the widest tree in the world sits in judgement by the church. it´s 2000 years old. old enough to know better. old enough not to care too much.
an ancient civilizations leaves its mark on this earth. mitla. the place of the dead. a place where the old elite where sent to pasture, amongst beautiful mosaics and breathtaking views. the walls coloured red, from uranium, not blood. the tunnels are carved so priests can make their fantastic, mysterious appearances, to the amazement of the crowds. the spanish think these people are catholics because they have crosses on their walls. how simple, how different things could have been if moctezuma hadn´t believed the presages...
a mixtec makes a rug, violent colours splashing everywhere. a snake slithers across a slithery road, rain falls, sun shines, a million eagles sore into the sky. hierve el agua. the water boils out from the centre of the earth. this earth that used to be the bottom of the sea, and still looks like it. waves of mountains coming at you, besieging you.
i should have known to worry when the girl put a thousand different chiles in a blender to make my lunch, a nasty bite appears on my foot, bleeding, and my neck develops an incredible rash.
still, i survive, but fall at the next hurdle. the agave, the maguey, core of the drink to end all drinks. straight into your soul, makes you see the things you hide inside.
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