When the train arrived in Mendoza for the first time in 1885 Julio Argentino Roca presided over the celebrations.
He had designed the railway policy that outlined a developing country.
The whistles of the machine, that black iron horse, urged on the poets who with metallic verses and praising the future opened hopes for what would come with their words.
The screeching whistle that rose from the chimney at smoky speed
broke the floodgates towards the future
, and season after season advanced, and reached almost the edge of Aconcagua, gigantic witness of those primordial transformations.
There had been successful tests before, and in 1884 a formation would strictly enter the city for the first time from Buenos Aires avant la lettre, and the musicians played their trombones, the teachers moved their teaching hands for the children to sing the anthem, and
already progress could be seen
, and Roca would arrive later to formalize and seal what seemed to be yes, modernity.
In conjunction with the extension of the telegraph
Argentina communicated itself
Its immensities were crossed by the new wagons, and the dusty wagons of the past yielded their silhouettes to the all-powerful machines.
But now, a greater feat has been accomplished.
Go back to the past, break time and worsen what worked in the augur times of the generation of '80
turning back the clocks, and obtaining the amazing record of running a train more delayed than that of Roca.
It all sounds too much like literature.
García Márquez wrote it:
"The innocent yellow train that brought so many uncertainties and evidence, and so many flattery and misadventures, and so many changes, calamities and nostalgia to Macondo"
The train that
now re-inaugurated amid panegyrics without support to his own management is the Paleolithic image of this interminable season of inaction, slow scenes like his archaic railways, abysmal like inflation that does accelerate, dramatic like
poverty , uncertain as Argentina 2023.
There is an imaginary country established by the castles in the air of the leadership, and another real one, here and now, where
the precipice exhibits its sunsets and dangers
However, the illusory country is besieged by the decadent and tangible country truth in every empty pocket.
Fireworks abound, and stratospheric punishments of Edesur's executives are emphasized, so internal vultures take the opportunity to throw their claws at the company that is for sale, and if the power does not go out again it is only because temperatures
and not because someone now operates with greater efficiencies than before.
Jorge Ferraresi, the auditor, very close to the vice president, promises investments, because
promising is free
Internal disputes worsen.
Anibal Fernández versus Axel Kicillof are already accusing each other in public, on a bleeding issue: insecurity.
Alberto Fernández and Sergio Massa can no longer hide, (although somehow they tried to hide their clashes and mutual challenges).
As is known, Alberto Fernández and Cristina Fernández cannot even see each other.
And here a root emerges, an anti-idea of what management implies.
The "anti idea" is the substitution of any viable project for the perpetual confrontation between the unlikely allies, who join forces to fight and thus not solve any problem.
This Friday was Memorial Day, perpetually in the process of being appropriated by Kirchnerism.
That deformation undoes the past, and also the present and the future.
It's a crazy kaleidoscope.
A steep bureaucracy in its hallucinations
The present train is older than that of the origins of the railway, it is like the heartbreak of a great censor.
The distortion of memory is an exercise in censorship of what happened.
It is the trade of the one who cut out the celluloids of the films of yesteryear, to put together a disrupted film to suit them.
So, on falsehood it is very difficult to build, if not impossible.
The fictions of the censors disguised as liberators predominate.
They are the owners of repeated deformations.
The train is late.
He takes us to Macondo.
And Macondo is nothingness itself.
It is certainly the beauty of a great fiction that transported to reality only floods us with loneliness.
Stories of the Bobocracy, the governments of empty characters
Cristina Kirchner, crime and power