Part I

Edwardo consented, so here is the first of four letters that he wrote to me last Summer while he was on his "business trip" in Patagonia. (I have transcribed the letter without editing of any kind, for your reading pleasure).


7.13.2009

Brother,

After three hours in the back seat of a Korean War era Jeep. Mile after mile of muddy jungle roads. Even after dusk the heat and drenching humidity is almost unbearable. Mosquitoes are swimming in the air, searching for their next meal on the back of my neck. Finally we pull into a clearing and before us stands a huge columned mansion. Kind of a cross between a Southern Plantation and an Italian villa. Floodlights glared around the perimeter. I could see armed guards milling about the grounds and even a few in the shadows on the rooftops. We came to a halt right in front of the grand main entrance, where I hopped out of the Jeep and ascended the marble stairs. As if a multi-million dollar mansion in the middle of the Ande jungle wasn't enough, this is where it started to get really strange. As I approached the rough hewn oak door I could hear a thumping, muffled music coming from deeper inside the house. I made my way towards the sound...

the time was 6 o'clock on the Swatch watch
no time to chill
got a date
can't be late
hey - the girl...

I now had walked through the great hall and to the opposite end of the house, the source of the music was in the next room. I opened one of the double doors and entered the room from which this 80's fad of a masterpiece (or is it masterpiece of a fad) was exuding. I was suddenly accosted by a nightclub blast of sound, energy, alcohol, sweat and the buzzing hum of the crowded room thick with conversation. You know how in movies, even when there's a huge mass of people, you can immediately spot the main character, as though he or she is the only person who matters in the whole wide world? It was like that. As I quickly scanned the room, our eyes locked. He was wearing a bright white suit with a jet black tie. His hair was immaculately combed over, just barely allowing the light from the mirror ball to glisten off his shiny forehead. He stood straight up, ignoring a tall blond drink of water who unaware, was still talking to him. He pushed aside three large, well built men (I assumed these were his bodyguards) and walked directly to me. The stopped inches in front of me and stretching out his arms, "Edwardo!" he said. "Thank you so much for coming! So sorry about the crudeness and secrecy of the invitation". He then wrapped his stubby arms around me in a bear-like embrace.

"Mr President." I said, hardly knowing what I should say next... "I've never seen anyplace quite like this before". He laughed, still hugging me (for what now seemed like an awkwardly long time). "This is just a little home away from home. Just a gathering of intimate friends", he told me. Finally he released me from his grasp and turned to face the crowd. These are mostly local supporters from Argentina, Chile and the surrounding region". Then he pointed to a table in the corner off to our left, full of scantily clad women surrounding a light-grayish haired man, whose back was to us. "Even one of your former leaders has been so kind as to grace us with his presence this evening"... Just then one of his bodyguards approached, and with a glance he signalled the President. "Please excuse me Edwardo. Help yourself to anything and everything. I shall return". And with that he disappeared into the fray. I hadn't noticed her approach, but there at my side now stood the tall blond who had earlier been so rudely neglected. "Where do you know Hugo from?" she asked. "We've actually never met before. He's just a big fan of my blog" I casually responded. For some odd reason at that moment I once again became aware of the music that was throbbing in the dance hall.

it's driving me out of my mind
that's why its hard for me to find
can't get it outta my head
miss her, kiss her, love her...

"What in the world!" I exclaimed. "Is the DJ on a break or something?" Surprised at the lack of variety, or taste, or maybe just the sheer coincidence of the music selection.

"Oh no" said the tall brooding blond at my side... "Mr. Chavez is a huge Bel Biv Devoe fan".

The Jeep ride back to Mendoza was as enjoyable as the trip in. I fell asleep. I guess the lesson I'm going to take away from this little experience is that I should always be wary of the fame that blogging can bring. I can control what I write, but unfortunately I can't control who reads it.


Love,
Edwardo



P.S.
This isn't a sketch of the mansion in the letter, it's just a doodle that so happened to be on this page when I was finishing up your letter. And also, say "hi" to everyone there Stateside for me.