Resonances that reflect the sensation of a balm. Delicacy like a machete, cutting through the undergrowth of our imaginary borders.
In that remoteness, I wonder: What happens when the melody of a cumbia travels like a river? Winding its way across the continent like a vast spinal cord. Is it the collective unconscious of Abya Yala? A land of expansive territories that sometimes ignite the thirst of exploiters, condemned to a nausea brought on by the abundance that surrounds us—yet slips through our fingers. It is the burnt sugar longing to be cane again, recalling dreams where it was once the mast of a wandering maloka, a mental refuge crossing a fiery, feverish world