Between Capricorn and Cancer

Between Capricorn

Tropical Stories

and Cancer






GEORGE POTVIN


















To Ros:

A home is a ‘with’ not a ‘where’.
My home is with Ros, anywhere.

















© 2007 George Potvin
Cover photo: Bahia Balandra, BCS, Mexico
Table of Contents


TROPICAL STORIES:
Hawai’i (1999)
• A New Life – Page 6
• Diary of a Boogie Man – 9
• Win-Win – 13
• Our Beach – 16

Belize (2000)
• Bad City – 19
• Riding The School Bus – 24
• Revelation – 27
• Tobacco Caye – 34
• Two Can – 39
• Caye Caulker – 46

Melaque, Mexico (2001)
• Finding Home – 54
• My Neighbourhood – 58
• Lost and Found – 62
• William’s Problem – 65
• Gringo Charity - 69
• How I Almost Lost My Wife - 72
• Betelgeuse – 76
• Melaque Blues – 79
• The Clique – 82

Costa Rica (2002)
• The Best of Nosara – 86
• Good Dog, Bad Owner – 90
• The Frank Story – 94
• Speechless in San Juanillo – 99

Yucatan, Mexico (2003)
• Run For Your Life – 110


La Paz, Mexico (2004)
• Si, La Paz – 120

La Paz, Mexico (2005)
• First Impressions – 130
• Rainbow Hawk – 133
• Chuck – 137
• Cruisers – 146
• I Have A Favour To Ask – 156

La Paz, Mexico (2006)
• Panchón – 169
• The Old Woman – 170
• The Great Interspecies War – 171
• Crucifying Cruzeros – 175
• The Mystery Machine – 179
• Cabo Pulmo – 182
• Interstellar Magic – 185


PRECIOUS DARLINGS:
Tanzania (1979)
• Fit For A King – 190

Brazil (1991)
• The Key & The Rain – 201

Kenya (2004)
• The Longest Day – 205


















“La meilleure façon de ne pas se perdre, c’est de ne pas savoir où l’on va.”

“The best way to avoid getting lost is to not know where one is going.”

Jean-Jacques Schuhl, Ingrid Craven














HAWAI’I
(1999)

A NEW LIFE

“Adventure is just bad planning.”
Roald Amundsen

My flight landed at Lihue an hour ahead of schedule. I surprised Ros by showing up at the door as she was about to leave for the airport. She had planned to greet me with a lei, so she leied me right there in the vestibule.
I've been in Kauai one week. The weather is the same every day: 80°F and sunny, with two or three brief showers. It cools at night so that we need blankets. This morning as I write, I'm wearing tank top and shorts. A fine film of sweat covers my brow. After living in Africa and Thailand, that’s the way—uh-huh, uh-huh—I like it.
My body relishes heat and sun after a frigid end of June in Vancouver. I had to vacate our sold condo, so I spent my last week at the Sylvia Hotel. The weather was cold but my warm clothes were packed with our possessions, ready to be shipped to Hawai’i. Every day after school, I’d return to my unheated hotel room and read, mark papers or watch TV, bundled in long-sleeved shirt and rain jacket. My bald head was wrapped in a babushka made from a hotel towel. And still, I shivered.
The furnished two-bedroom in a seniors’ complex, which Ros rented for us, is better than I expected: spacious, breezy and bright, with a view over a lush valley to the ocean, no traffic noise, and friendly neighbours, all older than us. I awaken to sounds of birds, insects and feral dogs greeting the rising sun, but soon drift back into a delicious dreamy drowse…
Time has slowed now that I’m no longer responding to school bells. It'll take me a few more days to stop feeling restless, itching to fill my time with activity. Nothing new in this. Every summer, I need a week of reading and wandering before I can relax. Strange to think this will be the pace for the rest of my life.
A colleague once surveyed our junior-high staff of forty. Every teacher reported stress dreams: facing a rowdy group without a lesson plan, being unable to find a newly assigned classroom, or walking half-naked down a crowded hallway. My own school dreams are subsiding.
I have yet to develop a routine. I can't return to novel writing until I get my computer, which is stored with our goods in Vancouver. Ros talks of getting involved in the Kauaian community by joining an outrigger team and volunteering at one of the parks. But why integrate if we'll be leaving in a few months?
Ros and I are still reconnecting after a five-month separation. During that period, we grew accustomed to living alone, not having to accommodate the other’s peccadilloes (literally, little sins). We've growled at each other a few times but haven’t lost sight of the fact that we're both on the same side.
She came here last February to be assistant editor of the Garden Island newspaper. Her dream job proved to be a nightmare. Last month, she quit. The horrendous experience left her emotionally battered. She needs a new start, in a place where she can feel secure and successful. She talks of returning to British Columbia, to be closer to friends, more comfortable with the journalistic rules and better informed on local issues.
In Pensées, Blaise Pascal wrote, “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.” The heart has its reasons that reason does not know. For Ros, it is a matter of heart, not of head. So I may as well shut up and enjoy the ride. Still, I wish she’d find a way for us to stay here, or even better, move to a less touristy tropical setting. I cringe at the thought of returning to cold and rain. But I'll go along with whatever decision she makes. She can’t afford to retire. Too bad, because units in our Kauai condo are incredibly cheap right now.
We’ve declared this summer a holiday, so we try to live in the present. But the question of where we’ll be in three months creates undercurrents in our deeper waters.

Yesterday, we drove to the southern end of the island. Beyond the golf course where Tiger won the World Series of Golf, a red-dirt road took us through cane fields, past a quarry, to a packed-earth parking lot with a single car in it. After hiking over a sand dune, we reached a long empty beach. In the distance, a windsurfer was flying off ten-foot waves—probably the owner of the other car.
Igneous-rock cliffs closed the far end of the beach, their lower sections carved out by the relentless Pacific. We strolled over and climbed an easy trail to the overhangs. “Whoompf!” A monster wave crashed against the rock face below, raising a foamy green curtain that blocked our view. The offshore breeze spritzed our faces with salty mist. I stepped a little closer to the edge, a little nearer my God to thee, relishing the tingle of fear in my belly, wondering if this overhang was finally due to break off and tumble down to the roiling aquamarine below. Ros stepped back an equal amount.
This dance symbolizes each partner’s contribution: me the risk taker, she the safety provider. Aware that the equation is balanced only when both sides are equal, we accept our differences.
Beyond the bluffs, we discovered a deserted crescent of sand. We stripped down to our bathing suits and waded out on a rock shelf. Wild six-foot waves pounded the edge, only to roll gently over our feet.
We found a hollow in the lava floor, big enough that we could sink chest-deep in the warm ocean. At each surge, the water gurgled and bubbled and tickled our bodies. Sailing above us, Nature’s water tankers released their cargo. Fat raindrops danced on our heads; rivulets ran down our faces. Holding hands, we hunkered in blissful silence for the duration of the storm, as usual about ten minutes.
The sun reappeared and dried us before we returned to the car. We had encountered no one. And yet only a mile away around the point, thousands of tourists were building their tan or playing on rented water toys at Poipu Beach.
Back home, I discovered two red lumps on my bum. I must have sat on a sea creature whose only defence was to inject mild venom into my backside. An Arab proverb says, “Take what you want and then pay for it.”
All adventures carry a price tag.



DIARY OF A BOOGIE MAN

“Mamma Ocean is a punitive teacher. She will kill you for a single mistake; however, she will let you harness her power if you treat her with respect.”
g.p.

