¿Navidad? me suena, me suena (*)

Por: Victor Hugo Viscarra/

1.958 - 2.006

Q.E.P.D. Lentamente la nochebuena se va acercando y su andar es tan cansino y pesado que nos contagia su somnolencia; a los que estamos aquí, en este lugar sentados. Los peatones pasan por nuestro lado abrumados por mil pensamientos y preocupaciones, y cual ekekos de fin de año, están atiborrados de bolsones llenos de regalos. Es tal el arrobamiento que les embarga que no tienen tiempo para voltear sus ojos en dirección nuestra para siquiera observarnos. A lo largo de esta calle están desperdigadas infinidad de casas comerciales y disqueras. De una de éstas salen las notas melodiosas y ensordecedoras de un villancico navideño; y, mientras la gente, que se mueve alrededor nuestro, siente cómo el corazón se les llena de emoción, nosotros; los que estamos aquí, en este lugar sentados, sólo atinamos a hacer circular de mano en mano y de boca en boca, nuestra botella desportillada llena de alcohol aguado. ¿Navidad? ¿Regalos? ¿Niño Jesús? ¿Reyes Magos? ¿Qué son esas cosas inexplicables y difíciles de entender para nosotros? Hace algunos minutos quise hallar respuestas a algunas de estas interrogantes, pero nadie supo decirme algo; nadie sabía el significado de esas palabras. Era tal la ignorancia que, incluso Maxicha, la amante infiel que tenemos, y que por haberse acostado con todos nosotros, se cree experta para todos los temas. Ni siquiera ella pudo articular respuesta alguna. No sé qué le pasó después, por que se puso de pie y, tras mandarnos a todos a la mierda, se alejo del grupo llorando desconsoladamente, dejándonos a todos con al duda pintada en nuestras caras. En un principio, este mocoso no quería ir a bailar con los demás niños del barrio, pero, ante tanta insistencia, pidió dinero a su madre para alquilar un disfraz de “negrito”; y ahora, a cada momento, pasa por nuestro lado contorneándose como un bailarín profesional, entonando cancioncillas alusivas a esta festividad. Pero –y tenía que surgir el antipático “pero”-, si cualquier extraño piensa que él baila con verdadera devoción hacia el niñito Jesús está completamente equivocado. Él al igual que todo niño, es débil para el alcohol, y los pocos tragos que le hemos invitado, de nuestra k’asa botella, ya se le han subido a la cabeza y es por eso que él, que, dentro de tres años cumplirá diez, baila de tal manera que pretende demostrarles a todos ellos (papa Noel, los reyes magos, el niño Jesús y a su ángel de la guarda) que es el único niño entre los centenares de villanciqueros que adora al pequeño Manuelito de todo corazón. En los escaparates comerciales pequeños arbolitos artificiales, emblanquecidos con abundante nevada de plastoformo, y orlados de chucherias multicolores, hechizan a las personas que se detienen frente a ellos fascinados por los foquillos que, tras encenderse y apagarse intermitentemente, parecen guiñarles con mal disimulada coquetería en esta noche tan especial. Y yo que, llevado por la curiosidad, varias veces me acerqué hasta ellos para ver de cerca en que consiste ese su hechizo cautivador siempre me retiraba desilusionado, puesto que no producían efecto alguno en mi persona. Hace frío y; mientras las nubes tratan de ocultar la pequeña estrellita de Belén, que brilla en el cielo, todos nosotros rebuscamos nuestros bolsillos para juntar algo de dinero e ir a la tienda del Tata Pinto a comprara más alcohol ya que nuestra botella ha vaciado su contenido en nuestros estómagos. Uno de nosotros; no se quién, se incorpora y, tras tomar en sus manos nuestra botella desportillada, se aleja del grupo y se confunde entremedio de la marea humana que sigue girando alrededor nuestro y ni aún los estrepitosos villancicos, que escapan ensordecedoramente de las disqueras, logran apagar el llanto desconsolado de la Maxicha, quién sigue llorando cerca de nosotros y la intensidad de ese su llanto me lacera el alma. ¡Vaya que es impertinente este llock’alla, venir a pedir más trago justo ahora que ni para nosotros hay…! Bueno, si se porta así cualquiera puede llegara estimarlo, por que los cinco pesos que ha dado para la compra demás alcohol, si bien no alcanzan para comprar ni un plato de comida, si alcanzan para comprar cinco pesos de alcohol. Sin darme cuenta me había quedado dormido. Ahora que mi subconsciente se abre paso entre las brumas etéreas del alcohol que han invadido mi cerebro, y al tiempo que me empecino en reaccionar, puedo escuchar la voz de la Maxicha (quién nuevamente se había integrado al grupo) tratando de consolar al pequeño amiguito que tenemos, cuya madre está vendiendo sándwiches en el mercado y que, por la inexperiencia de beber alcohol, ha embadurnado su traje de “negrito” con sus vómitos y ahora está llorando porque recuerda que, desde que era mas chiquitito nunca los Reyes Magos, ni Papa Noel, ni su madrina de bautismo, le han traído un regalo en Navidad. Acaso en esta edad, cuando le faltan ocho años para cumplir los quince, está comprendiendo que la celebración de esta fiesta nunca va estar destinada a él. Y mientras persisto en mi intento de reaccionar y las calles ahora desiertas se están convirtiendo en mingitorio de borrachos y prostitutas, tengo ganas de llorar amargamente, porque, desde que tengo uso de razón, yo tampoco tuve un regalo en esta fecha. ¿Navidad?, me suena, me suena… Creo que es una festividad en la que hay que dejarse embrutecer por el alcohol, para que, cuando nos embriaguemos y nos sumerjamos en la inconsciencia, juguemos con los juguetes infernales que en nuestras mentes crea el alcohol y que, con su uso exagerado, va destruyendo de a poquito nuestras existencias. ¿Navidad?, esa palabrita me suena, me suena.

