Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

ATOP A POLITICAL STORM
I could see neither the beginning nor the end of this massive procession but I knew, like all in Argentina, that today marked the 127th day of this enduring mêlée between government and ruralists that would determinedly end at Congress which had gathered to mark a decisive verdict. An agricultural tax increase was proposed to help the battered nation recuperate from financial crisis dividing the reluctant, prosperous farmers and the alacritous, urban class. The streets were filled with the thousands of faces radiant with fervent expectation of change fueled by their nationalistic, communal unity. All 60,000 cries were indistinctive but created a unanimous and autonomous resounding idea that each voice deserved and demanded to be heard.
The thunderous banging of drums provided rhythm to the static sound of incessant human prattle. The interjecting screeching then crackle of fireworks swathed the air with a stinging, sulfuric scent and a drape of white, listless smoke added an element of merriment and festivity. The parade was strewn with celeste blue and white pickets functioning like patriotic thought bubbles reading succinct and impacting, intimate beliefs of anonymous faces. Vendors sprinkled the masses selling relief on this curiously hot winter day in the form of cold drinks and ice cream. A flight of balloons decorated the monochromatic, blue sky as they soared aimlessly above the heads of the demonstrators creating a colorful upside down reflection of the procession.
I witnessed sporadic pockets of friends, families and even children carrying themselves nonchalantly, incognizant of the colossal, collective identity that they had formed. Others were all too aware and despite the weariness I perceived in their faces from perpetual, nationalistic frustration I beheld them bolster enough vitality to create a palpable and practically infectious hope. Young, socialist sympathizers marched alongside the working urban class compounding willingly sacrificial solidarity.
I noticed I was only but a spectator amongst a multitude of people demanding acknowledgement and consequentially they recognized me with bittersweet gratitude. In that singular moment, I formed a part of a national consciousness sharing the consequences of years of military rule, economic crises, and the presence of a controversial increase in agricultural taxes that steered everyone inevitably to this manifestation of political camaraderie, to this moment on July 15, to this place at Congressional Plaza.
The buses that brought these protestors on their political pilgrimage were now hollow, metallic skeletons dwarfed by the assembly of their once passengers. I climbed atop one of these obtrusive remains in order to see the extents of the day. A young man blandished a flag stamped with the anachronistic word “Peronismo” on one hand and humbly offered the other to help me up. There I could see the neoclassical esplanade, home to the political heart of Argentina beating to the primal sound of drums and human chanting. The distinctive green quadriga atop the National Congress overlooked its supporters and I adjacent to it appreciated its companionship while we both watched history being made.