The second chapter in the travel chronicles of Eduardo Próspero is live on Metapsychosis, a site of the highest caliber. This time our hero appears in Brazil and, as per usual, nothing goes his way. He falls on his feet, though, and lives to fight another day. And no, I’m not spoiling anything. The story is in the journey, not in the destination. And it starts dramatically:Más, mucho más después del salto
So, I let it all out and got my first feature in an online publication I respect and admire. I don’t know if you’re aware of Metapsychosis, but they publish articles of the highest caliber and everyone involved seems to be some kind of genius, present company excluded. Anyway, my piece is a first-person shooter about my recent experiences as an immigrant and it starts like this:
I haven’t admitted to myself that I left my country for good. If you ask me, I’m on vacations, looking for business opportunities and establishing contact with likeminded people. Everyone I’ve met told me not to go back, to at least get some kind of legal documentation from another country, to spread my wings. They all want to talk about the crisis, most of them ask me for possible solutions I don’t have and look at me with understated pity. And I understand.
Later on it gets political even though it pretends not to:
I don’t feel comfortable discussing politics or economics, but I’ll say that every article I read about Venezuela’s situation, from both sides of the conflict, feels shallow and agenda driven. I wouldn’t even consider the opinion of an outsider that gets its information from the media, I’m talking about high level journalists that live inside the country. All of their analysis seems to be evading basic truths, facts, causes. They seem to ignore the macro, the big picture, and what a small but crucial dot in the grand chessboard Venezuela is.
And almost at the end it gets all cinéma vérité:
The last time I set foot in Caracas it offered me a sad and creepy spectacle. It was a Saturday and a shopping mall I used to walk by frequently when I lived there was almost deserted, most of the shops were closed and only a few lost souls were there. The streets weren’t empty, but they weren’t exactly beaming with life, and the traffic was so light you might as well have been in a frontier town. And the faces, oh, the broken faces…
But please do read the whole thing, it’s not that long and it hits you hard.