to the Los Angeles Boxing Hall of Fame. In 2001 the city of Miami honored his nomination to Canastota's Hall of Fame in New York by placing his name among the greats of the old sweet science.
Mr. Ramos showed us a video of those moments, in which he appears as happy as a well cared-for and beloved child; the video was shot by his Mexican son, who bears his name and would perhaps like to become a professional fighter.
In the parade through the streets of Canastota, New York, where he cruises on a convertible like the other World Champions inducted on the same day, enthusiastic fans greet him wherever he goes. They request his autograph. During the procession Sugar Ramos gives them candies that he takes out of a paper bag. "Damn, man, glory is really beautiful", he told us.
He never went back to Cuba, a country where its own citizens must ask for a visa to visit it; he never saw the sons that were left behind after he left. One of them, who also happen to carry his name, became an amateur Champion in the Island and currently is a trainer. Neither has Sugar Ramos met any of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The Cuban regime doesn't forget his resonant success as an independent professional boxer, and his personal way to be a Negro. Nor does the accusing finger of Bob Dylan, although he doesn't mention him.
“Who killed Davey Moore
Why an' what's the reason for?
"Not me," says the man whose fists
Laid him low in a cloud of mist,
Who came here from Cuba's door
Where boxing ain't allowed no more.
"I hit him, yes, it's true,
But that's what I am paid to do.
Don't say 'murder,' don't say 'kill.'
It was destiny, it was God's will."
Holding back the tears, hitting repeatedly his fist on the palm of the other hand, Sugar Ramos concluded with a bitter gesture: "What are we going to do boy, that's the way the world turns".
FOOTNOTES:
* They were Luís Manuel Rodríguez, Ultiminio "Sugar" Ramos, José "Mantequilla" Nápoles and José Legrá. This last one was crowned World Champion as Spaniard.
* * There were two African-American boxers and Champions of the world with the same name, Davey Moore. Both died before the age of thirty. The Davey Moore we refer to in our story was a native of Lexington, Kentucky who then lived in Springfield, Ohio. He died in a hospital in Los Angeles, 1963 as a consequence of the fight against Sugar Ramos at Dodger Stadium. The other Davey Moore made his career in the eighties and was a native of New York. He died tragically in 1988 run over by his own car. Another mysterious coincidence. Source: Wikipedia.
*** "Neurologists determined the injury could not have been caused by a punch. Viewing a videotape of the fight, they focused on Moore's fall against the bottom rope late in the 10th round. In what a doctor called a ¨million-to-one¨ accident, the rope had struck Moore like an expert's karate blow". San Fransisco Chronicle, Friday, July 27, 2001.
**** Cited by Enrique Encinosa: "Azúcar y Chocolate, historia del boxeo cubano", ("Sugar and Chocolate, history of Cuban boxing").
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1szz9IXj_7c


viernes 11 de noviembre de 2011

(Versión en español aquí.)

My very first post when I started this blog was a link to some recordings by Yoruba Andabo I call "Cajones Bullangueros." A friend gave me a cassette copy of the recordings a few years earlier and it quickly became one of my favorite rumba records.

I digitized the tape, put the tracks on a CD and designed a little cover, calling the whole thing "Cajones Bullangueros," which I thought was an apt title, considering the instrumentation used and the inclusion of a standout track by that name. (Most of the other songs were later released (in different versions) on their classic "El callejón de los rumberos.")

The homemade cover

But as great as the recordings were, there was surprisingly little information about them out there. Although they appeared to have been professionally recorded, they didn't appear in any discography I could find.

There were only a couple of clues to go on: I noticed that parts of some of the tracks had been used in the films "Quién Baila Aquí" and "En El País de Los Orichas," and the fact that the engineer's voice could be heard announcing the track names suggested that these were tapes for a recording that had never been released.

Then a few years ago I was introduced to Elio Ruiz, the director of "Quién Baila Aquí" and "En El País de Los Orichas," who had just moved to New York. I learned that it was he who had made these recordings, specifically to use on the soundtracks of those films. He was surprised to find that the recordings had somehow made their way out of Cuba and were now circulating around the world.

