Duberney is the oldest of eight siblings. He grew up in a farming family from Córdoba, spending his childhood watching his father dream of having all his children working the land—swinging machetes and planting food. But the truth is that the countryside never interested Duberney. He was drawn instead to what his mother, Sofía Vila, did: being close to her and learning the household trades — gathering firewood, fetching water, and pounding rice. He also liked making things with his hands, such as crochet and macramé. He remembers spending an entire week trying to get the rice preparation just right, until his mother finally gave her approval. Her lessons would shape the path he followed, both in the kitchen and in craft. So it made perfect sense that when Doña Sofía enrolled in a banana sock weaving course in Montelíbano, he tagged along to learn as well. And if he didn’t sign up himself, it was only because he was still underage — just fourteen — and they wouldn’t allow him.

He did so well with banana fiber that he began weaving under his mother’s name, selling his work with the number 05, the code assigned to her in the shop that marketed the products made by the women in the training program. That’s how he entered the craft, selling everything he made. It was then that he discovered the satisfaction of contributing to the household, and of hearing a customer tell him that what he created was spectacular.

Duberney has done it all — he has lived many lives. He can handle practically anything, except the countryside. He recounts, with a bittersweet nostalgia, that his life was marked by violence from a very early age. His family had to flee San Francisco del Rayo to a rural area closer to Montelíbano. Later, when he turned eighteen, his mother moved to Montería with his siblings, while he headed to Apartadó, in the Urabá region of Antioquia. He arrived full of knowledge. He immediately partnered with a craft foundation to learn how they worked with banana sock and, in exchange, taught them the rolling and flat-weaving techniques he already mastered — all while working at a fast-food restaurant. He learned braiding and rope-making techniques and discovered that the fiber that grew by the sea had more shine than the one from inland, like that from his family’s farm. Since then, he has worked exclusively with Urabá banana sock.

Later he moved to Medellín. It took him three months to adjust to his new life in Comuna 13. He worked in an Asian restaurant, then sewing buttons in a garment workshop. He remembers that on his first day he didn’t even earn enough to pay the metro fare back home, but with practice he eventually learned to sew 800 buttons in a single day. From there, he opened his own women’s blouse workshop and even employed seven people — until Chinese imports flooded the market and he was forced to close. It was during that time that he met his unconditional business partner, Carlos Mario Valencia, a natural-born salesman with whom he later cooked pizzas and delivered them around the neighborhood, and with whom he still works today — now remotely from Montería — embroidering the swimsuits of Carlos Mario’s brand.

Through all those years, he never forgot his love for banana sock— because he truly loves it. He didn’t forget it while working all over the country disinfecting cinema seats, nor while working in event production. He has never stopped being a craftsman, with the careful weaving and symmetry that define his pieces. That is why he continued teaching the craft in detail, encouraging his apprentices to get familiar with the material, to recognize its shine and hardness, to weave it using multiple techniques, and to extract and process it themselves. Today he continues juggling life alongside his craft. He knows it will remain with him forever — because it has been there through good times and bad, and because they know each other well.