Xile

WORK IN PROGRESS

Exile

The cargo plane dipped and glided erratically as dense dark green
jungle gave way to arid yellow sand, then azure and moss-coloured
water, then back to jungle. Here and there a homestead with attendant
pin-sized occupants would appear, nestling almost apologetically amidst
the dominant structures of nature. The man sweated in his shirtsleeves,
cradling his small son on his knee.

A refugee and his son from an advanced western country seek asylum in
an unnamed South American republic.

Two cockroaches chatted and squabbled in near the wall of the wooden
consulate office. A dump, and oddly in the middle of nowhere, on a
stricken dirt track two miles outside the outer limits of the capital
city. With sudden veracity, the toe of a scuffed boot cut short with a
crunch the activities of the cockcroach couple. The olive-skinned
official grinned malevolently at the pair, standing out in their pink
Anglo-Saxon flesh like thin tree trunks in the middle of a barren and
hostile desert. Government/military staff are dismissive and
surly.

'How long will all this take?' said the man plaintively. The official
sat in the corner, and stared straight at his files. 'Adios Amigo' he
barked absently.

A car chase through a cavernous highway into the outskirts of the
capital.

The end, on a barge chugging up the Amazon - having picked up other
characters.

Finally, a hurricane brings joyful destruction to the city. The guard
closed his eyes and smiled like a contented infant. He opened his arms
to form a cross, and let the wind take him.

He made his way alone, limping slightly with blisters and sweat in the
late morning sun, along a bumpy, Poorly paved grey and black road, part
tarmac, part raw stone. The desolate rushes and weeds spilled over onto
the walkway, And trembled slightly in the welcome cooling breeze, yet
the Sun shone directly, high overhead. Eventually and with some
discomfort, the man came across a railway platform. Rusted in places,
and with sizeable weeds leading a charge through the winding cracks in
the floor.
The structure was deserted and seemingly long in disuse. Until an old
fashioned steam train ricketed into view and shuddered to a sudden
halt. He considered for a moment letting the locomotive take him to god
knows where, to a new country, out of this deserted and decrepit banana
republic. Then he considered that its neighbours could hardly be relied
upon for shelter and piece of mind. He also remembered his Anglo-Saxon
upbringing. He did not have a ticket, and his fear of authority
reminded him sullenly of the consequences of stealing travel.

He had always known that his destiny was to flee the Anglo-Saxons, and
to seek refuge elsewhere; though where he had never been sure. The
chase had simply been the midwife of a long-gestating
inevitability.

Here and there there would be a shack or cottage. The man would
approach confidently and steel himself to make enquiries in his broken
Spanish, then notice some discouraging visual effect, some off-white
tatty drapes or, in one case, an ornament of five small Negro dolls
hanging from a gallows; and would think better of the endeavour.

It was as if some mysterious force had calmly factored humanity from
the landscape. Yet it was clear that even if invisible now, humanity
had once, perhaps in the rapidly receding past, held sway here. The
place was neither urban nor rural - seemed abandoned, unkempt,
overgrown with weeds and trees.

'My God - stop it!' A man in a worn uniform, originally navy but
bleached lighter by the sun, scrambled up the soil embankment. As the
steam engine chugged cruelly into the distance, pursued by clouds of
dust and dirt, the man, sweating and tanned with soil, became half-mad,
and fell to his knees and wept.

The two men stood for spell studying the girl. She crouched on the
pavement, as if beset by a sudden stomach ache,

'Look - we are a poor and illiterate country. If you want fine
conversation, go to America.'

The shopkeeper grinned mischeviously. 'Tomorrow never comes'.