In Argentina a cougar ate an armadillo, I collected his tail and now a kazakh wolf lives in my chest. how do you explain this?
Everything ends in the infinity of the Kazakh steppe. His gaze and the wind outline him like a totem against the cold and distant horizon.. Mugstar the trapper is short on words. From him I learned to trap in the endless plains of Kazakhstan. His slanted eyes are like the line of light that escapes through a half-open door.. A being out of the ordinary, one of those unique and rare endemisms that I have encountered throughout various scenarios, for me admirable predators, living spirits. In thought I bring them all together, Marcelo (The Pampa, Argentina), Julian (Ciudad Real), Nobody (Mozambique), Rashif (Iran), Roberto (Córdoba, Argentina), Manda (Namibia), etc…
Mugstar along with part of his family lives in the mountain range that separates Kazakhstan from China in the Altyn Emel national reserve. With a big smile he gestures for me to give him something that I have been hanging on my chest for a long time.. On the great plain I take it from my neck and explain to him that it is a talisman, an armadillo tail that I found in the Pampas. He asks me if I caught him. "No, "I think a puma ate it.", I replied.
It's been a while since the sun ate the cold
Mugstar laughs and rests it on the chest of the wolf we just hunted. It's been a while since the sun ate the cold, It's like a warm yawn that warms the bones. Now the little man prays with his son and they point at me with their strong, short arms in a spontaneous ceremony.. A very common tradition in Northern and Central Europe that symbolizes respect towards the animal, but on this occasion here it would have a great meaning for me. Sandra, The beautiful Russian translator grabs my arm and interprets that Mustag is talking to lupus, When he dies he says that with me he will know new meadows and new rivers, will run and hunt new animals that he doesn't know yet.
A real pass!, although at that moment everything that Sandra's mouth could translate could seem highly transcendental to me. Why didn't I kiss her??, I must be an idiot!. They end up rubbing the talisman with the blood and returning the Armadillo's bony appendage to me with a sign of respect.. Now his spirit will go with me. The death of a king always leaves a great void. I don't care about the blood and I hang it over my neck again without forgetting the strength and peace of that look that was just a few meters away from me.. Like all those who were, they made me and they stayed in my camera. I owe everyone so much, I am what they gave me.
In the following fable there was a small armadillo and perhaps a puma
This general story that I just described began to take shape by chance a long time ago during a 23M in Argentina.. I guess it was at night. I want to imagine a rain of fireflies, formidable spectacle that I have only been able to see in Río Salado. The truth is that this unlit part of the day has led me to these lines, up to this point and continued. Surely in the following fable there was a small armadillo and maybe a puma. The first eats roots and with its pointed ears stops to sniff the wind at any strange omen.. The second, in feline stalking, would reflect in his eyes the flight of thousands of luminescent beetles before taking the great leap.
Surely, from that night that I just imagined to the long ellipsis of the 23 March, many more armadillos passed by or perhaps the Argentine lion ate them all. The fact is that I also passed by there, through the Pampa and as silent as the cat. It was early morning and without stopping walking I lowered my hand to pick up the tail of that armadillo that Mugstar offered to the wolf months later and that now I always carry on my chest..
The house is run by “Tucu”, the most beautiful woman in Argentina
During those days in the Pampa I lived in a house. Next to it there is a nave that serves as a kitchen and a room for laughter.. In front of his door lives a great Caldén. The house is run by “Tucu”, the most beautiful woman in Argentina and a lady from head to toe. Marcelo, her husband, carries two knives at his waist, he's a great guy, friend of his friends, of light conversation and quick laughter. A blood hunter who would love to go to Ibiza and move under the lights of the Pachá track. Under the Calden, “Duck” has a shortwave receiver to listen to radio Japan. I warn you that there is also a moth that just needs to keep dreaming about making the firefly inside the light bulb fall in love with you.. I also am, I remember sitting under the old tree. I only dream of Asia, She arrived on tiptoe and told me that to live among wolves you have to howl like wolves.. Today is 23 March, my 42 Birthday.
The afternoon was splendid, the night is clean. I take the opportunity to heal my pants. Needle guides patch, hiding by the fabric to emerge next. It's like a dolphin that jumps and disappears over the bow of a ship.. Thomas Edison is not, but its light bulb that hangs from the branch of the great Caldén. The moth has been trying to commit suicide for a while for the love of the firefly., the scene is hypnotic, how to look at fire. I can hear your insistent tapping, toc, toc ,toc. Old Edison didn't know, that some flying bugs go crazy with positive phototaxy. Suicidal and irrational behavior towards the light. Curious reflection this last one. We should all have a happy reason to kill ourselves slowly and gloriously..
