Rafito el Varado and the Peninsula of Indifferent Cactus

More about Rafito el Varado and the Peninsula of Indifferent Cactus

Rafito el Varado reached the peninsula on a wind that had no business blowing in that direction. The locals said the weather here changed moods rather than patterns. The sun didn’t rise—it wandered upward. The sea didn’t glitter—it considered the idea of glittering, then participated only halfway.

And the cactus?
They minded their own business with a level of dignity rarely found in plants.

Rafito liked this immediately.

The cliffs were carved into orange spires that leaned out over the water as though trying to get a better look at the passing boats. One such boat—a small white sloop—floated offshore, anchored in a patch of turquoise so clear it looked painted. Rafito squinted at it. Boats usually meant people, and people usually meant questions, and he was not in a questioning mood.

He followed a dusty path that wound between clusters of cactus and shrubs that looked like they’d survived every possible climate out of sheer spite. Some were tall as towers, others gathered in round, polite mounds, but all of them shared the same expression: We are not here for you.

Rafito respected that.

As he walked, the ground shifted from red earth to pale stone. The air carried the scent of salt, cactus sap, and dry laughter—like the land itself found him slightly amusing but wasn’t ready to admit it.

He passed a cactus that resembled a many-armed sentinel. One of its arms curved toward him, almost pointing. Rafito paused.

“You giving directions?” he asked.

The cactus remained silent in a way that felt extremely judgmental.

“Fair,” Rafito said, and kept walking.

Eventually he reached the cliff’s edge. The sea below moved in slow, deliberate strokes. The peninsula stretched out behind him like a creature basking in the sun. Ahead lay the open water, calm enough to lull a person into thinking nothing unexpected could happen there.

Rafito knew better.

He sat on a warm rock, letting the wind comb through his hair. A bird circled overhead, uncertain whether he was worth investigating. It decided he wasn’t.

The boat offshore rocked gently. A rope creaked. Rafito wondered for a moment if he should swim to it, knock on the hull, ask whoever lived on board what they thought of this place.

But the peninsula had already answered for him.

Here, nothing demanded.
Here, nothing insisted.
Here, everything simply existed in its own confident silence.

Rafito stood up, dusted off his trousers, and turned back toward the path. The cacti didn’t acknowledge his departure—they didn’t need to. They were perfectly satisfied being part of a landscape that needed no stories, no explanations, and certainly no approval.

Rafito walked on, grateful for a place that allowed him to pass through without trying to teach him anything at all.