So the mystery was solved but as time passes these recordings just keep getting better. They offer an all-too-rare glimpse of a moment, a group, and a style that have passed into history but remain as a touchstone for current and future generations.

Compared to many of the latest rumba releases, so obsessed with percussion pyrotechnics and "guarapachangueo" (which in my opinion has now come to mean "a license to overplay" more often than not) the playing here is more straightforward.

Although the performances are all strong, energetic and confident, and the cajones are indeed "bullangueros," there is a feeling of relaxed understatement throughout. Truly this is "rumba sin alarde" — no showing off from anyone.

The production quality is refreshingly natural, with none of the over-produced, cast-of-thousands coros like in recent recordings, which lose in "sentimiento" whatever they may gain in harmonic perfection.

Another thing it has going for it is a great repetoire. There are no weak songs here, all of them are first-rate, and in a variety of styles: besides guaguancó and columbia, there is Protesta Carabalí with its Abakuá section, and the first recording as a guaguancó of Pedro Flores' bolero "Perdón," a true stroke of genius, presumably on the part of Malanga, the group's vocal director.

And finally, to me it's important for remaining the most complete documentation we have of the voice of Calixto Callava, one of the great rumberos of all time.

I recently spoke with Elio. I was happy to hear that he is planning a 20th anniversary DVD edition of "Quién Baila Aquí," and plans to release a remastered edition of these historic recordings as a bonus CD. I asked him to tell me the story behind "Cajones Bullangueros," and here is his reply:

Dear Barry,

I wanted to reply briefly to your request to tell the history of the recording you've called "Cajones Bullanqueros." Here's how it happened.

In the summer of 1989 we were involved in the production of a documentary (later to be known as "Quién Baila Aquí: La rumba sin lentejuelas") with the Cuban "rumba de cajón" group Yoruba Andabo.

Cover of VHS edition of

"Quién Baila Aquí"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vd46XTiev7o

This effort, being without a budget and against the tide, without a doubt demanded all the love and altruistic willpower possible from the visual and musical production team.

Only one civil servant aware of the cultural importance of the topic, Mr. R. D., helped us with the teams that were under his administration, over the objections of the others who followed orders only reluctantly.

Elio Ruiz, during the filming of the

"rumba de solar" sequence in "Quien baila aquí"

Solar "La Madama." Cayo Hueso, Havana, 1989.

Foto: Courtesy Elio Ruiz

Even so, every day of recording was a battle and a conquest, exactly what is now called, in the jargon of independent cinema production, a "guerilla production."

One of my difficulties as producer of this project was to find a free studio where we could adequately record Yoruba Andabo.

Suddenly, the solution arrived thanks to one of our friends at the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión de San Antonio de los Baños, in Havana Province. A Mexican named Samuel Larson Guerra, at the time a student and now a distinguished professional of sound design and cinema post-production in Mexico.

Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión

de San António de los Baños

This friend had the idea to make an "unauthorized incursion," that is, "guerilla-like," into the facilities of the school to make a clandestine recording of the soundtrack.

We feared that if we followed the more correct route of making a formal request, we would be rejected, the project dealing as it did with the "rowdy" rumba, made by "marginals."

In those days, national folklore was not so politically palatable as it was later, when the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union unleashed a real frenzy of afrocuban mysticism in the supposedly atheo-communist island.

Consuequently, the voice we hear identifying the tracks of this historic first musical production of Yoruba Andabo (which, by the way, will turn 20 this year) is that of "Sammy" Larson, as he was known by his friends in San Tranquilino, home of the EICTV.

The members of Yoruba Andabo called him "El Azteca." They had faith that he would make them famous. In a certain way this happened, but it was because they insisted in perfecting their work.

SAMMY WRITES:

"When I arrived in Cuba in December of 1986, as part of the first generation of students of the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión, I had a pretty vague idea of what was Cuban.

Back then, as a "chilango" (Mexico City native), my favorite popular music was rock. From Cuba I heard mostly Nueva Trova and as a classical guitar student I was a big admirer of Leo Brouwer.

On the other hand, it was common back then at parties in Mexico to dance to Los Van Van's "Ven y Muévete." But outside of that, I must confess I was mostly ignorant of the richness and variety of cuban popular music.