(*) This beauty writing was taken from the book: "Relatos de Victor Hugo" / second edition 2005 ; Editorial Tercera Piel/ La Paz Bolivia.

Victor Hugo Viscarra, the so called drunk writer from the pit of Bolivian society, draws here an everyday's life attitude from everywhere, the indifference to the poor ones, the humble ones, "humble" in spanish would be:

(humilde) the roots from this word comes from the latin "humus" which means; earth, land , soil. Is it because of this the humblest souls, have the feet on earth and their hearts beyond it?

Charles Bukowski (traducido al persa)

El genial escritor yankee de lo marginal, mejor conocido por su alter ego, Henry Chinaski, ¿será que alguna vez imaginó sus escritos traduzidos nada mas y menos que al Persa?. La noticia se difundió por todo el mundo y los bloggadictos mas meticulosos esparcieron el "hedor" de que el viejo Hank, íba a "entrar" a una cultura como la Iraní, tan dados a las restricciones y sensuras de todo tipo. Hace algún tiempo atrás-en Irán- la obra de Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memorias de mis putas tristes, fue sensurada y cambiaron el apelativo de "putas" por el de "enamoradas". El traductor Iraní, Ahmad Pouri, dijo en una entrevista que seleccionará de toda su amplia obra, los poemas más "suaves". Sin embargo no hay nada totalmente claro, y es que el Ministerio de Cultura iraní no se ha pronunciado al respecto. Esperemos que las, Erecciones, eyaculaciones y exhibiciones; del viejo escritor séan recibidas con un criterio amplio y sabio. Aunque es muy sabido que no hay mejor marketing que el de la prohibición y sensura para que la obra de Bukowski se difunda en el mercado negro de todo Irán. Lo mas probable es que algunas ediciones piratas se reproduzcan como hongos en las tierras de Alá, donde las calles de Teherán están pobladas de guardianes del pudor: mujeres vestidas de negro acompañadas por policías que cuidan la vestimenta de las iraníes. Lo más lógico há de ser que séan ellas las principales consumidoras de esta literatura, escondiendo ejemplares bajo sus burcas. Las mujeres en el Islam no tienen decisión. "Esa es la realidad". Ni siquiera pueden elegir con quién deben casarse. Prohibir el burca ¿limita su libertad si quieren llevarlo? ¿Acaso pueden elegir?. Mientras su presidente-reciente amigo de Evo Morales está considerando en obligar a los hombres a que se dejen crecer la barba, a este paso, en menos de lo que creo veré por las calles de Irán viejos barbudos machistas en medio de mujeres mas-turbadas, y cientos de eunúcos acéfalos jugando a ser libres, en libros del viejo Hank.

