text: I woke up agitated. My heart was pounding fast. The image from the dream stayed intact, refusing to fade away. A barefoot girl stood in the middle of a completely dark path, raising her hand and telling me, _ STOP, DON'T GO FURTHER! I approached her slowly and saw her little face bathed in tears. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was me! It was my little girl... I ran to hug her and held her tightly against my chest... When I tried to lift her, the image faded, and I woke up with a scream. I sat in bed, my mind circling around the image of my little girl and the questions that troubled me. _ Why did she say STOP, DON’T GO FURTHER ? What are you trying to tell me, my inner child? What danger are you warning me about?' I looked at the clock; it was half-past five in the morning, and I had to get up because I was traveling that day to the Wichí Mataco community of Chustaj lokwé - the Owl’s Lair. It was the year 2000, and I was working as an anthropologist in a social aid program for indigenous communities located along Route 86, which crossed the rugged Chaco forest. It started in Tartagal and stretched to Misión la Paz, on the border with Paraguay, covering just over a hundred kilometers. It appeared as a 'Route' on national road maps, but in reality, it was just a dirt road, only passable during the dry season, and in the rainy season, it turned into a swamp that only the most experienced locals dared to traverse. Fausto, my assistant, was sick with the flu and couldn’t accompany me. He was a member of the Wichi Mataco community 'Lapacho,' a great knower of these forests where he was born and raised. Traveling with him made me feel confident and secure, not only because he knew the area well but also because speaking his native language made it easier for me to communicate with the people. I could have chosen not to go, but I decided to travel anyway because I didn't want to delay my work since there were many communities I had to attend to. _Don't go alone, wait a few days and we'll go together! _ Fausto had told me, but I decided to travel alone. I admit that I am impatient and sometimes a little impulsive, which in the past got me into more than one problem. _What could happen? I worked in so many communities and never had any problems, why would this time be different? Of course, I would miss the company of Fausto who was not only my assistant but also a lifelong friend. Traveling with him made the trips short and pleasant. In the harsh and gloomy reality that the aborigines lived, being able to laugh at his stories and anecdotes was a relief. A few kilometers away, one entered a landscape of magical realism in the Chaco of Salta. A world where goblins played hide and seek during tropical siestas, healers and witches cured fright, made love spells and for good luck, hunters asked permission with coca and cigarettes from Madremonte. It was the territory of the adventures of the fox and the jaguar, of the escapades of the armadillos, quimileros and the bored iguanas. There were indigenous communities of Wichis, Matacos, Chorotes, Tobas, Chulupies, Chiriguanos, Tapietes and others in the most absolute helplessness and abandonment, just as at the beginning of the 20th century when the colonization of the Chaco began. My work consisted of formulating projects in the vain hope of achieving some solution for their historical and multiple needs. It was November, referred to as “ Yachup” in the Wichí calendar, our springtime, a dry season of intense heat in this region. I set out at dawn, having prepared everything the night before: my battered Peugeot 504, worn down by the dusty and bogged paths of the impenetrable chaco, and my backpack with water the canteen, lighter, flashlight, pocketknife, and a small bag of coca leaves, mate equipment, cookies, some oranges and work elements: notebook, recorder, camera. The clear, fresh morning smelled of tusca breezes, and the uproar of doves and parrots crossing the sky in flocks signaled a day that would get very hot. There I was, kicking up dust in my car and Wichis-matacos hitchhiked along the road. They were pleasant company, telling me news, anecdotes, stories of animals and apparitions, the history behind the names of the places, and even giving me advice on what to do if I encountered Tahyi Wuk, the Owner of the Jungle. In mid-morning, I arrived at Holotaj -Tonono-. I went directly to the house of my friends, the Palomos, a family of criollos from the Chaco region. They pointed me in the right direction, saying, “It’s just right there.” It was my first time heading to the community of Chustaj lokwé -Guarida de la Lechuza-, which was in a highly critical situation. At from that place, I couldn’t continue in my vehicle as I had to cross the sandy banks of the Tonono River. I accepted the horse they offered me, a beautiful bay, large but gentle. They helped me mount it by stepping onto a log, and I headed north, carrying my backpack. I was happy, as riding the horse allowed me to experience the forest more closely, a place that always drew my soul like a goat to the forrest. Without a doubt, some ancestral memory of the wild woman that I once was remained in my genes. I let the horse carry me at its steady, unhurried pace as I filled my lungs with the