Probably the most famous definition of the Latin American literary form known as ‘cronicas’, of which Hebe Uhart’s latest collection A Question of Belonging (translated by Anna Vilner) is an example, is the that of the Mexican writer Juan Villoro:
“The chronicle is the platypus of prose; it incorporates all kinds of foreign elements.”
More useful, perhaps, is that of his compatriot Dante Medina: “The chronicle illuminates with a different light than that of fiction: it puts its faiths equally in reality and in textuality.” In other words, it is a hybrid of journalism and literature. The cronica is the form most closely associated with Argentine writer Uhart; as Mariana Enriquez explains in her introduction, Uhart “preferred writing cronicas, she used to say, because she felt that what the world had to offer was more interesting than her own experience or imagination.” Her explanation betrays a modesty which is also apparent in her writing, but a story Enriquez tells in Uhart’s own words of a revelation which occurred just before she began the traveling which would give rise to her cronicas, suggests a democratic – even political – impulse:
“…I realised there were others who made sacrifices, who supported their homes. Who hitchhiked because they couldn’t afford to take the bus. I was ashamed of my own thinking, of being so self-centred. It was then when I started to ripen.”
In fact, such an encounter is described in ‘A Trip to La Paz’ when she speaks to a fellow teacher travelling in second class who complains that her school cannot afford chairs for the pupils:
“Both of us were teachers but while she lived of her poor salary, I spent mine on travel and whatever bullshit caught my eye.”
This ability to see other people is reflected throughout her writing, and these people are often in the poorer parts of the countries she visits. In a number of the tales she encounters indigenous people and makes certain she provides a context for what she sees:
“Mass killings were carried out in the 19th century to rid them of their land; the final one happened in 1914. Back then they didn’t know how to write and were forced to surrender their land with a mark of their finger – whoever refused was killed.”
Such information is inserted dispassionately, a background to the conversation, not dissimilar to cronica entitled ‘Inheritance’ where she describes the houses of those whose parents were Peronists, communists and so on in a demonstration that inheritance is unavoidable. She is also fascinated by different cultures, asking at one point, “How do the ethnic groups of the Amazon see the world?” One aspect of her writing is a non-academic attempt to record fading cultures – in Formosa, for example, she hears of the younger generation:
“…they say, ‘You don’t talk right’ because their parents want them to be taught Spanish.”
She often seeks out older inhabitants and is always interested in language. In Peru, for example, “I ask Roger to tell me about the most common insults.” Later she buys a “book that contained criollo sayings and refrains.” At a writer’s conference in Guadalajara she plans to:
“…wander the streets and decipher the thousands of things I’d read abut and didn’t understand, for example ‘ne madres’ which is another way of saying ‘no way’.”
Above all, it is Uhart’s endless curiosity that make the collection so captivating. It is, of course, perfect for dipping into, but it also has a wonderful tempo that rewards reading more than one cronica at a time – and some of the more moving are towards the end, such as the family who lived at a circus and the story of ‘A Suit with an Extra Pair of Pants’. As with all literature, these cronicas encourage us to see a different world, but they also suggest that we look at it differently too.
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