E.

Last night in a whorehouse

Mr. Viscarra accomplishes something which very few

writers do. He has a style combining accuracy, liveliness, quiet, rawness and tenderness, qualities which do not often go together.

I think Viscarra's narrative... succeds admirably, in part because he, like Samuel Beckett, recognizes the comic possibilities inherent in the tailspin of logic toward the absurd. The many characters are ethereally real. He has you hipnotized from the beggining 'till the end.

You believe that people really are like the people he writes about and draws. And looking back on it, you see no reason to change your mind.They are.

Relatos de Vitor Hugo was published originally only in Cochabamba (a departament in Bolivia) in 1.996 at the time didn't have drawings such as this renewed second edition, (Editorial Tercera Piel, 2.005) the drawings and the cover art belongs to Mr. Pablo Gozalves and a prologue from Virginia Aillon.

Also, as a kind of bonus track, let's say, includes a new version of the old tale; Recuerdo perdido en el deseo (Lost memory in-to desire), renamed as; Anoche en un putero (Last night in a whorehouse) which was acted twice by the known Bolivian actor Jorge Ortiz, fully naked.

The cover you see belongs to the second renewed edition by Viscarra himself, it has fifteen short stories including the new version I mentioned, which along the drawings are the perfect chemical mix; titles such as; Habia una vez...un niño, Yo casto, Busco a un amigo and La frontera.

Photography: 

https://www.facebook.com/alcahuetesacafotos/
Al K Huete

First Victor Hugo Viscarra's book

Viscarra's Dictionary... succeds admirably in whole the book, this small pocket version that was sold out in a limited edition of 1000 copies only, has hundreds of slang words and funny idioms. This first edition from 1.981 with a prologue from Dn. Antonio Paredes Candia and an Introduction of Viscarra himself is a good book resource for any social and linguistic scientist.
An interesting detail is that the book is dedicated to Viscarra's brothers Guillermo A. and Elena T.N.
I had no idea that Viscarra had brothers, anyway I'm sure that there must be a bunch of other intersting matters in the life of any writer. What's important here is the main dictionary, afterwards I'll post a comparative study between the last advanced re-edition version and this one.

Photography: Al K Huete  (Like-Facebook)

Lost memories in-to desires

In loving memory to

Victor Hugo Viscarra /

R.I.P. 1.958 - 2.006

La Paz, chaos in motion. A bacchanal of colors and sounds. Merchants and stallholders, traders, street vendors, shoe-shiners children everywhere, car horns mixed with Andean and cumbia music, that is La Paz, the political and cultural center of a place called, Bolivia. While you stay here, it is best to let yourself get lost in it all, until the whirling noises become a murmur, and the din becomes music. La Paz is chaos, if viewed from the outside, that is if viewed from a western, foreign or colonial perspective, As the day is fading away slowly and all the street vendors and shoe-shiners children are on the way back home, an underworld society is all set to show it’s life toward an endless sunset. In-to the night, a few fundamentalist Christians are preaching between the fringe and the stablishment to set free themselves, whilst a young beauty woman is sniffing cocaine and hundreds of underage whores are simultaneously wandering about through dark alleys the gloomy streets are fading away in-to a strange black color.
A bohemian night is also about to begin for some paceños writers who think that the night is the best partner of a light bohemian, ready to catch their muses, to afterwards have fun and presume of their snobbish works of the underworld, the characters, sociologists and social psychologists.In the meantime some migrants are set up somewhere in El Alto, and only God knows, the sad conditions ‘till the early morning, while the snobbish researchers have already moved to snubburbia.

