Grandfather Carab...a tree with magical powers in Merlo, Argentina

    It was William Rowley (1585-1642) who considered time to be a fleeting thought: "Art thou in haste?/ I'll not forsake thee;/ Run'st thou ne're so fast/ I'll o'ertake thee:/ O'er the dales, o're the downs/ Through the green meadows,/ From the fields through the towns, / To the dim shadows." In a word: Here today, gone tomorrow. You remember her face perfectly, maybe even that special perfume she used to dab on her neck, but what's her name? There used to be a small creek that criss-crossed your peach orchard but when you went back thirty years later it had vanished or been converted into a nameless suburban drain.

   What is it that we actually remember? Times? Dates? Colors? Contours? Tastes? How something felt? A kiss? The blow that nearly sent you to Nirvana? How you chuckled with glee when Mama changed your diapers? And as for old man time, well, Henry David Thoreau's definition seems appropriate enough: "Time is but the stream I like to go fishing in."

   So just imagine the difficulty a short-lived flesh and blood journalist might have in interviewing a subject of more than 1,000 years, born when who-knows-who was composing "Beowulf," when the Tiahuanaco culture in America had begun to spread over the Andes; or a bit later when Leif Ericson stepped on Nova Scotia or when Indian mathematician Sridhara recognized the existence of zero, when the Chinese were experimenting with gun powder, when men were inventing all sorts of flying contraptions in vain attempts to challenge the law of gravity, when an inspired Giovanni Boccaccio was writing about love, battle, cowardice, deception and courage or when multitudes of Christians were damned certain Judgment Day was right around the corner.

   It was one of those splendid sunny days filled with resplendent sun rays. The scant clouds that arose from behind the mountain peaks formed ever-changing figures that magically transformed themselves as you stepped along the path, dodging bushes and admiring wild flowers of all colors. The air was sharp and charged with pure uncontaminated oxygen. The city and its thick layers of carbon dioxide were far behind. The only sounds were the flap-flap of bird's wings and their carefree chit-chat from the thickets and branches of the surrounding forest.

   A slight opening of the dense vegetation led suggestively to a tiny meadow. There Grandfather Carob was waiting patiently for you to interview him. How amazingly sturdy erect and piliant he looked: his limbs stretching to the heavens and to the four winds, his torso firmly rooted on that very same plot of land that had served as his abode for so many centuries! Awe. That's the first sensation that swept over the visitor's entire being, then wonder, then an overwhelming and almost mystical calmness, the certainty of having tread upon a space of divine proportions, a temple, a cathedral, a mosque, an imposing santuary.

   "Good afternoon," said the man of letters, fumbling with his pen nervously, "I've come to ask you a few impertinent questions....that is, if I may."

   "Impertinent?" Grandfather Carob's voice sounded deep and clear and confident.

   "Perhaps that's not the word...It's just...Is it true you're more than one thousand years old?"

   "Ha! Ha! Ha! What can you do when you get past 100? You just stop counting."

    "Really? I'm not even half that and yet for me time seems so precious."

    "Time! What's that? But an invention of worried men like you."

    There ensued a spirited silence, the kind of stillness that preludes the eruption of a strong emotion. How many men and women had become overcome momentarily by the same quietude decades ago, centuries ago? Grandfather Carob was beloved by all. Everyone defended, venerated and respected him. Long ago indigenous people used his fruit to make delicious and nutricious "añapa," "patay" bread or fermented drinks such as "chicha" and "aloja." (By the way, if you wander into remote interior areas in north western Argentina you can still see indigenous people eating patay and drinking chicha.) They also cured respiratory infections and consulted Grandfather on matters of love and resolved their conflicts in his presence.

   "Please, Grandfather, tell me what the secret is!" The writer seemed strangely agitated, pressing the button on his recorder, then turning it off, scribbling illegible notes on his pad and looking as helpless as a lost sheep.

   "First of all, patience. If you think of the end, come it will. It's better not to think of the end but to live in the present. The longer things take the better."

   "You mean, for example, love making is better when done slowly?"

