On the first days of March a pick-up truck with speakers and an escort of cops in bikes roamed around the streets. Out of the speakers at full volume came a voice with the wrong tone for the serious situation it was exposing, it said “the governor’s office invites you to stay home!!!”. The tone of the message was festive, as if announcing the arrival of The Ringling Brothers Circus in town. The pick-up might as well have been accompanied by an elephant, a giraffe, a horse and a little monkey dressed as a bellboy as an entourage, it would have made more sense than the cops.
On the last days of April, you won’t find anything like this. I doubt there’s gas available to cruise around in a pick-up with speakers. The streets look lovely in their loneliness, but it’s too bad that the beauty is built upon the tragedy of its inhabitants. You will find sporadic walkers that must have a particular destiny, although their faces seem more like those of rovers without purpose. That’s Maracaibo at sunrise.
The few cars that circulate begin to appear after 8 o’clock in the morning, and end their rides after 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Be that as it may, there are always just a few. It’s a challenge to find five cars one after the other, a little game I practice to make sense of the incredible. Many times I find myself singing a song as pure as the breeze, with a feeling of ownership over everything I lay my eyes upon, a sense of freedom that no dictatorship or bad personal memory can take away from me.
On National TV you’ll see the usual infamous representatives and characters, throwing statistics that are as fantastic as they are unbelievable. You’ll also see famous variety show hosts giving you advice on what we should do. Ever since I was a little boy I’ve been convinced of something, in the most perilous and serious situation of our generation, the person I want with the hands of the wheel is the current host of a saturday evening variety show. Absent from the TV, noticeably absent I would say, is any authorized voice from the medical community.
On the streets you can find such extremes within a few blocks, from the funniest to the darkest with nothing in between. Close to a famous shopping mall, I saw a house with a sign in the front that said “for sale – 2 mannequins – (used)”… I don’t know about you, but that “used” remark makes me think that, without a doubt, someone had sex with those poor mannequins. Just a couple of blocks after that I see a homeless man next to a garbage bag, passing his finger through an empty jar of mustard, trying to find something in nothing. I don’t have anything to say about that.
The beautifully sad face with watering aquamarine eyes of Ms. Gisela wears heavy on my shoulders, especially when she says “God cannot give us more tests”. Just one block later, in a sector close to the city’s downtown, Jesús Quintero, Miguel González, José Rincón and Manuel Boscán joke around, with the first screaming as soon as he sees a familiar lady “HOLY SHIT, SHE’s GOING TO INFECT US!!!”. Even though she wears a mask, it’s easy to notice that the lady is laughing with the remark.
Wearing masks during long walks in a city where heat and humidity are ever present seems counterintuitive, but when you don’t have the voice of a credible authority grounded on inherent wisdom that explains the proper use of things, everyone fetches for themselves. In the meantime, I look at the girls, how their eyes stand out, and I feel like I’m in a huge casting for I Dream of Jeannie. Then I watch at least a dozen of elderly folks, most of them without masks, sitting at close distance on the sidewalk of a school waiting for the nuns to hopefully give them a meal, and I forget about the enchantment in women’s eyes.
Who am I in all this? I’m merely a veranda with no choice but to absorb the beauty and the sadness, the humanity and the horror, all together, without knowing what to do with all that information, except keep on keepin’ on. I’m not the judge or the jury, the accuser or the accused. I’m just looking at what’s going on, joined by the leprechauns of time, exchanging jokes and defeats. I just have thirst like a gang of devils. I’m the boy from the county Hell.
Shane MacGowan is the singer/songwriter of The Pogues. Anyone interested in purchasing the “Leprechauns” can visit shanemacgowanart.com. All proceeds from the leprechauns are being donated to charities helping vulnerable people at this time, including MSK and Child Line
