Creamy ice cream rapidly dripping down the waffle cone on to sweaty hands, the sun blazing down on un-covered heads, the wind obviously absent. Far off in the distance the shinning city all metal and glass bounces off the sun's rays like a beacon in the distance. We are safely ensconced in the old quarter, eating fancy ice cream cones from a French ice cream shop, sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, hands coated in sugary sticky runoff.
A kuna girl, no older than 15 sought refuge between us on that wooden bench. I thought she must have been overreacting, perhaps playing with the kids her age some made up game of The Madwoman chasing the Kids, but sure enough as soon as she saw the towering madwoman coming closer she (the Kuna girl) took off again for the santuary of her fellow Kunas. We were about to meet the madwoman who scared off the Kuna people so as for them to even leave their wares behind. I still wasn't taking anything seriously, percieving it as an audience looks on at a play; amused even.
Her name is whatever she wants it to be, her personalities multiple, her height formidable as well as the very mass of her. Thighs like tree trunks, height the size of a basketball player, large hands with long thin fingers that tapered off into almond shaped nails. Her eyes hardly ever stay still, they roll around in her sockets, wildly like marbles down a shoot. She is the newly elected president's daughter, of course. She is a gay hair-stylist, of course. She lives down town, in a high rise, maybe even a pent-house, of course. She is now laughing maniacally (a word used much too often and whose very idea for me was kind of absent until that day), a spool of drool drips slowly on to her shirt, and she slurps it back up, the notion even funnier to her.
I try talking to her sensibly, I am not freaked out, we converse and I try to keep up with her rambling. She's a little out of hand but it can't be that bad, right? She places her hands on your knees and that is clearly enough. Fortunately a couple walk by and gain her interest. We take the moment to steal away from her grubby fingers and her dark marble eyes and her crazy lady tales, we get as far as the Kunas before she notices our absence and then she comes bouncing back and asks me,
"Mother why don't you love me?" while plucking the small white flower out of my hand.
She towers over me and I can see her yellowed eyes clearly, and start feeling a bit of dread in this situation. She could easily knock me down, she could easily knock a grown man down, she could easily do a lot of crazy shit. I tell her calmly that we are leaving and that she should too. It's time to go home. She looks at me and lopes away, perhaps to torment some other strangers or maybe some tourists. There is more groping to be done, more tall tales to be told, more people to freak the fuck out.
A kuna girl, no older than 15 sought refuge between us on that wooden bench. I thought she must have been overreacting, perhaps playing with the kids her age some made up game of The Madwoman chasing the Kids, but sure enough as soon as she saw the towering madwoman coming closer she (the Kuna girl) took off again for the santuary of her fellow Kunas. We were about to meet the madwoman who scared off the Kuna people so as for them to even leave their wares behind. I still wasn't taking anything seriously, percieving it as an audience looks on at a play; amused even.
Her name is whatever she wants it to be, her personalities multiple, her height formidable as well as the very mass of her. Thighs like tree trunks, height the size of a basketball player, large hands with long thin fingers that tapered off into almond shaped nails. Her eyes hardly ever stay still, they roll around in her sockets, wildly like marbles down a shoot. She is the newly elected president's daughter, of course. She is a gay hair-stylist, of course. She lives down town, in a high rise, maybe even a pent-house, of course. She is now laughing maniacally (a word used much too often and whose very idea for me was kind of absent until that day), a spool of drool drips slowly on to her shirt, and she slurps it back up, the notion even funnier to her.
I try talking to her sensibly, I am not freaked out, we converse and I try to keep up with her rambling. She's a little out of hand but it can't be that bad, right? She places her hands on your knees and that is clearly enough. Fortunately a couple walk by and gain her interest. We take the moment to steal away from her grubby fingers and her dark marble eyes and her crazy lady tales, we get as far as the Kunas before she notices our absence and then she comes bouncing back and asks me,
"Mother why don't you love me?" while plucking the small white flower out of my hand.
She towers over me and I can see her yellowed eyes clearly, and start feeling a bit of dread in this situation. She could easily knock me down, she could easily knock a grown man down, she could easily do a lot of crazy shit. I tell her calmly that we are leaving and that she should too. It's time to go home. She looks at me and lopes away, perhaps to torment some other strangers or maybe some tourists. There is more groping to be done, more tall tales to be told, more people to freak the fuck out.
