My dear reader,
It has been exactamente six months, three weeks, one day and forty-five minutes since I overcame insurmountable odds to ride my dear motorised stead “Platanito” into the mythical township of Lismore, New South Wales. Now I grant you that such time may allow for the superficial muscular strains to heal and the pains to be forgotten, but indeed the unique bond that I made with the New South Wales landscape during that fateful week in December will never leave me.
How could it?
It is not like a bruise that fades with time. On the contrary, the landscape is now inscribed into my very body as every inch of road that I travelled, every pueblo that I passed through is now forever wedded with my flesh. Caballeros y damas, let it be known that as I sit here in my hometown of Alcaca, Spain, so also, for better or worse sits New South Wales. Till death do us part.
I dare you to doubt it, for this unlikely union has indeed turned me into somewhat of a barometer for the ebbs and flows of your strange and mysterious region. You might say to me, what nonsense Tino! But I have no other explanation for the uncontrollable actions of my anal cavity. For example, when the storms hit the northern New South Wales coast in May 2010 though I was miles away in the montañas of Spain my anal passage pulsed like a rabbit’s heart. And I tell you that such bodily reactions are not solely weather related. When New South Wales swore in its first female premiere Kristina Kenneally I tell you that my anus dilated to the size of an aubergine. As you can imagine I am sufficiently apprehensive at the prospect of Barry O’Farrell winning the next election in consideration of what such an event might do to the lower tracts of my body.
I hear you whispering under your breath like the campesinos of Alcaca, poor Tino, he is now cursed! However, I implore you to not be so negativo in your attitude and to not judge my unique condition too swiftly. Certainly it can be somewhat of an inconvenience to have your anus at the whim and mercy of an antipodean colony, but it is also a great asset to have a quivering rectum that has a unique insight into the meteorological and political forces of our epoch. From biblical times prophets have harnessed such resources to guide and lead humanity through its challenges and crises. I urge you to remember the great Jewish prophet Ezekial who was not memorialised for his sensitive anus but for his calm wisdom and incredible foresight. I have no doubt that the name Tino La Bamba will in the time to come also occupy a similar place in the annals of New South Wales history.
And to think that all this was a product of a dream, of a blind ambition to conquer the wild outback of the antipodes. If you remember, dear reader, I first conceived of this vision standing on the banks of the Yarra in the Southern state of Victoria whilst staring at Ron Robertson Swan’s grotesque sculpture, aptly titled in the vernacular, “The Yellow Peril”. If you recall I envisaged a way to tame its unsightly shapes and lines. Like an unbroken chestnut mare I knew that its savage and unruly character needed only the powerful grip of my thighs to purify and refashion its clumsy aesthetic message. Once tamed I did not hold back. I constructed my dear metallic stead Platanito in its image enabling me to metaphorically ride this “Yellow Peril” into the deep, dark orifices of your outback and beyond.
And so here I now am, a man and a body so intrinsically connected to the “Great Southern Land” that our destinies are now one. So dear citizens of New South Wales I implore you to wish me well if only for the sake of your own souls.
Tino La Bamba