El Alto has a geographic and strategic advantage over La Paz, towering 13.000 feet above sea level, it controls the slopes and access into the capital, which is located at 11.800 feet in a deep depression in the earth where the Spaniards decided to build Bolivia’s main city.
From a social stand point, one could say that on the northern plateau, the poor live above, El Alto, and the rich live below, La Paz. However, historically speaking the bolivian outcast never were counted on any statistics, they had became sadly the eternally, "Nadies". Literature’s realm wouldn’t be the greatest exception.
Ab Initio, bolivian literature never cared about the lowest classes and outcast people was condemned to hell. Obviously there were a few exceptions, writers who talked about the most typical problems, from the middle classes, the dangers of youth and social approach like the classic work from early twenty century of Alcides Arguedas, Pueblo Enfermo, poets and novelists who always returned to their holy academic shelters.
So, a man who never talked about hell but from it, it’s like the most beautiful flower in the ugliest swamp. Bolivian society was always racist and snobbish concerning cultural and literature likes. Although we have (and had) few true warriors of a true living word, the Spanish and particularly French influence was always the constant.
Then, let’s welcome to the man who wrote from the pit, Victor Hugo Viscarra, who born on 2 January 1958 in La Paz, Bolivia, he left home in his early childhood, when he was 15 years old, the reason ?... child abuse from his parents. Fully in-to the streets, he learned the street language, mob speak and slang as any kid from his age. Roaming through different neighbourhoods and cities, Viscarra had learned to survive, surmounting and dealing with thiefs, killers and drug-addicts among poor humble children, ungainlies dogs and beggars.
On 1981, a newspaper’s article about coba words, (slang) got angry to a young Victor Hugo, who said that, there were only five coba words, the other 200 were a fake. That’s why, he became involved straight away to compose a true Dictionary about, the way of speak from the bolivian delinquency, collecting coba words and idioms.
The same year appeared in a limited pocket edition of 1000 copies, Coba, Lenguaje del Hampa Boliviano, with a prologue of Don Antonio Paredes Candia. The Dictionary has two updated editions more, the last one with pictures and a brief summary of humble professions from the underworld, according to Viscarra.
On 1996 appeared, Relatos de Victor Hugo, a collection of cuentos, short cuentos and rare and beautiful short writings, the stuff is, between the auto-biography and the ethnographic approach, there was an evident usage of his dictionary work, which enlighten beautifully the content. Nine years later, a new re-edition was shown this time including black and white drawings.
It was with the publication of his next book, Alcoholatum y otros drinks/ cronicas para gatos y pelagatos, (Editorial Correveidile 2001), that Viscarra became widely known.

