Las Palmas
From a cliff of the La Isleta of Las Palmas we make out the shade of Teide in the horizon. Tomorrow we will be in Madrid. The countdown begins.
The memories return. For a moment Mauritania is the news that has nothing to do with the reception of what euphemistically is called an aid. But she is not the protagonist either.
Every year a colonial practices print again and again its persistence on the mauritanian territory. They are called Paris - Dakar Rally. One week after coming back we are made to assist a mediatic show of sorrow because of a death of a heroes who, victims of the cruelty of the desert and the adverse conditions, have paid with their lifes the participation in the competition. Eufemisms aside; where there is a lack of capacity to speak plainly, there is a relate of the arrogance and the stupidity of those, who think about petrifying themselves as superhumans. The death of a native girl and man not even deserves to name them with their own names. Are they the victims of the desert, the adverse conditions? Yes, of the conditions imposed to them by savage civilized people. Rally passes across the dunes. An absolute absence of the references that the desert is the habitat of people, houses the cradle of a millenarian culture and cultivates the intellectual treasures; that this rally subdues these inhabitants to witness something horrifying, grotesque and at the same time lethal. Only barbarians can identify Atar, Chinguetti with the ephemeral of the furrows of the tires in the sand. And so precarious and terrifying is the track of the civilized here.
"There where an European has put his foot, the death seems to persecute the native"
Charles Darwin
