The Pride Of Iruya

As with each breath, oxygen becomes harder to find and the bus driver gives you coca leaves to place in your mouth, you will begin to swing left and right as the mountains begin to reveal their faces. Behind the rocks which hide a mountain, sits a town nestled amongst an array of red, green and brown contrasts. A town which seems to live only off the few tourists that visit it. The waterless river which leads to San Isidro, which still bares energy of flowing water, divides the side of the tourists to the side of the people, who reside in much poorer conditions. Mountains as far as the eye can reach and the only bit of flat land was designated to be the football field, which once again reiterates the importance of the game in Argentina, it could have been a hospital or a school but no, they did the honourable thing and put up two opposing goal posts and marked the goal square and the half-line on the dirt.

The talk of the town was always the same nonsense, if indeed we can call such an isolated and small community a town, they would always debate the occurrence of what could have been, if indeed true, the greatest thing to ever happen in Iruya. Don Tito would argue that he had seen and tamed a horse with two heads but was forced to abandon it because it sunk in mud and couldn’t get itself out. The people were divided into those who believed and adored him and the story, and those who believed him to be a liar and could not stand to hear the stories. Though this, to the average civilized person, would not seem a great deal to fuss about, it had been the only polemic subject to ever reach the town of Iruya. It had divided the town into believers and non-believers thus placing Don Tito among the higher social hierarchy. Don Tito had an unspoken power over the say of how things were done in the town and wore this unofficial title with the utmost arrogance and smugness like only a man of his old age could, as to rub it into the faces of his cohorts of the same age. 

Before this story reached the ears of the town’s folk, the important decisions were made at the local kiosk, which would place a large circular table outside for the older folk to sit around. Everybody had an equal say and nobody’s opinions were discarded. The words of Don Tito were now held in much higher regard and to the dislike of many of his cohorts. Unofiaclly, he had become the town’s reference and would advise anybody who sought his counsel. Don Gustavo was the most displeased with this truth. In the early days of the town’s foundations, Don Tito and Don Gustavo would fight to show initiative and would compete in the most trivial of things. If Don Tito smelled a barbeque from the house of Don Gustavo, he would go to the butcher and ask how much meat Don Gustavo had purchased and would purchase a tad more and even invite more people. When Don Tito began to build another level to his exposed-brick home, Don Gustavo would render his walls and paint the window frames. The small engineering enterprise of Don Gustavo was matched by Don Tito’s concrete and brick making venture. 

Up until that point, the town would speak of these two men with equal words and never held one over the other, until of course, Don Tito returned from his travels from a distant town with his story of the horse with two heads. The tipping point for Don Gustavo was when the people of the town decided to make Don Tito’s title as the towns counsellor official by building a bigger bridge which crossed the waterless river. The original bridge being the work of Don Gustavo and that day, Don Gustavo left the town with the intention of never returning.

Don Tito was pleased with the disappearance of his long-time rival and decided that it should be the cause of a celebration. The final touches in the building of the bridge were postponed so that some funds could be allocated to the gathering in Don Tito’s honour. Don Tito was so proud but the truth of his story, eluded him, whether it had been true was not relevant as in the eyes of so many it had become true, therefore becoming absolute. Don Tito feasted that night with the people of the town which gathered in the football pitch which served as an improvised barbeque spot and decided to say a few words. 

My dearest friends, family and townspeople. I thank each and every one of you for this gift bestowed onto me. I plan on honouring your faith in mine, in my becoming the town’s counsellor, and invite you all to share a meal in celebration of the new, better and wider bridge which overlooks our enchanting river and will bring many a tourist to our beloved corner of the country. Never had Don Tito’s ego been higher as he patted himself on the back for such a ridiculous reason. The fact that his story was never truly proven, in reality, had never actually come into the minds of the people, they only knew to follow the most impressive person and to disregard those who were not. I cannot thank you all enough and would like to present you all with a gift I am yet to complete. I hold here in my hands a silver plaque which will soon bare my name and will be placed upon the bridge’s arcs so that my name can be immortalised in the bridge that will unite my beloved town, a bridge we will each walk and name on a daily basis. The proudest moment of my life. When my grandkids return from Salta after their studies in the next couple of weeks, they will see the man I’ve become and the bridge that I built. They will return to a prosperous new town. 

The town’s people cheered and those who didn’t were few as he had won most over, though they really didn’t know why. Don Tito was now revered as a beacon of hope and an object of prosperity for the town. The building of this bridge in the middle of the northern deserts of Argentina, stretching over only twenty or thirty meters, was thought to change the quality of the town and its inhabitants forever. The smile on Don Tito’s face seemed immovable and eternal as if he conquered something great, like a horse with two heads. 

In the late hours of the celebrations, the faces of the town’s people glowed and changed with the shifting shadows around the flaming bins as a voice disrupts the celebrations - Hey who’s that over there? - A man emerged into the light of the flames and there sat Don Gustavo one a steed bearing two heads - This! This is the real horse of two heads, not the false one of Don Tito’s stories. This is a magical horse which will return the flow of water to our river and for that, we must build a bigger bridge and upon its arcs, my name shall be placed. - The people drunkenly cheered and Don Tito was booed into exile. The plaque now bore Don Gustavo’s name and the shame on Don Tito’s was branded for eternity. In the next town over, under a pile of dirt and rocks, rests a horse without its head.