BACKROADS • JANUARY 2012 clod passed not inches from my face. Then, out of the shadows appeared fifteen or twenty people, some dressed in camouflage and others in ordinary street clothes. I was quickly surrounded. As they came nearer I noticed that none of them were more than three feet tall, some closer to two feet. “You’re kidding,” I snickered. It was an army of midgets. “Shut up Capitalist Pig!” the little guy in front of me screamed in a high, shrill voice, like he had just sucked a lung full of helium. “We saw you coming up the trail and could smell the stink of your American Dollars all the way up here.” I took him to be the leader as the rest of the group let out little squeals and giggles when he finished, rocking back and forth on little bowed legs. Half laughing I replied, “Hey, man, I’m just passing through and wasn’t looking for any trouble.” The leader stepped out from the rest of them, they all watched for a hint of what was about to go down. As he approached the front of my bike I had to stand up to see his head over my bike’s cockpit panel. He eyed me close, looked over my motorcycle, then back to me. “You have no idea where you are, do you Capitalist Pig?” I looked around, then to my map tucked into the clear pocket on the top of my tank bag, and pointed with my finger, “Actually I am about a quarter mile south west from Route 307, twelve miles from the summit of Tafi de..” “Silence!” the leader shrilled at me again. I went quiet. There was a murmur from the rest of the group as he stepped forward. I could see his thin, wiry beard better in the sunlight. He was wearing the best camouflage of the group and had a cigar stuck in his jacket pocket. “No my friend,” he whispered with a thick Spanish accent, “you … are in Communist Territory.” My eyebrows went up, “Is this where the Pepsi bottling plant is?” My comment was met with silent stares.
Page 37 “You Americans think everything is a joke, don’t you?” The leader walked to the side of my bike, looked at me with his best Clint Eastwood glare, and reached up and tapped me on the knee with his riding crop, “The world is not full of rich people like you. It is occupied by the working class, people who have to toil, and labor... and...and work for a living.” “Ah, … those are all synonyms for the same verb.” I pointed out. “Quiet with your fancy schmancy American double-talk! You, my friend, have stumbled into the hands of,” he paused for effect and raised his hands, “the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucianarias de Tucuman Solidaridad!” A collective cheer went up around me. As the squeal died down I did the mental mathematics and blinked twice... “the F.A.R.T.S.?” I raised my eyebrows again. The squeal rose and they all started dancing in little circles. The leader glanced beneath my bike at the group on the opposite side, “Enough!” There was silence. “Yes, we are the F.A.R.T.S aligned closely with other great leaders for the only true Democracy. Where ever there are great revolutionaries, there we are! Key allies right behind El Che – our Comrade Martyr, El Castro ...well...actually now his brother, El Chavez, and... and ... and that guy from Korea...” he snapped his fingers impatiently and looked left and right, “what IS his name?!” “Kim Jong?” I interjected. “Siiiiiiii”, he sneered and his eyes brightened, “El Kim Jongo, the wisest of them all.” A reverent hum arose from the group. The leader tapped me again on my knee. “Obviously you have heard of all of the revolutionaries? Then you must know who I am.” He puffed his chest out and looked off in the distance. I waited. Everyone else waited. He waited. I waited some more. Finally, as his face was turning red, he let out a big exhale, and looked around obviously annoyed at the group.
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