Alcoholatum immediately became a "best seller", this new collection of cuentos, short stories and relatos showed more sensibility from underworld. Viscarra with a great ability to combine tenderness and compassion with raw humor and cruelty, was offered to take his first trip to German and a translation of his Coba Dictionary and Alcoholatum by Katy Leonard, later on he’d confessed me that he’d never had left La Paz, "I belong here", he told me. Somehow, he knew inside that his place was to be here with the people who always loved and lived with. And the Alcoholatum’s translation never showed up …
The success of Alcoholatum made possible for Viscarra to be widely interviewed in the principal newspapers and literary magazines. Beyond Alcoholatum’s importance as a social document from an hermetic sector of bolivian society, was also an affirmation of Viscarra’s belief in the true rights of the outcast, arguing that they also have virtues and feelings as well as mistakes as everyone.
On 2002, a new trip of unknown adventures, came to disturb the bolivian's lightest brains, this time the cool and extremely ironic title was, Borracho estaba, pero me acuerdo/ Memorias del Victor Hugo(Editorial Correveidile), showing an opposite fact of the common drunkards, who usually don’t remember anything. Besides, it sounded kind of funny to the people, showing an opposite fact.
Viscarra was the only writer congratulated and recognized alive, his greatest proud was that he never finished High School, which in the bolivian society is very important, creating a series of social prejudices for them, if you are not professional you are not trustworthy, there is no place for a self-taught mind.
“Borracho estaba… “ got a contract with Mono Azul Editorial from Spain, (2006), this new book usually analized as the less literary compared to Alcoholatum, disclosed new characters forbidden already by the bolivians, new coba(slang) words, interesting idioms and a brutal honesty. In 2004, he gave legal advice to the bolivian film, American Visa, of Juan Carlos Valdivia, based on the novel of Juan de Recacochea, counseling all the scenes from the fringe areas and danger neighbourhoods, showing one more time that Viscarra could easily be part of a Film procces, without any problem, besides many literature students asked him for advice.
Viscarra or, el (the) Viscarrita, as we like to call him, is a bolivian phenomenon, such as few writers ever become, and in his instinctive striving for the "lowest classes", he crystallized the unarticulated feelings of thousands of other ordinary Bolivians, brought up under the same conditions and subject to the same values.
Almost at the end of 2005, his last masterwork was published through the Bolivian; Editorial Correveidile, Avisos Necrologicos, the last collection of 27 short stories and creative writing, marginal cuentos because of their protagonists who are involved in the submerged population groups.
Outsiders, old whores along underage ones, sharing a common life with old abandoned dogs and little pussy cats, Viscarra’s writing has an advantage from it’s short-storiness that of focus. A novel would get bogged down in details, in divergence of plot, and so on, a short story concentrates on one thing, the getting across the full effect of the fantastic event(s) the author writes .
Victor Hugo Viscarra, somehow was shily criticized by “serious writers” and academics for his lack of formal skill, I don’t deny that Viscarra’s lack of formal skill is a serious flaw, I would argue however, that it’s no more serious a flaw than Jaime Saenz’s obscurity. Sadly, not many literary approaches works, were done on Viscarra’s books, although he was shamelessly imitated.
Furthermore, poets and academics have much to learn from Viscarra’s approach to life and literature. The sum total of Viscarra’s work presents nothing less than a compressed, crudely coherent philosophy of street life.
His early short stories featured depraved urban characters in dark alleys and gloomy bars. The popularity of these stories rests on an abundance of profanity and the shock value of raw sex and a beauty tenderness toward street dogs and cats. The main importance of Viscarra’s work is based on his, Coba(slang) Dictionary, which enriched throughout of his literary work.
What you might notice right away in Viscarra’s writing is brutal honesty, no masks, few precious words, just straight-forward statement.
Victor Hugo Viscarra’s death, on 24, May 2006, after a long treatment of a complicated cirrosis, has not staunched the regular flow of his publications. A new volume of the Coba dictionary will be published posthumously, thanks to his Editor, Mr. Manuel Vargas.
At the end of his life Victor Hugo fell into an endless spiral, of the bohemian vicious, the alcohol, he really liked it, but the details hardly matter.The reputation of the bolivian literary rebel is now in the hands of thousands of readers or writers wether they are outsiders or snobbish people. As Viscarra himself confessed me that the greatest recognition (to his work) didn’t come from an academic, but from a "common woman" of the slum area, it was in the early morning of any day in a cold bar in La Paz, the alcoholic woman told him; “ writer ! I’ve read your book..you haven’t laid “.
Viscarra after living 33 years in the threshold of society, now rest in peace in the "Cementerio General" of La Paz.
There are writers in each generation who as time go by, are seen to be more important for their effect upon their contemporaries than upon posterity…
I still remember the first time when a friend of mine, Juan Carlos Flores Escobar -who dedicated to Viscarra some precious lines in his last novel,Evo en el Paraiso- lent me Viscarra’s Alcoholatum, it seemed to me that, that prolonged Henry Miller’s insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, was still alive...
It inspired me to action, those hermetic words were active rather than meditative. Such writers communicate their own sence of necessity, for doing battle with the immediate life that lies before them.
This deep necessity for expression breaks through all formally conceived mediums so that the seed of their personal inspiration can be planted in ourselves. Once done, these seminal spirits die as if nature itself intended that they should be sacrificed once their function have been fulfilled...thus...I might say... why don’t we... (yes, you!) just drop in and let the game begin ?
When the sunlight brightly gleams out there in the sunset of the Salar de Uyuni (in Bolivia) or anywhere down here in this pale gaia (mama-pacha) and the silence drowns the nameless ethilic screams in the cities of this world...I’ll feel that a keen Alcoholatum Ens Semini drink will be sown or drunken (a forbidden drink) somewhere between of nowhere...

Must confess, that after all, the greatest writers have changed life first, and literature afterwards.

Rest in Peace !

E.