We should all have a happy reason to kill ourselves slowly and gloriously.
Under the Tree Zabala Duck accompanies me. It's a Pampa, a Tupí-Guaraní with the appearance of a Mara hare. In leather it is something less than black. Tonight in the land of La Tranquera the Chamamé does not sound, Under the Caldén you can hear Al jazz or radio Japan. Zabala threads the signal from a shortwave receiver. They call it the Pampas Baboon. With knee on the ground, move the dial with a surgeon's pulse, like trying to decipher the combination of a safe. He stops at a station in Pernambuco.
looks at me, the knee is still on the ground. My life is a gate!, He tells me smiling as he sits next to me on the long trunk of eucalyptus trees.. Now the imprint of his kneecap is marked in the ground. The needle rests in the case, This time the scar has not been great, It is the fidelity price of my old dockers. With the left hand, Zabala embraces a knife. This looks sharp to a pichi, A small herbivorous armadillo that mouth is grabbed by the tail. Poor pray in Campo Santo.
In La Pampa the earth was always red.
I observe the duck, As if I hadn't heard anything. I turn on a cigar. I stretch my legs, The boot heel draws a groove. I'm dusty to ears, I breathe earth, SUDO EARTH AND LASE EARTH. In two times I look at him and pichi, I have never seen a creature that expresses so much innocence. I turn the head like the one who wants to hide the acidity of a lemon, My eyes close fleeing from that positive phototaxia. We are all a tranquera!, He repeats me. While someone sitting thousands of kilometers in a radio study, Read news about "Minas Gerais".
You have to fuck! With El Babuino. What balls will mean. Are we all a tranquera ? I try to reset my mind and forget the Pichi. I keep the silence, Dust and sweat have drawn strange shapes in my arms, I don't want to imagine what color I have my face. Today I have only slept a couple of hours on the back of the "flat" and now the babouin wants to philosophize. Marcelo El Gaucho arrives, The mate passes to me and sits with us.
Kick him while you screw up
If I don't want to talk about something, it's precisely tranqueras. We have opening them and closing them all day. There is no way to travel inside the pampas, No topart with one every half hour. The lucky owners must be hunting engineers and hieroglyphic openings to fuck Gallegos. I confess that I have come to feel scenic fear with such tangles of cables, Strategically set chains and sticks. Of each other are different. For those who run into some of these evil born, Good advice to open it is to simulate a iron anger, spit and kick him while you shit into something. Then it only remains to urinate with gallardía in the stake that holds it and wait for the flat to pass to close it as you want. Although depending on sex, You can just spit. Surely the three or four pampas that accompany and look are twisted as a group hyenas with a joke of lions.
I can't help drawing a smile with such a statement from Babuino about life and tranquera, But I measure it to not miss. I get up and take a cloth, I don't want to crack my hands while I helped him get one of the knives to a pig.
We hunt him with Marcelo at four in the morning. The cold was voracious, implacable as the mouth of a love that moves away.
Babuino Pampeano: (Laughing)... Yes Man, The tranquera was closed to this pig, like Pichi and the owner of that skin. (With the look indicates the skin of a puma that dries in the sun). El Babuino if it goes, The moth continues to commit suicide, The Caldén and I stayed. Saco mi mp3, I turn it on and I touged myself on the red earth. The night is as starry and full as the deep kiss of a love that approaches. By instinct I upload the volume. This is amazing, I must stink like a Mota and I am shitty to my ears but I feel like the black Vernon Sullivan spitting out Boris Vian. Happiness is immense. Thank God, What I have civilized, as many times has been lost with the passing of the days. I understand that this is my positive phototaxia.
I must stink like a Mota and I am shitty to my ears
I wash my hands in a cube before dinner and sleep a few hours. The Gin-Tonic is already prepared. For the soul, The first drink purifies as the prayer of a penance, The second is idiot and instinctive, The third is long and takes you out of the trance of the day. Tomorrow comes the dead, With him we will piste about the pampas in the puma herbs. The dead man has a camera and a grandson. With Marcelo's permission, Since I met "Nobody" in Mozambique I have not seen anyone so touched by the goddess Diana.
On both sides of the National Route 188, It is extending some knife and horse landscapes, of boots and whip, of clean hearts and respect, of people so deep that there is no liquid, No paper that can reveal them.
Dedicated to my Wolverine 11 years, To the spirit that lives in my chest, To Marcelo, To the fighter Tucu, To the Zabala duck (Babuino Pampeano) to mugstar the trapper, And to Asia who taught me a huge landscape of caresses among which I learned to howl.
