Barbara Collet
**RABBIT’S KID
A christmas or new year’s eve, a tribute… or just a simple story.
A kid is born in that spot, in the rabbit’s belly. That’s what a
story tells. This child is a girl. Niara. Arrived there in a school
bus. Rad ride. And here is the little Land’s daughter. Small but
already so tall. She would be a piece of the Rabbit’s body, hold ing some its heartbeat. That’s what the story tells. She is always
around, tranquila, with a discreet smile. Niara. The humble
earth’s daughter. The rabbit’s kid, all bones and blood, who
carries a bit of the beach’s soul in its young body.
Magical people or mystical place, there is something the story
won’t tell.
As well, the spot needed a good guardian, so this year, Destiny
picked somebody special enough to balance its different forces
and take care of that stretch of rock, sand and dust, standing
out of the sea. So strong, So bright. So beautiful. So fishermen
and surfers haven’t witnessed a bus this time but the simple dirt
road bringing in that man. It hasn’t always been easy for him
but that’s the way he became a rabbit’s kid too. He has a huge
feminine sensitivity and is really cool, so if you stop by one day
don’t forget to find him, to thank him or just say hello. Ask for
him, name: Nardo.
Magical people or mystical place, there is something the story
won’t tell.
Time went by and added its own to that story. Once foreign ers arrived from far away, arms loaded with presents for christ mas. Another traveller proposed on top of the dune (she said
yes!). Some say they’ve seen tree fairies. Don’t expect they
have sparkles or even wings to fly. Mostly older, small or taller.
Sometimes with a white beard or breaded hair, they live hidden
behind branches. I’ve seen them surf, or play guitar. You can
find them hanging out in the luxurious tree houses at the beach front. Wind blowing a thick fairy dust in the air.
Magical people or mystical place, there is something the story
won’t tell.
The rabbit’s point. The rock, the pacific ocean, the wind, the
sun, the sand, its trees. This particular night a bunch of children
gathered around a campfire, sunk in the whisper of the moon.
Lit up in the sky, bright, wonderful. What is she saying ?
“Pueblo mágico o lugar misterioso, secreto de la luna, de quién
tal vez el Conejo sería el hijo”. Magical people or mystical
place, there is something la pequena luna won’t tell. So thanks,
to them, to you, all, kids, who make and keep the story. You
carry it, you protect it. Kids, women and men from here and
around, sharing with strangers a little hint of something. Right
here. Right now.
Thank you
—Barbara Collet
THE ADVENT OF THE INSIGNIFICANT
To my Hermit crabs friends.
Nardo* is telling me he had been woken up during the night at
3 a.m by a gigantic rat. It’s 11 a.m he didn’t go back to sleep
and still seems to be scared. For my part I am still in bed, lazy
as ever, in the trunk of my car, listening to his story. My mind
is wandering around and his night encounter would explain
my own missing garbage bag. Nardo is my neighbour, living in
the Arroyo, the plain, around 2km away. Nope, he says, plastic
thieves** are coyotes. So then my thoughts came back to a big
rat which visited me three nights ago, passing by the rear of my
clearing, behind my bonfire. Huge, long, quiet, enquiring about
a new curiosity (me) who came to make a fire at his place (her,
maybe?). Rats and coyotes at night time. After dusk small mices
come around too, checking if you are willing to share your diner.
They are capable of impressive jumps and get around with a
speed way too high for their tiny size. I am not sure of what
Speedy Gonzales is up to nowadays, but I now know where he
does come from, hanging out with his family here.
During the day birds create the show, especially this really cute
hummingbird, coming and going, flying over my uncountable
patrolling hermit crabs, tirelessly criss-crossing the floor. Some
kids might be camping nearby, cause some of my little ador ables anomuran decapod crustaceans recently got really nice
handmade painted shells, mainly purple and pink, matching
perfectly with my last brand new released greenish brown dirt leaves carpet. Butterflies are a part of the company as some
enormous mutant black bees with golden wings… as some
regular small ones… reassuring. Seahawks and seagulls survey
the life abundance of the cold deep blue water.