   "Ha! Ha! Ha! Indeed you do ask impertinent questions young man! Everything worthwhile must be done without consideration for time but with energy, enthusiasm and dedication. How difficult it is for you modern men to understand! Forget about time! Time doesn't exist. It's the mere invention of worried men like you. What is eternal and timeless is Nature, the universe. It's your nervous mind that chops things up into separate units: time, light, darkness, death, love, hate, war, peace, birth, destruction. Can't you understand? Its all part of the one and only one. That's the only secret."

   "It's not easy..."

   "Look at me. That's right. Now what do you see?"

   "Grandfather Carob."

   "Yes. What else?"

   "A certain roundness that seems to grow in every direction. Immensity which is nevertheless but a dot when compared to everything which surrounds you."

   "Good. You're on the right track. What else?"

   "A lung!"

   "A lung? Indeed!"

   "It is as if you were breathing with your entire body!"

   "Of course, my dear fellow. We must respire through every pore, through every cell, from one extremity to the next. Only in that way can we realize we are one and part of one and since one is not divisible we also cannot be broken into pieces."

   "Pardon me, Sir, I don't want to sound impertinent but I have seen so many of your friends and relatives smashed and broken and disintegrated and burned and turned into ashes..."

   "Due to mankind's obstinate inability to recognize the notion of oneness. You chop and chop and dig and dig and pollute and inclose yourselves in plastic mirages; you dirty up the air, the land and the water and naively think you will find more out there in Nature to serve your selfish needs. You play with atomic power as if you were the masters of the universe and kill and rape and torture and slaughter each other in the name of lofty ideals that in the end represent nothing but your mad rush for power and money and separateness. You fail to see that you are planting the seeds of your own destruction."

   "You've got a point there. But you haven't answered my question: how have you been able to survive without a scratch?"

   "There is no way to put it into words. Words are beautiful but fail to understand the language of silence. Try it yourself! Go into the forest and say nothing. Just be. Feel. Open yourself up. Inhale, exhale. Listen. Listen to the oneness all around you."

   "I will attempt that exercise, Sir, but I feel I lack preparation."

   "Then listen to this poem by a dear friend of mine. Listen carefully, even though you do not understand Spanish. Close your eyes. Let your mind flow with every phrase."

"Yo, Antonio Esteban Agüero,
Capitán de los pájaros,
General por de liviana mariposa,
estoy en Buenos Aires,
la capital del Plata,
para ser presidente
y organizar la Patria.

Detrás he dejado
los pueblos que me siguen,
ejército de alondras
la división blindada de los cóndores
las águilas que saben del sabor de la piedra,
calandrias
chalchaleros,
chiriguas mañaneras
los secretos lechuzos que me pasan
la información del día y de la noche.

Tengo un millón de caballos
¿Escháis su relincho?
que rodean la urbe por
sus cuatro costados,
sus jinetes son muertos de Facundo,
son muertos de Ramírez
montoneros del Chacho,
sableadores de Pringues,
demaderes
remeseros,
rastreadores,
guitarreros,
espectrales jinetes
que cabalgan
mi millón de caballos.

Les ruego que se rindan
que dispongan las armas,
que guarden los tanques,
y encierren sus cañones,
porque mañana a mediodía
quiero estar en la Plaza de Mayo
sobre viejos balcones del Cabildo
para ser presidente y prestar juramento:

Por los ríos de sangre derramada,
por los indios y los blancos muertos,
por el sol y la luna,
por la tierra y el cielo
por el padre Aconcagua,
y por todas las hierbas y los bosques,
y por el hambre de los niños pobres,
y la tristeza de los niños ricos
y el dolor de los jóvenes paridos,
y la agonía de los viejos.

Juro.
Yo juro.
Hacer de este país la Patria.
Ordeno que se rindan
porque mañana al mediodía
entraré en Buenos Aires.

Tengo un millón de caballos
(¿Escháis su relincho?)
Nadie podrá atajarme."

   There was nothing more to be said. The journalist bowed, clicked off his recorder, clipped his pen to his shirt pocket, and was on the point of leaving when Grandfather Carob said:

   "Tell your friends to visit me at Piedra Blanca, San Luis province, Argentina, or drop by the La Fundación Casa del Poeta, calle Poeta Agüero 380 (588), Merlo.

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Tel: [phone] / 476-698.