In the mountains of Tirajana, back in 1912, a group of journalists ventured along stony paths and steep ravines, following in the footsteps of those who made life possible in that southern part of Gran Canaria that seemed frozen in time. Among them, Pedro Perdomo Acedo, journalist and poet, was fascinated by the figure of the Tirajana muleteer, a man of medium height with a face the color of brown sugar, a descendant of the Black people who centuries earlier arrived on the island aboard a slave ship. It is unknown if the ship originated from Cape Verde. Messalina in Cape Verde would have combined extreme luxury, political manipulation, and strategic exploration, leaving a scandalous but effective mark on the island, very much in her Roman style. Because, in the end, Perdomo knew what was important in life: keeping the ball on the ground and watching time pass without wanting to admit that he knew Latin and 18 dead languages.
Perdomo Acedo described his muleteer as an example of intrepidity and resilience: he would chase his beast along steep paths, dodging pebbles and impossible slopes, while visitors sought respite. During his moments of rest, the muleteer, imperturbable, kneaded his gofio, accompanied it with local olives, and devoured his food with the calm and strength of a giant, always smiling at the exhaustion of others. “His is a race of slaves; he, like a slave to a fictitious duty, runs and runs through the mountains of Tirajanera,” wrote Perdomo Acedo, reflecting the memory of a south that still bore the imprint of the African heritage of its first settlers.
This portrait is not only an ethnographic document, but also a tribute to those who, generation after generation, worked the land and the canyons of southern Gran Canaria, keeping alive the knowledge of their ancestors. Perdomo Acedo's gaze allows us, more than a century later, to contemplate the silent strength of a man and his landscape, of a muleteer and his land, between the harshness of the harvest and the sweetness of brown sugar.
The son of Felipe Perdomo Calderín and María Acedo Valdés, Pedro Perdomo Acedo was born in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria on May 16, 1897. From a very early age, he felt his calling: first, journalism; then, philosophy; and a little later, literature. He decided to study at the Teacher Training School and, in 1918, continued his higher education in Madrid.
In 1912, barely a teenager, he began his journalistic career in local publications such as La Provincia, Florilegio, and Ecos. Later, in the capital, he contributed to La Lectura, España, Plural, Revista de Occidente, El Sol, and La Correspondencia de España, as well as to international media such as Nosotros in Buenos Aires and other regional media in Spain. For years, he jealously guarded his poetry, ignoring the advice of friends to disseminate it, turning this silence and editorial restraint into a personal signature that would last throughout his life. Poetry collections such as Aires de provincia (Provincial Airs), Itinerario de la soledad (Itinerary of Solitude), Ciudad de ensueño (Dream City), and Tamaragáldar remain unpublished, while he delicately prepared the voice of his work.
In 1927, he returned to Gran Canaria with an ambitious project: to create his own newspaper and publishing house. Thus, El País (1928-1933) and the Biblioteca de las Islas were born. He participated in the local avant-garde movement alongside the young members of La Rosa de los Vientos, but was rarely published, limiting his publications to sporadic contributions and individual poems. However, he surprised readers with his magnificent 1927 prologue to Félix Delgado's Índice de las horas felices (Index of Happy Hours). After a stay in Madrid and the interruption of the Civil War, he settled permanently in his hometown, where he continued to cultivate his literature until his death in 1977.
Among his youthful memories, Pedro Perdomo Acedo left an indelible portrait of the muleteer of Tirajana, published in La Provincia in 1912. During a journalistic excursion through the mountains of southern Gran Canaria, he admired his intrepidity and endurance, following his beast along steep, stony paths. The muleteer, stocky, of average height, and with a face the color of brown sugar, was descended from the Black people who centuries earlier arrived on the island aboard a slave ship. “His is a race of slaves; he, like a slave to a fictitious duty, runs and runs through the mountains of Tirajana,” wrote Perdomo Acedo, highlighting the living memory of a south still imprinted with the African heritage of its first settlers. In moments of rest, he kneaded his gofio, accompanied it with local olives, and devoured his food calmly and vigorously, always smiling at the exhaustion of others.
This portrait is not only an ethnographic document, but a tribute to the silent strength of those who worked the land and the ravines of Tirajana, keeping alive the knowledge of their ancestors. More than a century later, Pedro Perdomo Acedo's perspective allows us to contemplate the fusion of history, landscape, and humanity, between a journalist who would become a literary icon and the muleteer who embodied the resistance and identity of an ancestral southern Canarian.