thick scents of the forest and let the noise of the birds fill my ears. My eyes followed the flight of flocks of parrots and doves in the sky. Nearby was the lagoon Inaj pitaj -Water Long-, where the ruckus of chuñas, charatas, ducks, and other animals echoed, all coming to quench their thirst in this harsh, forgotten land, scorched by torrid summers and once home to tigers and jaguars, and mythological serpents. I arrived at Tonono River and crossed the large sandy area. On the other side I looked for the path that they had told me was “right there” and that would take me “straight to the community”. But, surprise! Before my eyes there was not “one path”, but several _ What now? _ I asked myself, observing the three paths that opened up before me. _ Which one would Fausto take? The one on the left, the right, or perhaps the middle?' I remembered a friend who in similar circumstances, consulted coca leaves to help him decide, but I lacked that ancient wisdom. So, to avoid making a mistake, I steered the horse down the middle path. I must have traveled for an hour, entering a forest that became denser with carob trees, thorny bushes, and ancoches, but there was no sign of Chustaj Lokwé. I had no idea where I was, and in my anxiety, I made the biggest mistake one could make in such circumstances. I left the path and went into the woods, thinking that perhaps I could find the community that way. I continued on with the poor horse, which struggled to dodge the thick branches of the trees and the prickly chaguar plants. I had no notion of the time that had passed and I continued walking without finding the path that would take me to the community. The sweat was running down my feverish forehead, and I realized from the trees that I kept passing the same spot over and over again. Was I going in circles? Everything seemed to indicate that I was. I tried to stay calm, but I was breathing heavily, exhausted, dead tired, hungry, and with a burning thirst consuming me from within. The forest, which had always been a welcoming home, my green refuge, now felt suffocating, threatening, like a wild animal with branches clawing at me with every step. _ 'This can't be happening to me! Where did I go wrong? They told me that once I crossed the river, there would be a path leading straight to the community just a few meters ahead. Why can't I find it? They must have given me the wrong directions, no doubt!' _ I repeated to myself angrily and kept riding the poor horse, who seemed even more lost than I was. _ 'Calm down! Calm down! Breathe... breathe... everything is fine!' _ I kept telling myself, but calm was like a delicate butterfly that landed on my fingers and flew away just as quickly. Then I would hear Fausto’s words again: 'Don’t go alone...' Now, trembling with fear, surrounded by forest spirits and goblins, I recognized my mistake. I should have listened to Fausto’s warning and the message from my dream, my Niña, telling me: _ STOP, DON’T GO ON! _ Overwhelmed and desperate, I finally accepted that I was lost, trapped in that green labyrinth. Terror took hold of me, I trembled with fear, but the worst was the mental suffering. I saw myself arriving at the village, chatting and laughing with the people, drinking cool water from the jar that was under the shade of a carob tree and suddenly I was overwhelmed by negative thoughts. I remembered what Fausto told me about people lost in the woods, how the heat makes them sweat, attracting hundreds of bees and wasps that pounce on their bodies, stabbing them with their stingers, causing painful swellings, and how little by little their minds become lost and their sense of direction becomes unbalanced, and they start running madly, torn by thorns. I dismounted under a leafy guayacán tree. I was completely soaked in sweat and thirsty. I sat down on a log, took out my canteen and, thirsty, took several sips of water. I took an orange out of my backpack and ate it. Becoming aware that I was lost and alone in that wild forest terrified me. I felt totally vulnerable, completely orphaned, and I let out all that fear in a scream that echoed in the forest like a mournful lament. For a long time I screamed for help until my throat hurt. I stopped, I felt dizzy, I was floating in the air as if I were levitating. I thought that the screams had taken all my energy, then my mind began to play tricks on me. Suddenly all the spirits and goblins of the forest that I knew through the stories of the Matacos appeared before me. There were the Wooden Goblins, their bodies were like dry branches, they liked to chase the lost and they watched them camouflaged with the trees and the foliage. Chamin, the “Skeleton of the Mountain” goblin, was the one who impressed me the most. They said he was a terrible entity that the Matacos themselves feared. Sometimes he allowed himself to be seen, but he preferred to be heard by making a noise similar to two branches colliding or the sound of footsteps dragging on dry leaves. I recognized him because he had a white head, large, round, protruding eyes, and terrible fangs protruding from his mouth like those of a jaguar, elongated and pointed. He had no muscles, he was pure bone and his neck was as thin as a finger. He was always wandering through the forest. Suddenly a hoarse