I didn't know for sure what a guaguancó was, much less a "rumba de cajón." In those times, for me, the Caribbean was still something to be discovered, because although I liked reggae a lot and Bob Marley was one of my idols, the notion of the importance of Africa in Caribbean music and culture was not yet substantiated by direct, daily knowledge.

Towards the end of my first year in Cuba, I had the pleasure to meet Elio Ruíz, and after finding we had many common interests we quickly became close friends.

And so it was that we began our incursions of the streets and solares of Centro Habana and Cayo Hueso, places of ill repute, which some warned us to stay away from as places infested with anti-social and marginal types.

Nevertheless, for a group of students of EICTV, our stay in Cuba was spent in good measure between the school (an hour from Havana) and those Habanero neighborhoods where on any corner or in the patio of any solar one could run into a rumba de cajón, a vital and powerful expression of Cuban music in it's most African form.

In those solares and rumbas, I learned to appreciate and understand the clave and the tumbao, the vitality of the cultural sincretism of African tradition, the love of dance and the party, anyway, what ended up being for me, the heart of "cuban-ness."

It was in this context that I met Yoruba Andabo. When Elio suggested we record them in the sound studios of EICTV, where I was taking my first steps as a soundman, I immediately agreed.

The original recording was made onto 1" tape using a Studer 8-track machine.

Microphones were mostly Beyer M80, and probably some other lapel or tie-clip mics were used as well. As best I can remember no effects of any sort were used in the recording nor in the mixing. We sought to record the group in the most natural manner possible, which fortunately we were able to do. Nevertheless there was no mastering of the mix.

Studer 8-track machine

The original 1" tape was lost in the shuffle of school life and I have to say that when I looked for it and couldn't find it, I was very sorry not to have taken better care of it. The recording that remains is the stereo mix.

Given my limited experience, I think the result was surprisingly good, largely due to the high musical quality of all the members of the group, since everything was accomplished in a single session in single takes. And later, in the mixdown, thanks to the strict supervision of Giovanni and Malanga.

Back then I didn't give to much importance to the subject, I was just happily helping out my friend Elio, since the music was for "Quién baila aquí," the documentary he was making at the time, and also helping Yoruba Andabo, a group which for me represented all the wonderful things I had discovered in the streets and solares of Centro Habana."

ELIO CONTINUES:

Today many people know this recording—there are even those who have taken economic advantage of it, exerting no more effort than making pirated copies—without knowing the whole story, and what this friend Sammy risked to make it happen. When the directors of the school found out, they threatened to take disciplinary action against him.

Luckily these were no more than threats. As for me, I was prohibited from returning to the facilities of the school. Being able to put a name on the "black" list would be sufficient to soothe their "white" bureaucratic consciences.

The original group Yoruba Andado was formed by workers from the port of Havana, many now passed away.

They were:

Chan [Juan Campos Cárdenas]

Giovanni [del Pino]

[Pedro Celestino] Fariñas

†"Pancho Kinto"

†"El Chori" [Jacinto Scull Castillo]

†Callabas [Calixto Callava]

†Marino [Justo Marino Garcia]

"El Chiqui" [Ricardo Campos Lastra]

"Palito" [Orlando Lage Bouza]

and the musical director at the time was †"Malanga" [Rolando Rodriguez Oliva] (the other one, that is, the percussionist of the Orquesta Jorrín, and not the legendary rumbero from Matanzas [José Rosário Oviedo]).

The session at San Tranquilino was pure jazz, pure swing, that smooth "sentimiento manana," although still showing a few "defects" of a group which was not quite professional.

Listening to it today, I can evoke those times...

I can see Pancho Kinto with the only tooth left in his depopulated jaws, striking the cajón, the floor, and a bell, all with a spoon, a utensil I had never seen or heard used before in such a magical way.

I can see "El Chori," with his eyes closed, deep into the fabric of the rhythm, searching for the exact spot to place the drum stroke which, followed by more, make the quinto an instrument similar to the drumset in jazz, when performing a solo in the tiny space of 15 square centimeters. (After all, the rumba is the authentic Cuban Jazz, and it wasn't in vain that a Cuban rumbero like Chano Pozo made that relationship obvious.)

