This was not a rhetorical figure on his part, and I began to feel ever so slightly intimidated by his inquisitive eyes, the insinuation being that I was just another public wanker. Regardless of its possible veracity, this is something a writer is not keen on admitting, no matter how narcissistic and self-conceited he might be. In return, I jestingly reproached him for considering himself such a philanthropic hero just because he had put enough dental implants in rich American mouths to now be able to walk the streets of Oaxaca and hand out tidbits to kids in need of a good bit more than chewing gum to stand a decent chance in life. But I think he felt he was doing something worthwhile, and that’s all that matters in the end.
As for myself I never really enjoyed the luxury of ‘knowing’ my reader, apart from some friends and acquaintances kind enough to commit hours of their precious time. To me, personally, it really is a great joy to see the present text published and I entertain the (perhaps vain but nonetheless) hope, that any real, honest piece of literature, possessing some indisputable merit, over time will find its reader. As opposed to the slightly younger me, somewhat melodramatically stating that we can never hope to be understood (see end of the Chapter ‘Playa Azul’), I nowadays lean more towards the persuasion that a text can sometimes be a ray of light travelling years through empty space before reaching a perceiving eye. The traces of real life one can extract from a series of written statements are like a stream of elemental particles, unnoticeably passing through the inflexible molecular grid of grammar and sentence construction. These particles are in themselves too small to be directly observed. But it might happen that one of them occasionally passes through this grid and collides with another particle on the opposite side of the linguistic shield. This all happens on a subatomic mental level, as it were, but the reaction can nonetheless have extraordinary consequences. A single word or phrase, appropriately launched, might thus ignite and engender an entire world.
It’s now more than a decade since I met with Dr. Henry Kesselman in Oaxaca. Together we visited Monte Alban, the famous archaeological site of the Zapotec civilisation on the outskirts of town. I remember taking a photo of him there with a purple flower at the corner of his mouth. The photo has since been lost and I think I was never able to send it to him. If he’s still alive I hope he enjoys being so, but I doubt he does any extensive physical travelling, since he already at the time confessed to me that he didn’t feel he had the energy to keep up his philanthropic mission among the disinherited of this world forever.
In the afternoon Henry took a cab back to his hotel. I remember staying on the grounds until the long shadows dissipated. The sun was setting beyond the ridge of the Oaxaca valley, bathing in red and ochre, while silvery man-made birds silently descended towards an invisible perch. Some enthusiastic Californians performed a yoga ritual in honour of the setting star. But their music was discreet, and sitting on a stone, chiseled by an unknown Indian thousands of years ago, I could still clearly discern the wind, whispering in the temple grass.
The Island of Old Providence (Colombia), December, 2015.
Lars Holger Holm
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Incidents of Travel in Latin America Page 38