July 15: I look up in thought and come face to face with myself in a mirror that hangs behind Ros’ computer. My forehead is red leatherette, feels like parchment and looks like lobster. I don’t use sunscreen, preferring to gradually build up my melanin until I’m copper-brown. But I goofed. I stayed out too long on the water.
Kauai has few natural harbours, and big surf makes swimming tricky. Snorkelling has been a bust. Even the “best shore dive” at Tunnels Beach, beyond Hanalei (home of Puff), offers little coral and few fish. Today, I bought myself a body board, determined to ride the monster waves.
I drove to Waialua, a local surfing beach. Up close, the waves were scarier than expected. Still, a dozen pre-teens were riding them. The first indication that I was nervous came after I had clown-walked to the water in my swim fins. I paused to attach the board's umbilical cord to my wrist and was about to enter the water when I realized I was still wearing my glasses!
After storing my specs, I returned and, gripping my metre-long board with both hands, launched myself into the aquatic tumult. My finned feet provided propulsion. Sounds easy, but a big breaker flipped me. Its force ripped the Velcro from my wrist and flushed the board to the frothing sand. I recovered it and stood knee-deep in water to re-attach the cord. Mistake! A wave bowled me over. Clumsy in metre-long feet, I turned onto my hands and knees. The next swell blindsided me and planted my face in the sand.
A pony-tailed lifeguard approached. “You OK?”
“Never better!” I said after spitting out a gritty mouthwash.
Eventually, I paddled out among the boarders. Again and again, I tried to catch a wave. Every attempt failed. The kids had no such problems. But they paddled with arms as well as feet. I tried but the board kept squirting out from under me. After a scalp-burning hour, I gave up, frustrated.
I sat at water’s edge to take off my fins. A collapsing wall of water whapped me in the chest and drove me onto my back. Scrambling up, spluttering, I removed one fin. But the next pounder wrenched it from my grip. The undertow sucked the fin toward the deep. I fought to reach it against the surge, to no avail. Giving up, I escaped further assaults by hopping up the slope on my one bare foot. The lifeguard was standing next to me.
“It’ll wash back up in a day or two,” he said. “But your fins are way too big for boogie boarding. Look what the kids are wearing. They’re called duck's feet. Long fins don’t allow mobility in big waves. Anyway, these kids are playing in the toughest surf of all. Nothing but closeouts and shorepound. They think it’s cool to get slammed to the sand—the Superman Syndrome. Just a matter of time till one of them breaks his neck.”
He pointed to an area two hundred metres away, where a solitary girl was floating on a surfboard.
“That's the place to learn. You get a steady right break. Ride the shoulder of the wave, not the middle. Anyway, you should be surfing.”
“But I just bought this boogie board. Besides I can’t spring to my feet anymore, not even on land, let alone on a surfboard.”
“Well, then get yourself some proper fins. I’ll watch out for your big flipper. Check back in a few days… And never turn your back on the surf!”
When I got home, I emptied a cup of sand from the pocket of my swim shorts. That night, my sleep was troubled by visions. Waves buried me, water rushed up my nose. My breath ran out as I struggled to get my head above water. I watched replays of my fin getting sucked under, felt humiliated… worse than school dreams.

July 16: Today, I went to Kalapaki Beach where the surf is smaller. If twelve-year-old Hawaiian kids can ride these waves, there’s no reason a sixty-year-old Canadian can’t. Out on the water, three surfers sat straddling their boards, waiting for the next set of waves. At the far end of the beach, a dozen little kids were boogie boarding in a bay formed by a seawall made of lava boulders. I asked the lifeguard for a good place to learn.
“Out there.” He pointed to the surfers a quarter mile away.
The water was wonderfully warm. I mounted my iridescent board and kicked using my new pink fins. Ros gave me a pair she no longer uses. I duck-sized them with a bread knife. I tried to tunnel through breakers like surfers do, but got flipped and tumbled. Before I could get back on my board the next wave was upon me. Copying the surfers, I let myself sink. The roar passed overhead. I wobbled in the turbulence but remained in control. Popping out, I scrambled onto my board in time to submarine the next breaker. Whew!
After twenty minutes, I was still a long way from my goal. Tide must be coming in. Judging by the rock jetty, I was paddling just to stay in place. I increased my kicking rate and made some headway.
The surfers were gathered just beyond the point where swells crested. By the time I reached them I was exhausted. Floating on the heaving surface, I rested and observed their technique. When my breathing grew normal, I tried to mount a wave, but it slithered under me. I tried again, but couldn’t get up to speed. Too pooped to paddle, I floated to shore, dispirited.
I joined the kids in the shallows. Without fins, I launched myself from the sandy bottom. I caught a few curls that whisked me fifty feet. I even managed a cutback into one wave. But then, a big roller slammed me to the sand. Enough!
Ros sat reading under a shade tree. I joined her. I couldn’t raise my arms above my head without grimacing in pain. The last time I’d felt this stiff was the morning after my first college football practice, forty-three years ago. Surfing must be great exercise; I sweated for another half-hour.

July 18: Today in the “girls’ section” of Waialua Beach, I finally managed to catch a wave. I rode it a hundred metres. All I needed to do was start paddling earlier, hold the board with one hand and stroke with my free arm. Major breakthrough!
When I came out, the lifeguard called me over.
“Your fin washed up.”
“Really? Wow!”
As he led me to his lookout perch, I thanked him, showed off my adapted duck feet and announced I’d just ridden my first wave.
He handed me my big fin and said, “You’re paying your dues.”

August 9: My technique is improving. I can now catch and ride six-foot waves. When one throws me, I no longer fight. Resistance is useless and wastes oxygen. I let the wave drive me under and tumble me in “the washing machine,” trusting that Mamma Ocean will release me before I run out of air. Playing with a superior power is exalting.
Sometimes, alone between sets of waves, floating far from shore and surrounded by endless ocean, my attention drifts to the babble inside.
Limbo—not the dance but the place—best describes my current state. As Catholics know, limbo is neither bad nor good, but an intermediary place, emotionally, geographically and temporally. Oops, I'm being a mite intellectual, maybe because I'm currently reading the Gödel, Escher and Bach by Douglas Hofstadter, a book described as “the ultimate intellectual tour de force.” I started out describing feelings and detoured into a logical labyrinth. So, back to the feelings…
In six weeks, we’ll leave Kauai. To go where? I don’t know. I feel unsettled, sad and empty. We've been on “holidays” since the end of June. Knowing we'd be moving away, I've made no friends, nor joined any group. Instead, I’ve concentrated on boogie boarding. That's fine, but it takes up a fraction of each day. The rest of the time, I read, go for walks, watch TV, eat, poop and sleep. I lack a sense of involvement, of purpose, something on which to focus my energies. As a result, I'm speedier than I like and more withdrawn from Ros, even though we spend twenty hours a day together.

August 12: I just got back from playing with Mamma at Waialua Beach. The waves were perfect. I caught a ten-footer and controlled it for at least a quarter-mile. A Hawaiian woman surfer rode the shoulder of the same wave. When I veered off, I let out a whoop of delight. She raised a fist in acknowledgment. She then paddled back out in half the time, caught a wave but had to bail because I was in her way. I apologized. She waved it off, saying, “I’m happy just being here.” Me, too!

August 18: In French, the word for the sea, “la mer,” is pronounced the same as “la mère,” the mother. After all, life originated in the ocean; our bodies are pouches of saline solution. When my real mother died five years ago, I walked to a beach near my Vancouver home and sat on a log, close enough to touch the Pacific Ocean. That's where I grieved her passing. Before leaving, I silently told “la mer” that she was now “ma mère.” Since then, whenever I visit her, I whisper a respectful, “Bonjour, maman.”
Today, I reached a milestone: I rode the shoulder of a wave! True, twelve-year-old kids accomplish this feat regularly. It’s the way to maximize your ride. You must select the right swell, paddle to its highest point, match its speed as it crests and, while bouncing down the waterfall, turn to carve into the edge of the foam.
Boogie boarding has become the highlight of my days. Floating between sets of breakers on the immensity of the Pacific, I feel free and euphoric. Yesterday, as I floated among surfers, I noticed “someone” squeezing me on the right. I turned and came face to snout with a thousand-pound monk seal! Today as I paddled out, a ten-foot-high aquamarine wall of water rose before me. Outlined in it was a giant green sea turtle. Often, hundreds of silverlings will jump all around me. Such joy!
Surfing blends peaceful meditation with adrenaline-fueled excitement. Like a Japanese koan, the contradiction completes the circle.

