Passenger: Cocachacra

Subtle and imperfect mirror...

subtle and imperfect mirror…

In middle of the highway that links Arequipa city to Ilo city there is a place called Cocachacra. It’s closer to the sea and it’s a little city whose main activity is agriculture. I think I’ve never poot foot in the ground, as I seen from the car, and being the sea so close actually I am attracted more to the latter. This are photographs from a car in movement…

Frontiers in the countryside

frontiers in the countryside

The farmers were preparing the field for new crops… I don’t know if it’s the better way to do it, I mean… burning.

A road of flames

a road of flames

Lord of the fields

lord of the fields (published before)

Man at work

man at work

Painting the sky with white smoke

painting the sky with white smoke

Yellow happiness

yellow happiness

Textile countryside

textile countryside

Lord of the fields

 

Lord of the fields

In some way I think in a baseball player, running from one… basement? to the other. I don’t know the baseball rules.

It was time to harvest I think, around here, Cocachacra, the farmers sell sugar and watermelons in the highway to the travelers and some kilometers ahead in a little town next to a river they sell shrimp pancakes. I see this scene with a bit of sadness, but it wasn’t there when I took the photograph. Actually the countryside looked quite happy that time.

A vast whiteness closing around the world

A vast whiteness closing around the world

Since I was a kid, four years old, I always have seen strange and little people in the countryside; as always I’m just playing and running and suddenly appears this little sir or lady, I start to talk but then just see with their old eyes. Curiously that just happened when I was alone. Since then I almost think that citizens and peasants live in different worlds, they cannot see us or perhaps we exist in an inevitable way like the early star at twilight of the cloud traveling lazily across the blue. And to us they are like persons always walking the infinite landscape, staring to who knows what, like they were three hundred years old and still had eight thousand years more to contemplate the slow life in middle of the domesticated nature.

The frontier were our worlds collide and we actually talk is the market.