Giovanni, the leader of the group, I can see him too, raising the voices and playing the claves with impeccable time.

Chan, putting the flavor of aguardiente on his floreos, at times even surrealistic.

The smiling Fariñas, always smiling the same if he was singing a solo or in the coro.

And the unforgettable Calixto Callava, himself a classic, for his elegance and his composition of boleros and rumbas, with an unmistakable voice, yet in which one can hear the weakness form the lung cancer with which he was suffering. [Calixto Callava died a year and a half later, on December 19, 1990. — Ed.]

The real beauty of this tape perhaps is that it represents a style of rumba very close to that which these rumberos played themselves almost daily after getting off work at the docks, either on the counter of the bar at "Two Brothers," or with the drawers of a piece of furniture found in a solar where one of them lived.

Due to the clandestine circumstances of production, there was no opportunity to repeat takes. All the tracks are "Take one." The unrivaled distinctive characteristic of rumba de cajón is that it can be started up with anything that makes a sound when it is struck. The hood of a car will do, as will an empty pot. The cajón was, in its time, a substitute for the drum—when the drum was banned but the spanish authorities—and ended up being a unique form of its own.

So, in honor of the departed (Ibaé) who are present on this tape, I think it's very good that you make it available to all those lovers of rumba who want to download it from your page. It is the least we can do to avert the unscrupulous pirating of whoever thinks they have more rights than the others. Let it be for the enjoyment and benefit for all.

Thanks for your effort in spreading the rumba and helping rumberos cubanos on the island. They need it. It's encouraging to me to see the love that you have for this genre of cuban music.

Sincerely,

Elio Ruiz

Elio Ruiz is a Cuban filmmaker living in the United States. He has written for theater, television, movies and the print media. He has participated in productions in Cuba, Germany, Mexico and United States. In addition, he has taught drama, screenwriting workshops, and has been an acting coach for several institutions, including Cuba’s International School of Cinema and Television, the Universidad Autónoma de Mexico (UNAM), Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica (known as C.C.C.), the Lumière Institute, the Cuauhtémoc University of Puebla, and Cinecipac, Mexico.

As screenwriter, filmmaker, and producer, he was recognized with several national and international awards and honorable mentions in the categories of Documentary and Documentary Mini Series, including the “Caracol” Award from Cuba’s Writer and Artist Union (UNEAC). In 1989 and 1990, he received the “Coral” Award at Havana’s International Film Festival for Miniseries Documentary and Documentary, respectively. Besides, he has received the “Pitirre” Award from Cine San Juan, Puerto Rico Film Festival, for best producer and documentary director for “Quien Baila Aquí (la rumba sin lentejuelas)”, “Who Dances Here (rumba without spangles)”.

His creative and journalistic writing has been published in Cuba, Mexico, Spain, Argentina and United States. Currently, he is working on several new projects. He is preparing a documentary movie about the Diaspora of Cuba’s professional boxers and former World Boxing Champion Sugar Ramos (member of the International Boxing Hall of the Fame in Canastota, New York State).

The 20th Anniversary bilingual version of "Quién Baila Aquí" will be available soon. The soundtrack will be included as a bonus CD.

Samuel Larson Guerra was born in Mexico City in 1963. In 1982 he enrolled in the Escuela Nacional de Música. From 1984 to 1986 he worked in the Cineteca Nacional in the Departamento de Documentación e Investigación. From 1987 to 1990 he studied cinematography at the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión (EICTV) in Cuba.

Since 1991 he has worked professionally in film as Sound Designer and Editor, and also scored original music for films.

He worked as an Editor on the television documentary series "Mujeres y Poder" which won a National Journalism Award in 2000 for best television documentary series. Since 1991 up to the present he has taught classes and workshops in sound and editing for filmboth in Mexico and abroad. He is an active member of the Academia Mexicana de Artes y Ciencias Cinematográficas since August 2008.

En el Pais de los Orichas
Clip de Yoruba Andabo
by Elio B. Ruiz (1990)