WIN-WIN

“For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
John Greenleaf Whittier

Ros has begun her job search online. She may return to teach at Langara College or opt to work for a small-town newspaper. So far, she's found job openings in Guam, Winfield, Penticton and Sechelt.
We went to the library to find out about Guam, the only tropical option. One-third of the island is occupied by the US military; the rest is overrun with eight-foot-long tree snakes. With no predators, their population has ballooned to 4000 per square mile. These egg-eating reptiles have decimated the bird population. In fact, Kauai refuses landing privileges to planes from Guam for fear of infestation. Snakes and soldiers. Non, merci.
Since we both prefer to live by the sea, the Winfield and Penticton jobs seem unlikely, but it's Ros’ career choice. Closeted in the second bedroom this morning, she talked to the editor of the Sechelt newspaper.
When she came out for lunch, I served sandwiches and salad on the balcony. The air was deliciously warm, the sun shaded by the roof.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“The managing editor offered me the job right away. I’m way overqualified. He was expecting a junior reporter. It’d be a lot of work: I’d have to write at least twenty stories a week, including sports.”
“I could help you with those.”
“Yeah, thanks. When we talked salary, I said I’d need a minimum of thirty thousand. He laughed. That’s more than he makes.”
“You know, we can’t afford another Kauai adventure; it cost us way too much. Our condo’s gone. We’ll lose at least four thousand bucks reselling the car. On top of that, all our stuff is bubble-wrapped in a container. Just getting it back will cost a small fortune.”
Her hands flew up to block my words. I realized how loudly I was talking. I was quivering with emotion.

When Ros returned to the bedroom, I played a tape of Hawaiian music. Listening on headphones, I stared out the window over palm trees and the green gully all the way to the ocean. A gentle breeze wafted through the open balcony doors, bringing the scent of frangipani. Taj Mahal, a Kauai resident, was playing Sacred Island.
A sense of loss swept over me. Tears welled up and I wept in silence. I was not grieving Kauai but the profound joy and comfort of warm seas, lush lands, slow pace and year-round summer. Had Ros been applying for a job in Fiji, I would have been elated. Taj’s gentle music was so evocative of the tropical lifestyle that I wrote on the cover: “Music is a state of being.”
I like aphorisms. The previous January, in the excitement of planning for Kauai, I had summed up our adventure to the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut, “Two dreams for a condo, great deal.” Ros would run a small-town newspaper and I’d retire in the tropics. Now, she was recovering from a nightmare, our Vancouver condo was gone, our bank account was shrinking, and my hope of living between Cancer and Capricorn was moribund.
Resentment rose. I shuddered at the prospect of returning to cold and rain. Why should I have to give up my dream? Couldn’t she stay on and make the best of a bad job until a better opportunity arose? Why was she so needy of her Vancouver friends, so alienated in this Garden of Eden? Couldn’t she let go of some of her needs? Did she expect coddling, a boost over every hurdle? Our life plans were no longer in sync. No wonder I had barked at her.

That evening, we talked.
“Sorry, for letting my anger leak out at lunch,” I said as we sat at either end of the rattan sofa. “This is an emotional issue for me. I spent the afternoon thinking about it, about us. When you took this job, I was thrilled. Now everything’s going wrong. I want to live in the tropics. But it’s best for you to go back to Canada. You win, I lose.’
“Doesn’t feel like a win to me. More like surviving a disaster.”
“Yeah, without insurance.”
“But you agreed to those things,” she said, sounding defensive.
“More than that; I encouraged you. I’m not blaming you. I’m trying to explain my side.”
“I thought we were both on the same side.”
“We are.” I took a deep breath. “And we both need to be happy. You see, once I retired, I figured it was up to you to decide where your career would take you.”
“You kept saying you could be happy anywhere, so I should do what was best for me.”
“Exactly! It was a mistaken form of love. I should have taken part in the decision and asked for what I wanted.”
“You were free to do that,” she replied.
“It didn’t feel like it when you were working here alone. Every night on the phone, you’d pour your heart out. How could I ask for what I wanted when you needed so much support? Especially when I felt guilty for pressuring you into taking the Kauai job.”
“You didn’t pressure me.”
“Well, my excitement at the prospect of living in the tropics must have influenced you.”
“So what do you want?” she asked.
“For us to look for a win-win solution. I want a fifty-percent role.”
“You’ve always had it.”
“Like I said, it was my mistake, not yours. It comes down to this: I’d love to live in the tropics, but I know that’s not the best choice for you.”
“You don’t have to give up your dream, just postpone it.”
“Yeah, right,” I grumbled. “I’ll be seventy when you retire.”
“We have options,” she said. “The Sechelt job’s a pipe dream. The salary’s ridiculous and the workload way too heavy. My best choice is to return to Langara. I can apply for salary deferment. In four years, I’ll get a year off with pay. We can choose a likely place in the tropics and live there as an experiment.”
“Hmm… Until then, would you be willing to spend some summer holidays searching for that place?”
“Absolutely!” She smiled. “Sounds exciting.”
“What if I take off on my own to escape the winter rains?”
“We can spend Christmas Break together and you can stay on after I return to work. That way, I’ll be able to picture where you are.”
“Hey, I believe we’ve managed to find a win-win solution.”
“Hug?”


OUR BEACH

“My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean’s edge as I can go.”
Henry David Thoreau

The moon was full. We drove to “our” beach, a two-mile-long strip of sand that runs between the Outrigger Hotel and Lydgate State Park. On maps, it bears no name, so it has become Our Beach.
During the day, the few visitors are local fishermen. After casting into the surf, they slide the fishing-pole handle into a metal tube stuck in the slope. A small bell is attached to the rod’s tip. They sit back in the shade with friends, enjoy a drink with pupus and wait for dinner to be announced.
But this was nighttime. We parked under windswept scrub trees on a sand dune shaped smooth by wind and surf. The lights of Kapa’a town sparkled in the distance. We wore long-sleeved tops against the cool breeze but tramped barefoot through shallow foam, me closer to the water. Wispy clouds veiled the moon, but we had enough light to avoid stubbing our toes on flotsam. The ocean’s choir drowned out other sounds. Mamma’s warm ablution blessed the hem of my shorts.
“Bonsoir, maman,” I whispered.
All along, holes big enough for groundhogs pocked the sandy slope. We shone our flashlight into some openings. No luck. Each tunnel had an abrupt turn just inside the entrance. But when we aimed the beam thirty yards up the beach, we could see giant sand crabs scurrying on the wet slope, pinching food delivered by the surf. When we came close, they tippy-toed to their lair.
The light was fantastic. The ocean glistened like mercury. We strolled onto a rock platform that reduced the surf to ripples, and stood in ankle-deep water, holding hands. Moon-spangled waves met at acute angles to merge like two sides of a zipper.
We returned to the car, fetched our low-slung folding chairs and set them just above the wet line. For a long while we sat in silence. Moist air flowed over our skin, bringing the fragrance of the sea and speckling my glasses. Our entertainment was the light on the surf and the scuttling crabs. At times, clouds parted and the moon’s round face reappeared. It glazed the heaving ocean. Such beauty! Such peace! We returned home feeling privileged, at one with the cosmos and with each other.

