Aventura no mas [Agua Caliente]

In Uncategorized on February 12, 2011 at 7:40 pm

Here we are, that’s Agua Caliente. Yes, I have many friends here.”

  • El Indio


There is no apple tree where they shot apples off the apple tree. There is no door where Indio surprised the colonel and shot the rifle out of his hand. There is no-…

There is a school where the Colonel opened the safe.

There are satellite dishes and cars.

There are children in adidas shirts.

When the chimes end, pick up your gun. Try and shoot me, Colonel. Just try…”

-El Indio

There is still the stone circle. And a man nearby looking for his dog, who can tell you in flawless English that there is still a stone circle.

There are satellite dishes and cars.

There are children in fucking adidas shirts.

Nobody’s seen you shoot. We don’t know how you’d be in an emergency.”

-El Indio

There’s a cowboy sign, outline and silhouette, pointing tourists into Agua Caliente. There’s a cafe-bar that serves coffee and tequila. There’s a thank you board for Sergio Leone.

There are no tourists.

INDIO: “They don’t like strangers here…”

GROGGI: “No. They don’t like anyone.”

To get here, you must either drive or take the bus. If driving, it’s not so hard. The bus?

The bus leaves you 4 or 5 kilometres from Agua Caliente. There’s no stop, only a slight indent in the highway. Surrounding this, desert. You walk for an hour and you’ll get there.

Cars will drive past every now and then, but you will have lots of time to think.

The Colonel looks down at his rifle. The chimes are almost done, and there’s no hope for him.

Indio smirks, reaching across for his gun.

Then Clint fucking Eastwood appears.

Now we start…”

There’s a signboard with a shot of the final duel on it. There’s the Colonel on one side, and Indio on the other. If you study it for a few minutes, you can work out where they would’ve stood, forty-eight years ago.

You can walk into the stone circle and stand in the place of either one of them.

I choose Indio.

You can sit down on the same dirt he died on, forty-eight years earlier. Or if the fiction is stronger, one hundred and forty-eight years.

You can sit there a while, as long as you like.

You’ll want to grow roots, but you can’t.

The same circle, same dirt, same-…it’s not enough.

Dirt doesn’t mourn for bandits.

For anyone.

At some point you’ll get on your feet again. You’ll be thirsty.

There’s a shop near the rock where Indio died. You’ll go inside and see the woman behind the counter is probably old enough to have seen it happen. Now she’s gonna serve you bottled agua.

Agua from a factory fuck knows where.

But not here.

It’s like a morgue. And look out, it can so easily become one.”

  • El Indio


Indio the rapist. Indio the murderer. Indio the turncoat.

He had big plans. He would be rich. He had a gang, a horse, a gun.

He would’ve shot anyone, out of passion or out of scheme.

He used to hold the pocketwatch and play the chimes and smoke weed when the memory got too much.

He sat in the shack with Groggi…confined, nothing to do, flicking insects across the room.

He waited to be shot or for someone to shoot.

He died in the dirt.

And now?

You walk back to the highway, wishing you could stay longer, but with nothing else to do. You’ll go back home and watch the film and think about joining his gang, but mostly…mostly you’ll forget.

And the dirt…

The dirt doesn’t mourn a thing.

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