From the mountains I looked down; to the slate grey desert and the slate grey sea. Lineless at the shore, like watching the world through a gauze, and the sky grey and hazy too. Neither cliffs, nor birds, nor crashings of waves, nor now glints of rippling sunlight on the surface of the sea. So I watched, unsure whether what I was watching was the dull and motionless ocean or another dead desert plain. Then the darkened shapes of rocks, far along the coast to the south, and in the shallow water the whites of waves, lightly breaking over rocky, jagged edges. Though from this distance the white looked grey.
Miles later the rocks and the crashings of waves would appear more clearly: as an abandoned house; the crumbling or half-built walls of out buildings; lifeless, skeletal shrubs, black and hawthorn-sharp; spindly, hopeless plants, and on their branches the whites of waves; old carrier bags and nappies, blowing in the desert wind.
The ocean stretched away before me, a flat expanse of litter-strewn sand. And beyond that somewhere the real ocean, dull grey and litter strewn too.
The town is worse. The town was born from the litter in the sand, and the strips of plastic, and empty bottles and broken glass that have always been part of this desert. And from the rotting carcasses of dogs that no-one will ever move, and the days-old stink of fish that clings to every corner of every building, and wafts through every broken window into every dirt floored room, and is carried on the wind that whips sand down the streets, because no-one will ever tarmac them, but will piss on them and fill them with the bottles, the plastic and the broken glass, from which this town first rose.
Scrawled across walls, election cries, in huge orange capital letters: "KEIKO: Siempre Con La Gente. VOTA ASÍ..." and the correct box is crossed, so that even if you cannot read you will know which way to vote. "KEIKO: Always With The People." And here, stretched out for pointless dirty miles are... The People. Not to be confused with people, The People fill the spaces between the dirt, corrugated iron, and thin wooden walls that cover the coastal plains of Peru. The People have calloused hands, and down trodden stares, and are unhappy because they work too much for too little money, or never work for nothing at all. The People, too tired, from doing too much or too little, or too stupid, or too drunk, are powerless to remedy their state directly, but instead write the name of the ex-President´s daughter, who studied business in New York, and hope that she will come through with what her posters promise, reading elusively: "Opportunities for everybody."
Though the posters don´t specify exactly what kind of opportunities, they seem to give The People the general impression that if they vote for Keiko they can become people, just like her. Although then the president won´t be "with" them anymore, as she was in the beginning.
There is another option. The People can rise up, and kill or imprison the people who don´t agree them, and rename their country The People´s Republic of Peru. But then, like all the other People´s Republics there will always have to be many more The People than people, which means they will have to stay in their dirty, tiny houses, with their giant families, sewer filled streets, and back-breaking poorly paid work, and not have any of Keiko´s opportunities. And the government and other positions of power will have to be occupied by people, not The People. But it will, at least, be their country. Their filthy, stinking Peru.
Miles later the rocks and the crashings of waves would appear more clearly: as an abandoned house; the crumbling or half-built walls of out buildings; lifeless, skeletal shrubs, black and hawthorn-sharp; spindly, hopeless plants, and on their branches the whites of waves; old carrier bags and nappies, blowing in the desert wind.
The ocean stretched away before me, a flat expanse of litter-strewn sand. And beyond that somewhere the real ocean, dull grey and litter strewn too.
The town is worse. The town was born from the litter in the sand, and the strips of plastic, and empty bottles and broken glass that have always been part of this desert. And from the rotting carcasses of dogs that no-one will ever move, and the days-old stink of fish that clings to every corner of every building, and wafts through every broken window into every dirt floored room, and is carried on the wind that whips sand down the streets, because no-one will ever tarmac them, but will piss on them and fill them with the bottles, the plastic and the broken glass, from which this town first rose.
Scrawled across walls, election cries, in huge orange capital letters: "KEIKO: Siempre Con La Gente. VOTA ASÍ..." and the correct box is crossed, so that even if you cannot read you will know which way to vote. "KEIKO: Always With The People." And here, stretched out for pointless dirty miles are... The People. Not to be confused with people, The People fill the spaces between the dirt, corrugated iron, and thin wooden walls that cover the coastal plains of Peru. The People have calloused hands, and down trodden stares, and are unhappy because they work too much for too little money, or never work for nothing at all. The People, too tired, from doing too much or too little, or too stupid, or too drunk, are powerless to remedy their state directly, but instead write the name of the ex-President´s daughter, who studied business in New York, and hope that she will come through with what her posters promise, reading elusively: "Opportunities for everybody."
Though the posters don´t specify exactly what kind of opportunities, they seem to give The People the general impression that if they vote for Keiko they can become people, just like her. Although then the president won´t be "with" them anymore, as she was in the beginning.
There is another option. The People can rise up, and kill or imprison the people who don´t agree them, and rename their country The People´s Republic of Peru. But then, like all the other People´s Republics there will always have to be many more The People than people, which means they will have to stay in their dirty, tiny houses, with their giant families, sewer filled streets, and back-breaking poorly paid work, and not have any of Keiko´s opportunities. And the government and other positions of power will have to be occupied by people, not The People. But it will, at least, be their country. Their filthy, stinking Peru.
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