Later, in bed, after we had made love, my mind drifted to a prevailing idea in our culture that sexual passion diminishes after years with the same partner. This is no longer true for me, but it took me half a century to learn.
For some men, sexual passion is fuelled by a desire for power and control; the greatest excitement found in deflowering a virgin. For others, their sexual appetite comes from an addiction to adrenaline, so they are condemned to seek new challenges. For still others, desire is tied to ego: they need a beautiful woman to prove their worth. In all cases, the result is dissatisfaction with the partner, not because she has changed but because she can no longer satisfy the need for power, danger or self-aggrandizement.
If a man can remove these blinders and allow himself to luxuriate in the sublime shared pleasures of sex, the ecstasy of orgasm, the endorphin high and warm intimacy that follow, then making love to the same woman for many years does not reduce passion, but increases it.
I adore sunsets. Each one is different. Some are more spectacular than others, but saying goodnight to the ultimate life giver always leaves me relaxed and grounded in the physical world. Do I need a new sun to maintain my enthusiasm?
















BELIZE
(2000)

BAD CITY

Every guidebook warned that Belize City was a dirty, high-crime town. But that’s where major airlines bring visitors to the country. We were combining summer holidays with our search for a future winter home. Belize is the only Central-American country whose national language is English. Furthermore, with the longest barrier reef in the hemisphere, Belize has a world-class reputation as a paradise for scuba divers and snorkellers. We were seeking a seaside town that did not cater to packaged tourism.
For our one night in the capital, we decided to go cheap-cheap. The Rough Guide recommended three budget hotels, all within shooting distance of each other. The Mira Rio had received the best write-up: “reasonable rooms, overlooking the river, with washbasins and toilet, shared bath… no late-night noise… simple but tasty Creole food.”
An overpriced airport taxi deposited us on North Front Street. We might have stepped into a frontier town; unpainted wood buildings lined the narrow street. We entered the Mira Rio Hotel and found ourselves in a dark bar. Three Black men standing around a pool table checked us out. Other than the bare bulb above them, the only light came from glass doors at the far end. Two Hispanic women were sitting at the bar. We asked for a room. They no longer rented any. How about the Bon Aventure? Shut down. Only the North Front Street Guest House remained open for business.
Shouldering our travel packs, we crossed the street, hiked up wooden stairs to a balcony. Heat and humidity pressed us like lemons; we squirted sweat. Inside the open front door, two men sat smoking roll-your-owns. One shouted toward the back and a boy of twelve appeared. He showed us a room with a double bed. But the overhead fan barely turned, even at high setting. In this heat, we needed proper ventilation. He led us to a smaller room, whose window louvered over the entry stairs and the street. It’d be noisy. But the fan whirred like a helicopter at lift-off. We paid twelve bucks.
While Ros went down the back stairs in search of a washroom, I introduced myself to the two men. Dan, with shaved head and tattoos, was from Vancouver, but for the past decade he had lived in Belize and Guatemala. The other guest was a Frenchman, who was touring the world on bicycle. He showed press clippings of his passage through Asia.
When I mentioned the closed Mira Rio, Dan reported that officials had recently shut down all three backpacker hotels, claiming health reasons.
“Big hotels are trying to eliminate low-priced options,” he explained. “This guesthouse was only allowed to re-open after putting in a second washbasin downstairs, adding a light in the hallway, and making a major contribution to the chief inspector’s retirement fund.”
“Really? Glad it’s still open.”
“Where’re you heading?” Dan asked.
“Dunno. We’re looking for a quiet seaside village. Any suggestion?”
“Placencia,” he replied instantly. “More laid-back and less touristy than the cayes. And no hassles.”
Ros returned. A Dutch couple joined the group. They were heading inland to explore a five-kilometre-long cave lined with Mayan artifacts and human skulls dating back to biblical times. We chatted about our plans and soon left.
Across the street, unpainted dressers, chairs and tables spilled out from a factory-store staffed by white men in denim overalls, long-sleeved shirts and straw hats. A few wives sat in midday heat, dressed in turn-of-the-century American Sunday best. These were Mennonites, forced out of Canada to avoid conscription during World War I, then from Mexico when they refused to join its social security programme. Their pale faces and washed-out blue eyes hinted at genetic regressions.
We re-entered the Mira Rio and paused to let our eyes adjust to the dim light. At the bar, we ordered one regular and one premium Belikin and stepped out onto the back porch. We chose a shady corner and sat facing a slow-moving brown river. Twin-engine boats roared past. Through gaps in the floorboards, we watched their wake sweep below us and slosh at the building’s pilings. A slight breeze drew our sighs. The beers were served cold. We did a blind test and declared the premium brand no better than its plebeian relative, which sold at half the price.
“Placencia is one of the few places in mainland Belize with proper beaches,” Ros read from the guidebook. “This, together with inexpensive accommodation, makes it a great place to relax.”
Just what the physio ordered. The previous week, I had suffered back spasms… all because of amorous impulses. At the end of a visit to my in-laws, I had lovingly relieved Ros of a forty-pound duffle bag bulging with old family photos. As curator of her family’s history, she was bringing them back to Vancouver for cataloguing. I lugged this load on one shoulder for several parsecs to our departure gate in the farthest confines of Cleveland airport. This act of love had left me bent out of shape.
Still somewhat askew, I hoped to delay scuba diving until the last week of our month-long Belizean adventure. Placencia made sense. We wouldn’t travel further south, so we could wend our way north for our flight home in four weeks.
A teenaged girl in school uniform—white blouse and knee-length navy-blue skirt—came out.
“More beer?”
“Not yet,” Ros replied.
“Where do you come from?” she asked.
The girl quizzed us about Canada.
Eventually, Ros asked, “Why is this river named Haulover Creek?”
“I know that,” the girl answered brightly. “Before the Swing Bridge was built, cows had to be winched across. Haul over creek… Get it?”
She was the owner’s granddaughter. Her mother was running the bar while her grandpa was recuperating from gunshot wounds.
“Gunshots?”
“One bullet grazed his head, the other punctured a lung,” she said.
“Was the attacker caught?”
“No. He dove over this railing and swam to the far side.” She laughed. “Probably died from the pollution.”
A high-school student on summer vacation, she was describing her academic plans when a shout came from inside. The girl halted in mid-sentence and hurried off. When we ordered more beer, the mother brought it.

