My Road to Damascus
I was sitting in the back of my uncle’s car, on the way to Cordoba from Buenos Aires, when suddenly a bright light surrounded me, and I heard a resounding yet strangely familiar voice scream: “HIJO DE PUTAAAAAAA!”. It wasn’t until my body fully crashed against that of my cousin as the car skidded on the road in a loud screech that I realized,that unlike Saul on his way to Damascus it wasn’t God reaching out to me but a 16 wheelers coming straight toward us at what my sleepy brain identified as “fatal collision speed”.
From my experience in Argentina, driving is pretty often a near death experience. If you ever get to explore the roads of the country, you will quickly notice the little red mausoleums dedicated to a local divinity, Gauchito Gil, the protector of the path. Drivers stop and offer him cigarettes, wine or any red item in exchange for his protection. Although I strongly recommend an additional insurance, in the most extreme cases – like when it is night time, raining, and the driver has had a couple of beers – you may find yourself disowning your existentialists beliefs for the sake of a higher and more powerful being that could save your miserable life. And that, dear reader, I cannot blame you for.
Over the past few weeks, with the train crash in Once, and various news from the home front, death (and the vulnerability of life) has been striking close to home, which makes Barnaby very appreciative of being Alive. In the words of Boris Vian:
“I wouldn’t want to die
No sir no madam
Before having tested
The taste which torments me
The taste which is the strongest
I wouldn’t want to die
Before having tasted
The flavour of death…
Boris Vian, J’voudrais pas crever. 1962.
barnabyalive 