Maroantsetra
Sand up to the ankles invites to take off the shoes. The fragrances that saturate the streets stimulate to track inside the known to settle the mad senses. We remain halfway. Meanwhile some beers return us the license to discern. The routine of having breakfast with that liquid becomes a praiseworthy practice. Some hens, a cat looking at us out of the corner of his eye, big spiders lied down on the ramifications of their lace nets; the patio of our inn, Maroa Hotel. Inlayed in the animation of the town that wakes up her daily routines we prowl around the streets. Until all the hybridization between the fragrances and the pastel-like hues of the pottery shop, the dust that sieves the laughts and tunes the looks and the pitiless sun make us fall on the bed sheets and this way stuck to hibernate until not being able to stand more. And by then the shades lengthen, the steps make lighter. We leave our prints on the spotless floor of the Coconut Beach restaurant, accommodation for whitish people. The river whisper under the terrace. This is the bottom for another mixture, intense, of the acoustic whirls that don"t find a conceptualization in the stored memory of the acoustic references. This is the reality of the intermediate spaces, of the metamorphoses of the insects, birds, other bugs, the wind, disterritorialized, in spite of the crushing presence of the fat bodies of some speakers of the language of the empire and the invading smoke of their cigars.
It makes feel better to check that the centrality of the human is being displaced, leaving the room for the unexpected, the assaulting, even irritating of the screeches, buzzings, hisses. This will be our time. Measured in the rhythms of the sounds, in the densities of the fragrances, in the textures of the shades. The night is as a pierced shell. The black that condenses all colors and claims the will of the imagination. Beyond the distillations of the stars" light. Tomorrow we begin to tramp.
