THE TRUTH IS, a little difficult to divulge. What he intended
was to name the blog Isla de Mierda, because when he was around 15, took a morning trip from his home town to Rio Piedras in
a publico. A crowded van used in most of the third world for
transportation. The heat was easy to imagine with fourteen people
in a vehicle for eight. The radio was all the way up and the
natives prone to start a collective monologue, chit chatting as loud
as the radio, with constant whining and bitching.
If you are allergic to noise, close contact with people one can
imagine his wild thoughts regarding these matters. But there was
something more irritating, nauseating. Watching the vegetation turned upside down, showing its roots, smashed bark, trunks all mixed with soil in huge piles.
It is progress. Highways left and right, houses, hospitals, schools. But mostly houses and highways. The soil looked as
many animals at the butcher's with the skin off. An image that
kept appearing during for half a life in the island.
Doldrums? Well, I asked about it. Only ships with sails can be
affected with such calm, lack of wind. That is exactly the point.
Takes a little imagination, since islands do not float except those
made by the ugly aboriginals from Bolivia in Lake Titicaca, or
juatever. An island where nothing happens. Nothing.
WHY not move to Germany? Sure, because one likes order, quiet, instrumental music, preferably any kind without words, to
be on time, expecting public clocks/train/bus to be on time. That is the
response when one points out these trivial matters. But that is not all.
If you wonder why every other idiot girl with a height of five
foot four thinks of becoming a model, and even worse, there is
an academy in every corner that will accept you.
WHEN YOU state without any doubt that hunger is also a matter
of people screwing by impulse, just like cats and dogs. Why not
carnal exchanges with protection to avoid pregnancies, killing diseases?
Later, the fundamentalists missionaries drop by with the thick book under the arm pit and that is that. No more roasted pig, lobster, shrimp, dancing, miniskirts and there you have it, part of the portrait of
this Island in the Doldrums. To the already noisy atmosphere,
some more celestial screams, songs, speeches. A tiny subjective picture of the whole. Imagine it multiplied by a hundred, a million.
Or more strange. Those who are happy apparently, smiling, complacent. All is fine. We are the happy islanders, no crime,
unemployment, millions of potholes, puddles, water leaks and
well... I better go...
See you there.