Countdown from San Cristóbal

By Chris Kammerer

In preparation for coming to the Galápagos, I got fed up with Duolingo within a month of downloading the app, which taught me phrases I would likely have no occasion, ever, to speak (“¡Su madre es elegante!”). While in Ecuador, I had to apologize to many people for not learning enough Spanish to have a real conversation. Thank god for Google Translate.

This semester, I’ve been taking a class called American Indians & American Law. In Justice in a New World, the authors analyze the differences between English colonization and Spanish and Portuguese colonization in the Americas. Those ideas inspired a lot of what I examine in this poem. The English wanted land, the Spanish and Portuguese wanted labor.

I often wonder what these continents looked like before Europeans got here. Boundaries are not so clear-cut. Most people in Latin America are mestizo, that is, they have a mix of Indigenous and European ancestry. At any given moment, you might pop into a colonial mindset, or see the forest like a Frigatebird.

Rather than make distinctions between masculine and feminine (as Spanish or Italian does), Indigenous languages like Potawatomi or Quechua make distinctions between what is alive and what is inanimate. A bay is alive, a smartphone is not. Imagine how you might relate differently to people, to rivers and to rocks, if your thoughts were contained in the language of animism rather than romance.

Countdown from San Cristóbal

No ancient stories

on these islands.

Spill agua de fuego a la tierra—

agridulce Pachamama

chained by two languages

across an ocean.

Three, actually. No, four.

In the south it’s cinder blocks and cement

painted cream or seafoam green

along cobblestone streets.

In the north,

more pretentious construction.

Materials mined and shipped

from everywhere.

Before I leave,

I want to put the whole world

en mi cabeza.

LEDs flashing across synapses.

En cuántos países has estado?

Cinco, seis, siete.

188 to go,

187 if Russia takes Ukraine.

Everything fluctuates, haven’t you noticed?

What you know today

is not even what you know.

People stand outside the club smoking

blank tired stares into nothing.

I look back again

and she smiles.

I wish I had the words

to tell a joke.

He throws pollo on the grill and

the aroma is in my nostrils

inmediatamente.

Under the crown, it says

 KEEP CALM

       AND

DON’T STOP

 THE PARTY

It’s a tough stuff life.

Here are the laws.

Aquí está su comida.

Ocho dolares.

You and I are servants

at someone else’s party.

We trade on and off the clock

and are sometimes invited.

When you find your iguana spirit

crawl down to the beach and

backfloat in clear blue waves.

Count to

9,

10,

sunset off the edge

envuelto en sueños.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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