So the more I think about it, the more I feel Nardo has been
exaggerating a bit with his scary story. I believe he wasn’t that
afraid, and I start to be a tiny bit annoyed, worried to disturb
all of them, camping there. Puzzled by the idea of bothering
my hosts.
—Barbara Collet
FOOTNOTES:
*Cf Conejo’s kid story
**When camping on remote sites in Mexico, there isn’t any recycling centre
nearby. You burn your papers and cardboards, bury organic scraps. You keep
aluminium and plastic to take away. That is what wildlife steals because
of food’s smell. The bag in question wasn’t attached well enough on my
rooftop. Apologises Mother Earth.
THE MEXICAN MAGICIAN
To Mexico
A chase in the desert on an endless straight road, full speed. A
rusty big gasoline truck came from a side cactus’s landscape,
out of nowhere, in a cloud of dust and is now in front of me.
Squeezing my car in between a pick-up truck a couple of meters
behind, following me since a long time on that leg. His front
trunk is in my wheels, way too close. I’m trapped. Can’t pull
over, neither pass the monster. My thoughts are trapped in the
mexican desert. Human trafficking and drug smuggling... there
is in fact absolutely no danger here, my mind is simply t play ing some movie action in that fantastic scenery. I just crossed
over an old beat-up truck. Far away the majestic Sierra seems
to have been painted in the blue sky out of a red palette This
sleeping giant is standing out, a natural dream-catcher, creating
and feeding mine, eyes wide open, awake, daydreaming while
holding the steering-wheel. Mountains, high plateau, sun in
the dead angle of the mirror. Arising East, setting west, in the
Pacific ocean. The location is perfect, lined up with the centre
of my poles. Nevertheless, be careful on that northern territo ry. The blazing sun burns your skin, mistaking your sensations.
Combined with the wind which barely stops to blow, it tricks
your body: you sweat in the sun, meanwhile the strong breeze
gives you shivers. Shade is a rare commodity to find, trees a
luxury, the rockery soil being too dry, too windy for them to want
to settle around. Cactuses, coyotes and birds are the care-takers
of that piece of land, the public of the ocean’s show. After dawn
the glacial moon achieves the job, freezing your bones, crisping
your skeleton...
Dust everywhere around, in your ears, your mouth. Your food
ends up tasting like dust, your water too. You don’t want to get
dehydrated by this rocky desert, you force yourself to drink
your dusty liquid. Even flies come from another world, hanging
hard on anything around, they are ravenous, there is nothing
to nibble on. When you defecate they come to lick your ass and
stick on it firmly. First time in my life I encounter such desperate
insects. Nothing to eat for them here. Even lost bees hang on to
your cuticles. I only met one, it had to be lost, no idea where it
came from, this one tried to get scraps of food under my nails
during a solid 5 minutes. There is only sand, pebbles, rocks
and the dust covering everything constantly. You dry out, you
become a stone, a stone in the middle of those rocks, dust grain.
Every single morning you go back out in the water, asking
for more, a huge deep-freeze slap for breakfast. The ocean’s
tongue licks your face at the surface and burns your frozen feet
underneath. The beauty of its waves is your drug. Even with a
hoodie and a thick wetsuit you might be cold. Brutal force of
this element, temporarily your. I am constantly withering. My
body is shaking, always freezing, without a break. This desert
is destroying me, with its scorching sun and its freezing wind.
I almost feel like dying everyday, with the same sensation: your
body wants to leave you here. You have to hold onto it. Your
entire self is dipped in the rawness.
The Sierra keeps a close watch on its desert. The isolation of
some spots might get under your skin, you will have to cooper ate with elements to understand a hint of what this Mexican
peninsula is about, its vastness of nothing but you being hurt
by Nature.
Immensity of a small tip of a hell of a country, Mexico is the
magician. It immerse yourself and gives you a simple sensation,
the one to be alive.
—Barbara Collet