Calafate, Patagonia. You might not be able to discern the pink bird in left midfield. A flamingo: I was stalking it across the wastes. Elena followed loyally until she stepped in up to her ankle. She mightn’t want to come to NZ, she said, if this was the kind of thing we did there. Nevertheless I found a pink feather and tucked it into my camera case thinking I’d remove it (or not) before I went through Customs. It’s above me as I write, pinned to the wall and faded to the softest shade of salmon.
Back then I wrote home: what a place. Wild with the big cold wind blowing across it, and beautiful like Canterbury but everything 50 times larger . . .Â we were befriended on the streets by dogs like loving wolves . . . now to bed, full of lamb and red wine.
Today I’m missing Elena and her big, wild country.