We returned to our hotel after dinner. Dan had shifted to the balcony. Next to him, a Hispanic woman in her fifties sat on a kitchen chair, her head and one pudgy arm slung over the railing. She waved for us to sit on a bench along the wall, and resumed her chat with a woman on the street below. We couldn’t understand her language although it was a dialect of English.
“Where did you eat?” Dan asked.
“The Fort Street Restaurant.”
“Oh, yeah. How was it?”
“Delicious,” I said. “We had fish—grouper and marlin.
“Nice setting,” Ros added. “Linen tablecloths and real silverware. We sat on a verandah next to palm trees silhouetted by the setting sun. Birds everywhere. We even heard a parrot squawk.”
“Yeah, but after dinner, there were no taxis, so we had to walk.” I said. “I pulled my T-shirt over my fanny pack—all my valuables.”
“It looked like a tourist with a hernia,” Ros added, laughing.
“Well, it’s scary on the side streets,” I protested.
“You got that right,” Dan said. “ I never walk alone at night.”
“ So why are you here?” I asked him.
“Business.”
He did not elaborate. Instead, he pointed to the woman.
“That’s the owner’s daughter. She runs the guesthouse and spends every evening on this balcony. Her apartment’s on the top floor.”
The woman finished her conversation and greeted us.
“How old is this house?” Ros asked.
“Well, my father built it, and I was born here. So it must be more than fifty years old.”
“Was it always a hotel?”
“Oh, no. My parents planned to have many children.” The woman chuckled. “But they only produced me and my brother. With so many empty rooms, my mother offered lodgings to visitors. Word spread and our home became a true guesthouse.”
Sitting on the bench, backs against the clapboard wall, we listened to her reminisce about the city of her childhood, of days spent swimming in Haulover Creek before it got so filthy. The young boy who had shown us the rooms came out and sat next to the woman. I asked if he was her son.
“Oh, no! He’s just someone we’re helping to raise.”
To fill the growing silence, I said, “It’s so much easier to travel in a country where everyone speaks English.”
“British pirates, like Captain Morgan, Walter Raleigh, Francis Drake and others, sheltered inside the reef and raided Spanish treasure fleets,” the woman replied. “They also came ashore to steal logwood and mahogany intended for Spain. In time, so many British buccaneers roamed the coast that Spain allowed them their own lumber camps, to protect Spanish lumber stocks.
“The English settled in and called themselves Baymen. Later, Spain tried to expel them. But Spanish sailors were unfamiliar with the reef while the Baymen knew all the channels. With their smaller, quicker boats they crushed the Spanish fleet. That’s when we became British Honduras. And now, we’re Belize. Next year will mark twenty years of independence. You must come back for the celebrations.”
“We might well do that,” I offered.
At nine-thirty, we said goodnight.
We lay in bed, naked and uncovered. Springs poked up at inopportune places. The overhead fan cooled our feet, while our heads and torsos sweltered. We re-oriented: feet against headboard, heads under fan. It helped, somewhat.
Outside, the occasional car rumbled past, its radio braying Caribbean hip-hop. When the street grew quiet, we could hear the balcony talk through our window. We lay on our lumpy bed in sweaty darkness, waiting for everyone to call it a night. The Dutch couple we had met in the afternoon clomped up the front stairs as if wearing wooden shoes. They struggled to unlock the security door, rattling it so hard that our room shook. Eventually, someone got up and opened it from the inside. Conversation, which had dwindled, flared like new wood on a campfire.
At last, the front door opened and everyone tramped in, separated from us by a particleboard wall that ended two feet from the ceiling. We listened to whispered goodnights and the door being bolted shut. I squirmed to a less uncomfortable spot between two springs, patted my musty foam-chip pillow and faded into a sweaty half-sleep.
A minute or an hour later, Ros and I were startled awake by booming music and metallic clanging. Streetlight filtered through the louvres. We crawled to the head of the bed and peered out. In the middle of the street, a man was changing a flat tire. With his car radio at full volume and both doors open, he pounded the wheel rim with a wrench. We fell back onto our damp, lumpy bed and sighed.
Learning: In the world’s “bad” cities, stay in “good” hotels.

RIDING THE SCHOOL BUS

The bus terminal’s ceiling fans whirled like tired dervishes above a dozen travellers awaiting their departure. Walls were dingy from sweaty hands and diesel fumes. At the ticket counter, a girl in school uniform sold us tickets to Placencia. The cost: $7.50 (US) each for a seven-hour ride. Great deal, but seven hours for a hundred and fifty miles?
We sat in the third row, legs angled sideways for lack of space. The bus left the coastal mangrove swamps and entered hilly farmland. Every front yard teemed with children and domestic animals. Through the open door of one shack, we saw four people sitting side by side on a double bed set in the doorway. They watched us go by—we were their reality TV.
We reached Belmopan, the capital, in an hour and a half—not bad for a fifty-mile leg with a hundred stops. The driver announced a short break. We stepped out of our orange bus, careful to note its position and original school district: S.D. 31 Cheraw CO. Dozens of former American school buses were parked side by side on the bare field. Travellers shambled in glaring sunshine between rows of stalls that offered food, drinks and cheap toys. Ros and I shared a cold Seven-Up.
From Belmopan, the Hummingbird Highway climbed into mountains. A friendly man across the aisle pointed out the sights: the green Maya Mountains, a saddle between two peaks known as Arthur’s Seat, a ribbon of water cascading down a cliff, even the turnoff to Blue Hole National Park.
“I’m planning to dive the Blue Hole,” I told him.
“Ah, there are many blue holes in our country. In Mayan, they are called cenote. Our mountains are made of limestone and underground rivers have carved out many caves. When such a cavern collapses, it creates a blue hole. The water is so clear it appears pale blue. But the famous blue hole you will explore is off the coast.”
A few kilometres further, we passed the Over The Top restaurant. We had finished climbing and now cruised downhill.
“We are entering Garifuna territory,” our volunteer guide announced.
“Garifuna?”
“The name of my people. We Blacks come from escaped African slaves and survivors of shipwrecks. Our ancestors first lived on St Vincent Island but were deported by the British for being rebellious. So they moved to the south coast of Belize. We have our own culture, a blend of African, Caribbean and Christian. For a true Garifuna experience, you must visit Punta Gorda.”
“We’re only planning to go as far south as Placencia,” I replied.
“Well then, you must spend time in Seine Bight. It’s on your way.”

In two hours, we reached Dangriga, where we would change buses. We said goodbye to our Garifuna friend. The bus to Placencia was loading. The rear emergency exit was open. We wedged our packs behind the last seat. Inside, the only remaining seat for two was at the very back. No problem: only fifty-five miles. Besides, our packs would be at hand. And rather than have to wedge ourselves in seats designed for grade-schoolers, we could stretch our legs down the aisle.
We were the only Whites on the bus. One visual delight was the hairstyle of little girls. Their hair had been parted into one-inch squares and braided. Each end was secured with a red, green, blue, purple or yellow plastic bauble, a stunning effect. Move over, Venus and Serena.
The air grew hotter. Sweat oozed. People continued to board, squeezing three abreast on seats built for two kids. Standees gradually filled the aisle, until we were forced to tuck in our legs.
At last, the bus edged out through an open metal gate onto the street. Air began to circulate. We soon cleared the outskirts of Dangriga, albeit not without a dozen stops to pick up, and even drop off, passengers.
After half an hour on the smooth Southern Highway, pavement gave way to gravel. Our driver now slalomed around potholes as if competing in an Olympic ski event. He slowed when we caught up to a loaded dump truck. All scenery disappeared and the bus filled with reddish dust. No longer able to see the road, our driver tailgated, guided by the truck’s brake lights. With non-existent shocks, the bus’ chassis slammed onto the frame at every bump. I sat with my hands pressed against the seat to support my wonky lower back.
Bridges along the route were being rebuilt. The bus detoured down clay slopes. Bare-chested workers, wearing their T-shirts as turbans, paused under midday sun to watch us go by. Eventually, the truck turned off at a worksite and our driver accelerated to slalom speed.
We turned onto a track half as wide and twice as rough. The washboard action rattled my teeth. I tried to protect my back by anticipating bumps. Never, during my years in Africa and Asia, had I experienced such a pummeling. Twice, I was flung from the seat so that my head banged against the metal roof. Perhaps our position behind the rear wheels subjected us to a catapult effect. Other passengers seemed impervious to the dust and pounding. They shouted back and forth in Garifuna and laughed.
Two excruciating hours later, the ocean appeared on our left, and a lagoon on our right. Placencia Peninsula was only a few hundred metres wide. Whenever we stopped, I prayed that we had reached our destination. My god repeatedly let me down.
The bus ran out of road at the very tip of the peninsula. We filed out onto packed sand. I stretched carefully: my back had survived. It was 3pm and the sun was still fiery. In the shade, sitting on two truck seats propped against palm trees, four Blacks in dreadlocks, tank tops and satin shorts examined us. They faced the village square rather than the pretty aquamarine lagoon. One Rasta nodded. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. From behind, someone swatted me across the shoulders. I turtled and turned. Ros explained that my T-shirt was caked with dust.
We retrieved our packs. They, too, needed a spanking. Each slap raised a red puff that drifted on the breeze. To our right stood Jay Bird’s, a thatch-roofed bar with half a dozen customers. We walked over, found a corner table and, over reggae music, ordered two Belikin. Ros dried her face with her cotton handkerchief. Like the veil of Turin, a reddish outline of her face was left on the light material.
“I guess Placencia won’t make our short-list for retirement,” she said with a smile. “Imagine having to take this bus at seventy-five.”
“I’m already too old for it,” I whined.
“Well, we’ll still need to take the bus out.”
“Ugh! Don’t remind me. That’s a whole week away, in the distant future.” I raised my beer. “Here’s to placid Placencia.”

