World's Words

Surrounded by fruit trees the mansion riced in such a state of disrepair that our hopes began to drip with the heat leaving on our faces and necks a red trail, which is the color of the earth in Misiones, that little and magical place at northeast of Argentina, in the border with Paraguay and Brazil.
The construction seemed to be the main building of an old farm and behind it the land was dedicated to the breeding of zebus (an ugly kind of cow). It was about noon and the air was like a warm and thick jelly all-encompassing. We were approached by a small man with an Paraguayan accent who was dressed in black but that he did not seemed to feel heat.
-Hi -I said- we came to see Mancuello, we’d like to take some mushrooms. We broguht him a wine.
-He’s waiting for you- said the little man.
We were not expecting such an answer but we found it a good sign so we started to follow the man through some banana trees around the house. Behind the ruins of the mansion was a wooden shack with a wooden roof gable. He was waiting for us. Dodging chickens, dogs and a pig big as a truck, we got to Mancuello. He was real!
The silhouette of the gaucho (southamerican cowboy) stood to shake hands. We were sweaty and dirty but the image of Mancuello broke any tag. He had a heavy poncho over his hump, his skin was as red as the earth and was crossed by countless folds.
His left eye had a demonic cataract. It was completely white and watery and dripped down her cheek. It was like looking at the Iguazú falls. We ask permission to go to collect cucumelos (famous mushrooms of that land) and we offered a wine. Mancuello chewed his big cigar like a zebu, he scratched his head without removing the blue wool cap and said smiling:
-Ok, come in and have fun.
While we were moving between the zebu, we saw a singular pile behind the ranch. Next to the wall, hundreds of bottles of wine stacked almost to the ceiling height reflected the sun covering the orange trees with small spots of light.