song like that of a bird arose from the group. I looked carefully to see who the singer was and to my surprise I discovered Suweletaj, the gardener goblin of the carnations of the air. He lived in them, hanging from them like a nest. In that delirium I saw Etek, the goblin with the head of a sajasta, appear from among the bushes. He had once appeared to me during my siesta when I was playing under a blackberry plant in the yard of my house. He was a short, chubby goblin, with dark skin and boar's nails. He wore a chiripa and was bare-chested and bare-footed. He appeared suddenly and made signs with his hands for me to come closer. But the fear had paralyzed me, and I couldn't move and I was speechless. When my mother found me, I was as pale as a corpse and couldn't speak. They took me to the doctor, but he couldn't tell me what was wrong. I was like that without a voice for a long time, until one day my mother took me to a cuña ipayé, a shaman who had been recommended to her and who lived in the Guaraní community of Yacui. When I grew up, they told me that she cured me of my fright for seven days. At seven in the evening, they say that he called my name loudly three times. That was how he called my soul to return to the body, since it had escaped in fear. Apparently the healing worked because he gave me back my voice and little by little the confidence to play in the yard again. Now an adult woman, I looked at Etek with curiosity. I looked at him straight on, not defiantly but with respect. He looked at me too and smiled. I understood, that time when he appeared to me during my nap, he just wanted to play with me. The others continued to look at me strangely, as if to say: _ And this Sulú, who is she? Sulú in the Wichi Mataco language means, white woman. Luckily, fear paralyzed me so much that I did not run away, which would have been fatal. My heart was beating rapidly, the palpitations were a drum resonating in those lonely places in the woods, I felt that fear was a hairy worm crawling all over my body, so I closed my eyes tightly and repeated out loud: _ This is not true!... It is not true!... It is not true!... When I opened my eyes, the group had disappeared. I began to breathe deeply and calmed down and thought: _ How stupid I was for not listening to my inner child warning in the dream! Why didn't I listen to Faust? How many more times would I have to hit myself in life to learn to see the signs? _ With effort I regained control of the runaway horse in my mind. The heat was pressing hard and thirst dried my mouth, bitter from the taste of fear in my skin. I lit the fire hoping that someone would see the smoke from afar and locate me because I thought that surely at that time they were already looking for me. The Doves, seeing that I didn't return, would realize that I was lost. I waited by the fire for a long time, but I was heartbroken when I realized that no one would come. Every moment I looked at the sky in search of the sun to locate me along its path, but it was completely covered in clouds. I thought it best to get back on my horse and find the way. I tried to get on the horse but it was too tall. I tried swinging one leg, but with such bad luck I fell backwards and hit my head against the ground. I stayed there for I don't know how long. I woke up, slowly opened my eyes and then I saw that the clouds were parting and the sun was visible. I was able to locate myself there, and I realized that instead of going back I was moving away. Then, like in a dream, wrapped in the dust of a whirlwind, a human figure appeared. It was an old Mataco man walking towards me. He was very old, like an ancient carob tree. He was wearing a large, wide-brimmed palm hat, a machete hanging from his waist and a coil of rope across his chest. His large feet caught my attention, with toes sticking out of worn leather flip-flops. The old man came to me and without saying a word he brought the horse to me and helped me mount it, he took the reins and we started walking, I on horseback, he on foot. We made the whole journey in silence without saying a word. We reached the main road from where I saw the Palomos' house. I gave a shout of joy, and I was laughing and crying at the same time and when I turned around to thank the old man I saw him disappear into the woods. That night, already in the safety of my house, I felt a deep joy that invaded me completely. I understood that I had passed another test in my life, a transforming experience that demanded the deepest part of my being. I had faced fear in its purest form, alone in the middle of a threatening I never knew which road we took, I do remember that we never crossed the sandbank of the river, nor did I ever know who the old man was. I investigated, I asked Creoles and Aborigines but no one knew him. mountain, surrounded by spirits and memories, but I had managed to overcome it. I had emerged from the green labyrinth, not only physically, but also emotionally intact. I felt infinite gratitude. I was alive, safe and at peace with my soul, enriched by that powerful experience, because not only had I managed to get out of the mountain, but with me I had taken my Little Girl out of the dark path of loneliness and fear in which she was lost and in which she lived for so many years.