Learning: Never sit at the very back of buses plying rough roads.
REVELATION

When our bus bounced into Placencia, the first locals we saw were four dreadlocked Blacks sitting on salvaged truck seats propped against palm trees. They had definitely inhaled. One nodded as I stepped off the bus, which I interpreted as a willingness to do business.
The next day, as we strolled to Olga’s for groceries, the same four Rastas were sitting in the same shady seats, facing the village square rather than the lagoon. I walked over and asked if they were open for business. They laughed and replied that the office was temporarily closed due to lack of merchandise, but a delivery boat was expected that very afternoon.
On the way to dinner that evening, I again stopped at the truck seats. The one remaining dude said the dealer had come, spent a few hours at Jay Bird’s Bar, and then left. Not to worry: he’d be back in a day or two.
On the third day, in the late afternoon, we were lugging groceries up the Sidewalk—a kilometre-long cement walkway that parallels the shore. A group of workers were packing up after mixing and pouring cement all day. I remarked to Ros how debilitating manual labour must be in this heat. One guy with dreadlocks was washing under a hose. Rivulets of water washed cement dust from black skin. He saw me looking and smiled. I walked over.
“Must be tough mixing cement in this heat.”
“Well, bruddah, it’s a job. But I am grateful that the day is done,” he said. Water droplets on his dreads glinted in the sunlight. “How are you enjoying Placencia?”
“Great!” I replied. “A great place to mellow out. But it seems that ganja is hard to find around here.”
“That depends on many factors, my friend.”
“Do you think you could find me some?”
“Sure, man, no problem. Just wait till I clean up. Where you staying?”
“Up the way at Seaspray. We’re in the little bungalow on the beach.”
“Yeah, man. I know the one. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Ros saw him from our cabin window. He was sitting alone at one of the two outdoor tables of the Seaspray Bar. I asked if she wanted to join me. That way, we could go to dinner as soon as the deal was done. She agreed.
We sat across from him at the table and ordered three Belikin. He introduced himself as Tawa, or maybe Tower, a misnomer since he was no more than five-foot six. His T-shirt featured the dread-headed Bob Marley and one word: Rastaman. Tawa, who might have been as old as forty or as young as twenty-five, explained that he didn’t always work as a labourer. Sometimes, he dove for lobsters with his friend, who could dive to a depth of sixty feet with no fins, just a mask, and swim around until he saw the telltale antennae poking out from under a rock. Sixty feet?
“Yes, man. It’s the ganja. It helps you hold your breath.” He demonstrated by pretending to suck on a joint and hold in the smoke.
“Really?” I nodded and smiled. According to what I knew of marijuana, it caused shortness of breath. I added a non-committal: “Get high to stay down.”
“Ha! I like that.” He offered a fist, which I tapped with my own.
“Now, hit your heart. That’s the Garifuna way.”
We both thumped our chest and laughed. When our beers were finished, Tawa informed us that no marijuana was to be found in Placencia, but we would easily find some in Seine Bight, five kilometres back up the peninsula. We could take the shuttle bus. This was the Garifuna village our travelling companion had recommended. I looked at Ros. She nodded.
We followed Tawa a few hundred metres along a sandy path that crossed the peninsula and connected the cement walkway to the main road. By now, the sun had disappeared, making for a pleasant excursion, except for swarming mosquitoes. We waited for the shuttle on the edge of the red gravel road, slapping our bare legs.
“What time is it?” Tawa asked.
“Almost seven,” Ros answered.
“Perhaps we missed the last shuttle.” He wrinkled his brow in thought. “We could take a taxi… but it will cost more.”
The mozzies persuaded us to opt for a taxi. Tawa trotted barefoot in the direction of the gas station—two drums with hand pumps. Behind us stood Placencia’s only Internet café, The Purple Monkey, a hexagon on stilts, with conical thatched roof and open sides. It offered food, reggae music, a single computer and a hip young crowd. We had eaten lunch there the previous day: tasty but overpriced burgers. Worse, still, their stools had no back support, a deficiency I might not have noticed at twenty.
A Ford Explorer 4x4 pulled up. The rear door opened and Tawa stepped out. He ushered us into the back seat and slid in next to me. The air conditioning was turned up full force. Two beefy Blacks filled the front buckets. We drove off slowly. The driver claimed to know the road like the palm of his hand.
“Before buying this fancy rig and becoming a taxi driver, I was Seine Bight’s sheriff,” he explained. “So how do you like Placencia?”
“Wonderful,” Ros and I chorused.
“But everything is more expensive than we expected,” I added.
“That’s the fault of the P.U.P.” The ex-sheriff’s voice rose. “They won the last election by promising to remove the V.A.T. Two years later, 15% is still added to the price of everything we buy. And tourists must pay a 7% hotel tax. No wonder everything is expensive.”
Tawa chimed in with the fact that the P.U.P., the ruling party in Belize, had swept to power in 1998 with an unprecedented 25 of 29 seats. And yet, it had no Garifuna representatives. “It’s the party of the rich businessmen: Whites and East Indians from Belize City and Belmopan.”
Ros and I listened as the men grew vehement. Neither of us asked what the acronym P.U.P. stood for. After twenty minutes of heated political discussion and bone-chilling conditioned air, we reached Seine Bight. The road was paved for the length of the village. On either side, a few wooden shacks stood on stilts, like giant spiders. Bare light bulbs on telephone poles cast pools of light in the growing darkness. Tawa indicated a crossroad and the car stopped. The driver asked his partner for the tariff sheet in the glove compartment. He apologized in advance for the high price, but it was standard; he wasn’t ripping us off. How much? Fifteen U.S. dollars—five per person. The glove compartment held no price sheet. Both men searched the floor. I said I trusted them, paid the driver his money and we stepped out. Our goose bumps disappeared in the warm air. Locals strolled or stood in small groups, talking and drinking quart bottles of beer. Ours were the only white faces.
“This way,” Tawa called.
We left the lighted pavement and trekked along a rutted side road. Stars were becoming visible and a sliver of a waning moon hung above the palm trees. After two hundred metres, we reached a house. A man sat on the outside stairs. Inside, a woman screamed and kids bawled. Tawa spoke with the man in Garifuna and then returned to us. The dealer was out but should be back in half an hour.
Tawa led us almost to the edge of the lagoon. A footpath snaked to a cabin, also on stilts. A hand-painted sign announced The Cat’s Paw. Stairs led to a single room with three tables; each set against a different wall, with a bar along the fourth. A lithe, young Garifuna, in T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops fiddled with the stereo. When he approached us, Bob Marley’s voice filled the small room: Get up, stand up. Stand up for your rights!
I ordered three Belikin. Art naïf in vibrant colours—toucans, hummingbirds, hibiscus flowers and palm trees—adorned the unpainted wooden walls. Each was signed Lola. The beer was frosty and cheaper than in Placencia. We sat listening to the music. Ros noticed a tiny tree frog clinging to the two-by-four behind me. The red-eyed amphibian was less than an inch long. Its metallic green sides rose and fell with each breath. Tipped with suction cups, its splayed toes clung to the dark wood. Tawa chuckled at our excitement, as we might at Japanese tourists going gaga over geese in Stanley Park.
Old pirates yesterday rob I, sold I to the merchant ships…
“Tawa, why is Bob Marley so popular in Belize?” I asked. “After all, he was Jamaican.”
“Ah, no my friend,” Tawa shook his dreads. “That’s his Babylonian origins. He’s a Rastaman, like us.”
“Babylonian?”
“Yeah, man. Babylon is the Rasta word for the Whites who kept our race down for centuries, first by slavery and, today, through poverty. Rastas remind Blacks of their heritage and teach them to stand up against Babylon.”
