In the country where I am now, there are "Indian Reserves" scraps of territory, mostly inhospitable, where courtesy of the government are confined to the last survivors of what once were the owners of this land. Not all "Indians" are in the reserves, many have decided to try to accept the different living conditions imposed by the new world created by the "conquerors" and live - badly-in the company of white men. In the reserves are those unable to adapt, and who stubbornly persist in wanting to live according to their ancestral lifestyle. Leafing through the glossy magazines in the world of sailing - that there are also here - watching the races on the Internet "virtual" fashion at the moment, I feel closer to the Indians who chose to retire in the reserves.
I'm just waiting to open a "reserve sailors obsolete" so that I could withdraw my similar among the few survivors. I know that I will explain in this way 'to mockery and ridicule of the new tourists who come to visit the reserve as you go to the zoo or circus. Stalwart young, dressed in garments of futuristic clothing "designer", accompanied by blond dolls plastic, will point out laughing:
- "Look at that, the one with the torn shorts, there the bottom is turning a crank by hand with an old winch! - And that, with my pipe and wool cap, is attacking the hooks with a wire to a sail, and hoisted by hand by pulling on a rope! - Wow, I can not almost believe, that lady is still cute, the little yellow boat, use a bar of wood to drive it! "-
We will all show not to see them and hear them not, and will continue undeterred to surf our reporting position on a piece of paper using a pencil, scans the horizon or squinting through the lens of an ordinary pair of binoculars, so calm and continue until the last of us you will not be extinguished, and it will only faded remember on some old photograph.
From Jonathan on the edge of the Rio de la Plata
