by Victoria Alcalá | Photos by Julio Larramendi
A man is stalking his prey. He’s been waiting for hours for it to appear or maybe he’s just waiting for it to present its best angle. He’s been cold and he’s suffered excruciating heat; he has gotten soaked in torrential rains and he’s endured practically desert-like dryness that has chapped his lips. His skin has been burned by the sun and felt the bothersome pricking sensation that could be the result of some insect’s bite or the touch of a plant. So much time alone, frozen in the same or almost the same position, cramps his legs and his implacable sixty-odd years weigh heavily on his bones. Maybe he craves a cup of coffee—with that dash of milk he always prefers—and followed up by a cigar to chase away drowsiness and the mosquitoes. But he remains in pursuit until finally the thing he has been waiting for so long comes into his field of vision. Quickly he follows it with his gaze and shoots…once, twice, dozens of times…relentlessly following his objective.