“I see. But why Babylon?”
“Have you read your Bible?”
“Ah… a little.”
“In the Good Book, Babylon is the name of the woman who rides the Beast.” He closed his eyes, wrinkled his brow and declaimed in a stentorian voice: “Upon her great head this was written: Mystery, Babylon the great, the mother of harlots and of the abominations of the earth.” He re-opened his eyes and gave a satisfied smile. “Revelation 17:5.”
“But how does that refer to whites?" I asked.
"It is also written: ‘The fourth beast is a fourth kingdom that will appear on earth, which shall be different from all others and shall devour the whole earth, trampling it down, and breaking it in pieces.’ Daniel 7:23. You see, without regard for other humans, the Europeans broke up the earth into pieces they called colonies. Now the children of Europe, the Americans, control the world. They are Babylon.”
“What about the two of us?” I asked.
He guffawed. “You are not the enemy, my friends. You’re sitting here with a Black man in a Black bar in a Black village, drinking beer and showing respect. This is the way the world should be: love your brother.”
“So tell me, Tawa,” Ros said. “Why do Rastafarians smoke ganja?”
“Ah, that’s explained in Genesis,” he replied without hesitation. “You know the story of Adam and Eve, yes? When they were sent out of the Garden of Eden for eating the forbidden fruit, Jah told Adam: ‘Thou shall eat the herb of the field.’ Check it out, man, Genesis 3:18. That herb is ganja. It is completely natural, growing wild. The herb of the field is ganja!”
“Wow, you know your bible better than a preacher,” I said. “Where did you learn all that?”
“Certainly not at the Catholic school I attended as a boy. The nuns would not let us to read it for ourselves. Instead, we had to study catechism, a Babylonian interpretation of the Bible. No, it was in the army that I learned the Truth. I spent seven years as a soldier. I had plenty time to read the Good Book—it’s my operating manual for life, man.”
“An operating manual for life, I like that… You were in the army?”
“I signed up when Guatemala tried to invade our country. Those Guatemalans had no chance: we are smarter, braver and tougher… I stayed on after the war and was promoted to corporal. Then the USDEA started its war on drugs and our soldiers were forced to destroy fields of ganja so that our government could receive U.S. foreign aid. They flew helicopters all over the countryside looking for ganja. When they found it, they radioed to us and we had to go in and burn it, destroy it for Yankee dollars. That’s when I decided to leave the army… Babylon, man.”
The air had cooled by the time we left the Cat’s Paw. Darkness was total. Ros turned on her keychain flashlight to lead us along the narrow raised path paralleling a water-filled ditch. All around, frogs croaked.
The man was still sitting on the stairs. He informed Tawa that the dealer had yet to return. Tawa pondered a moment, waved for us to follow him and we headed back to the main road
It was nine o’clock. We had yet to eat dinner. We crossed the road, to a small kiosk, where Tawa bought three buns. As we stood eating the dry pastry, a drunk staggered toward us, laughing and shouting greetings. He tried to hug me but I stepped aside. He stumbled into Ros and wrapped his arms around her. She pushed him away. At that moment, a four-wheel-drive vehicle pulled up. Painted in blue on the white door: POLICE.
“Problem?” a black face called out through the window.
The drunk straightened up, swirled around and wobbled off toward a group of teenagers standing by the food stall.
“No, no problem,” Ros answered.
The cops drove off slowly.
Munching on the mealy buns, we walked up the road. Ros spotted a convenience store and bought a package of graham crackers. I got cigarette papers and a box of matches. We had barely returned to the pavement when the drunk showed up again. This time Ros tried to get rid of him by offering him a cookie. Instead, he grabbed the entire package and tottered away, leaving her with the single treat she held in her hand.
Laughing and shaking our heads at the loss of the crackers, we continued up the road to a building with a lit Belikin sign. Outside, men and women stood in groups, talking and drinking beer. I stepped through the open doorway. At the back, in a haze of cigarette smoke, four men lounged around a pool table cue in hand, eyes on me. I nodded. At the bar, in brightly coloured dresses and matching head shawls sat three women, deep in conversation. I bought beers and carried them out. Tawa took his bottle and told us to stay put while he went to score.
The drunk soon reappeared. He stuck out his hand, palm up. I shook my head. He began to harangue us in Garifuna. We walked away, aware that everyone was watching. Tawa soon returned to say the deal would be done within minutes. The drunken man was still hovering nearby. Tawa led him by the hand to an empty lot across the street, where he spoke quietly to him. Eventually, the man staggered off toward the far end of the village and Tawa returned to us. He asked me for ten dollars, took it during a handshake and left once more. Ros and I sipped our beer and tried to ignore the fact that we were that evening’s entertainment.
“This place reminds me of Africa, not Central America,” I told Ros. “This bar is like so many I drank in when I lived in Nigeria. Maybe because the Garifuna were never sold as slaves, they retained their African culture.”
Soon, Tawa re-appeared, smiling and nodding. Another handshake left a cigar-size baggie in my hand, which I slipped into my pant pocket. All we needed now was to hitchhike back to Placencia. We stood by the side of the road. Tawa was not originally from Seine Bight, but these were his people. Many greeted him by name. Finally a set of headlights approached. The car stopped. It was the cops again.
“Do you wish a ride to Placencia?” the driver offered.
Tawa looked at me. I had a bag of dope in my pocket!
“No, thank you,” I answered with a smile.
They drove off heading south.
We waited another fifteen minutes. No other car came by.
“Let’s take the taxi that brought us here,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Tawa asked.
“Very sure.”
We followed him to the general store, where the owner was drawing the metal grill across the entrance. Tawa went inside to phone for the taxi. We waited in darkness at the edge of the road for another fifteen minutes until the Ford Explorer showed up.
The drive back was as smooth as the road allowed. The air conditioning had been turned off and fresh air flowed through the open windows. At we neared Placencia, a car approached from the opposite direction. Our driver braked to a hard stop. The other car pulled up beside us. Yet again, it was the cops! Yes, everything was all right. They peered into the back seat. Ros and I smiled sillily. After they had driven off, I asked Tawa why they paid us so much attention. Was it the ganja? Oh, no! They were trying to make us feel secure. The area’s income depended on tourism.
The taxi dropped us off at the Purple Monkey. We crossed to the windward side. Ros sat out on the beach while Tawa and I entered the cabin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rolled a sloppy joint. Marijuana bits littered the tile floor around his bare feet. Once the joint was ready, he suggested we smoke somewhere else.
He led me a few yards down the sidewalk to a cement riser that might have housed a cistern. We sat down and he lit the joint. It felt strange to smoke so openly, but he had local knowledge. He filled his lungs with smoke, held his breath as well as the joint. Three monster tokes later, he handed me a half-finished roach. I filled my lungs and offered it back.
“Take time to enjoy, man. No rush.”
“Tawa, you are a Tower of Power.”
He burst into coughing laughter and offered me his fist for a tap and chest thump. A young Black man materialized from the darkness. He sat down. Tawa ignored him. The stranger bent forward and combed the sand with his fingers, perhaps in hope of finding a dead roach or a buried baggie. He found nothing. Tawa never offered him a toke and the man soon left.
“Thanks for going to all this trouble, Tawa. I truly appreciate it.”
“Can you spot me a few dollars for some beers?”
I reached into my pocket and handed him the remaining cash: enough for two or three beers.
“Well, I’d better get back to Ros,” I said, standing up.
“Yeah. Peace, bruddah.”

