The only thing Gary longed for as a child was the arrival of vacation. On that much-awaited day, his grandmother Graciela would welcome him with open arms at the ranchería in Kaparala, in the High Guajira. Those were the happiest three months of his year—the reward for doing well in school. And ever since he was five, his mother had taken him to study in Venezuela because, strangely enough, crossing to Maracaibo was far closer than traveling down to Riohacha: eight hours instead of fifteen.

Distance made him yearn for his Guajira life—at least the rural one, the life of his grandmother, uncles, and cousins. Yet in Venezuela, the large Wayuu community living (and still living) along the border made it impossible for him to forget his roots and his language. Gary is grateful that his people are so united and that wherever Guajiros go, they seek one another out, and in doing so preserve their identity. Still, what he lived in the ranchería was different. The landscape itself was different. Neighbors to the imposing Macuira mountain, his community grew up with a unique craft: weaving hats from mawisa palm—a craft to which he would ultimately devote his life.

The years have taught him that the most valuable thing he has is his Wayuu origin. So although he began studying Engineering, he quickly realized that what he truly needed to do was cultivate his roots and look closely at what had always been right in front of him: the tradition of an entire people. He opened his ears and learned how, during the time of the Conquest, the Guajira peninsula was traversed by Dutch and Spanish ships that left behind the tradition of crochet embroidery—manual knowledge that the Indigenous communities later adapted into their own textiles, enriching them with their traditional symbols, called kaanás. He also learned about those early Wayuu who, a century before, began harvesting the palm in the high mountains and weaving the hat that accompanies the Guajiro’s life: shielding him from the sun while herding, joining him in the chinchorro where he sleeps, and matching the mochila that carries everything. His love for these stories, along with his deep understanding of the matrilineal lineage and the female strength that guides Wayuu destiny, led him to study ethno-education.

So this joyful, generous man divides his time between weaving hats and teaching about Wayuu life, traditions, and the Wayuunaiki language. He remembers the years he participated as an artisan in the Wayuu Culture Festival in the town of Uribia. His hats earned him the medal for Best Artisan four years in a row—until they told him he had won it enough times. That pushed him to work as a Wayuu culture instructor throughout the department, in collaboration with Chevron. Those were beautiful years, as he recalls them, seeing children fascinated by the weaving of the hat. Then in 2009 he discovered Expoartesanías and witnessed the sensation that the hat caused.

Who would have imagined that this rigid straw hat would become one of the most sought-after crafts at the fairs? Originally designed with traditional kaanás, like the turtle shell motif dyed in blood-red, the hats gradually transformed into the pastel colors seen in European fashion seasons, adorned with colorful tassels to make them more playful. He adapted these additions based on the saddle decorations of the desert donkeys.

Today Gary divides his time between Riohacha and the High Guajira, close to the mountain of his childhood. His community does the same, and so does his artisan group. He knows that traveling up to the High Guajira is a commitment—a deliberate act—which he invites us all to undertake, promising the discovery of a unique landscape. But if we cannot make the journey, he will gladly teach us about his hats in the departmental capital, because what he most wants is to speak about his people—and he can do that anywhere he chooses.