Where is Dona?

It isn't what everybody is thinking about. It cannot be. It is too much expeculation... But that's what people like, they say, we don't know what to think. Ask Pedro, said the red-haired lady, and I walked towards this slim guy with the shades on... What do you think, Pedro? Don't know, he says, ask the masses, people know better... They are governed by fear, says the red-haired lady, they make up stories and forget about the origin of their lies... they end up believing their own creations and living by their myths... that's why we don't know what to believe anymore. Pedro walks away, he's wearing a blue tank top and bleeched green shorts, flip flops, he smokes. Pedro, I call him, don't leave yet... but he ignores me while he greets a group of elders playing poker in front of their home. The red-haired lady takes her reading glasses off and scrubs her eyes with index and thumb. I think she's crying over the news but I don't comment. It could be the dust. I feel abandoned in the midst of this burning place. Abandoned in the outskirts of hell. Dona, my translator has gone for coffee while I have ventured to speak to the locals in my broken dialect. Dona takes forever; I dehidrate. The steam of the unpaved road freezes the scene. The elders play in slow motion; the dogs don't bark. I am sure things aren't as bad as they say they are. They cannot be. It is too much expeculation. Share