“Sorry for the bizarre evening,” I said as I let myself down on the beach chair next to Ros. The steady breeze was warm and smelled of the sea.
“I freely agreed to join you,” she said. “Besides, how could you know there’d be so many twists and turns?”
“I suppose we can claim to have experienced Garifuna culture,” I smiled and shook my head. “For a ten-dollar baggie, I probably spent sixty bucks. Don’t worry; I’ll pay for it with my own money.”
“Fine. But if you decide to buy dope again, you’re on your own.”

Learning: It’s OK to accept lifts from helpful cops.

TOBACCO CAYE

Standing at the steering console, the skipper eased away from the dock and putt-putted down the river until we reached the ocean. He then cranked the twin engines to full throttle. No shade was available but the rush of air kept us comfortable. The sea remained aquamarine shallow for the entire crossing.
Our guidebook said Tobacco Caye was “ideally situated right on the reef. Its name comes from the crop cultivated by its first Puritan settlers… The island is tiny, just five acres.” We were surprised how small five acres were in reality—about a city block. Like a surreal Christmas present, a ribbon of white sand wrapped around a handful of wooden buildings and a few dozen palm trees. No streets, no stores, no souvenir stalls and few people. We disembarked at a wharf pointing back to the mainland in calm, clear water. Had any been available, I could have thrown a stone to the far side. But the soil was all sand and shells—seashells and cocoanut shells. Hard to believe tobacco had once grown here.
We crossed to the cooler windward side. There, the Gaviota offered three cabins at water’s edge. A Garifuna boy showed us two, explaining that the third was occupied by an American and his three sons. The boy suggested the middle cabin, but we opted for the one farthest from the Yanks. It also seemed more open to the breeze, essential since neither had a fan. The boy shrugged at our decision, and informed us that meals were announced by the ringing of a gong next to the screened-in cafeteria. Between our cabin and the dining hall stood a thatch shelter with six hammocks strung between rows of palm trees. A teenager in Nike beachwear lay in one, reading.
We opened the louvres. The curtains billowed. A few feet beyond, a lagoon shimmered a hundred yards to the outer reef. We could hear the roar of surf. Pelicans dove for fish in the shallow waters. We unpacked our bags, pleased to spend a week in this lovely setting.
How small was the island? We decided to measure it by timing a walk around its perimeter. Strolling at a leisurely tropical pace along the water’s edge, we circled it in eleven minutes. I could have jogged it in three.
When the gong rang for lunch, we joined the four Americans at a long table. Covered serving dishes were placed between us: pan-fried fish, rice and plantain. During this delicious first meal, we learned that the father had taken a year’s leave from his engineering business to tour the world with his three boys, who ranged from eight to fourteen. Their mom would join them in Brazil. On the way back to our cabin, Ros pointed to a painted sign: WELCOME TO THE LIFESTYLE OF THE CHOSEN FEW.
That night, we learned that the manager’s son had been right. The breeze no longer lined up with the window. Only a fraction of our bed received any air. Furthermore, the foam mattress had long lost its resilience. Later, after we had read our bedtime story and managed to drift into a toss-and-turn sleep, a storm came up, of such violence that the curtains flapped at horizontal. We shut the louvres. When the rain came, driven to horizontal by the gale, drops bounced against the wooden slats and splattered our faces and pillows. Typical of tropical storms, it lasted only fifteen minutes, by which time we were wet and wide awake.
Learning: Trust the children.

The following morning, after abject mea culpas, we switched to the middle cabin. It was much newer. In fact, the first cabin was the sole survivor of Hurricane Mitch. We now had newer quarters, an excellent mattress, somewhat fresher pillows and—a plus at our age—we were closer to the shared toilet.
All food, except fish, had to be brought from the mainland. Most mornings, we were served eggs, sausages and fried bread, the latter a cross between tortilla and bannock. With jam, it was so tasty that we ate much more than necessary to sustain a lifestyle of reading, sleeping, snorkelling and hundred-step strolls.
One breakfast was particularly interesting. We lifted the cover of a plastic serving dish to discover, instead of sausages, slices of fried Spam! What was the origin of the name? I thought it was an acronym, but the dad informed us that it was a contraction of “spiced ham.” Ros said that restaurants for locals on Kauai prominently featured Spam on their menu. It was cheap and kept well. In fact, an ad campaign that summer, as Y2K fever spread, touted Spam as “good until Y3K.”
To satisfy our desire for privacy, we dragged two wooden beach chairs to a sandy strip between our cabin and the lagoon. By mid-morning, they were in shade. These chairs, softened by our pillows, served us well. We read in solitude during the day and watched stars at night. Without a sky chart, we identified only Ursus Major, Polaris, Scorpio and Arcturus. Our streams of consciousness flowed freely, diverted only by passing satellites, meteors or sheet lightning on the horizon. Marking time like trains of old, a jumbo jet crossed from North to South every night at 8:45.
Twice a day we snorkelled in warm pellucid water near the southern end of the island. The coral gardens were magical. The number of reef fish was limited; however, we saw many pelagic fish, eels, and even an octopus. On the sandy bottom lay flounders, weirdly flat with frilly edges, both eyes on the same side and an ability to change colour to match their environment. In a channel through the reef, hundreds of tarpons, barracudas and spotted eagle rays faced the tidal flow, lined up to feed. Nurse sharks roamed the area, but they swam away as soon as they saw us.
The strangest encounter with another species occurred while I was reading in my beach chair. Tide was out—way out. The lagoon was mostly wet mud. The breeze bore a bouquet of clay and fish and seaweed. Out of the corner of my eye, I detected a movement in the mud, perhaps thirty feet out. I put down my book and stared at the spot. Nothing. Had my senses deceived me? Suddenly, the earth moved again: a clump of mud the size of a bowling ball was rising out of the muck! Could a fish have become trapped? After a minute of immobility, it lifted itself another few inches. I called Ros. She put on her water shoes and stepped onto the slimy bottom. When she got within a few feet, she gasped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Oy veh! It’s so weird! I think it’s a conch. Its body’s as big as my forearm, completely extended from its shell and feeling its way around.” She leaned in closer. “Oh, my! It has two stalks the length of my little finger. Each one ends in an eyeball!” She moved closer still. The animal snapped back into its shell. Ros waited, bent over, peering at the mud-covered shell. But the show was over. The animal refused to pop its pod. From then on, we referred to it as the Creature from the Lagoon.
Ros walked into the lagoon on another occasion to photograph a pelican close-up. She was doubly unlucky. Not only did the big-beak bird fly off before she could snap its picture, she also stepped on a chunk of dead coral that pierced the rubber sole of her shoe and penetrated her foot. The wound hardly bled, and it healed within a few days. But by the time we returned to Vancouver, a hard reddish lump had formed around the hole. She limped to a doctor, who excised three chunks of coral from her foot.
Over the week, the clientele varied. When the three boys and their dad left, we trooped across the island to wave them off. That night, a sixty-year-old with tattoos joined us for dinner. He had driven a truckload of plumbing supplies from California to Dangriga. He always rested here before returning to the mainland to distribute his wares to local markets.
The next day, a French family checked in: a couple in their late forties with an adult son. They came every year. Knowing that the best of Belize is found in the cayes, they had their own powerboat, Secret Love, which they stored with a friend in Belize City. They seemed pleased to be able to speak French with me. The man, a pharmaceutical executive in France, invited me to accompany them as they hunted fish on the other side of the channel. As we zipped across the shallow water, I belted out the song for which their boat was named. “Once I had a secret love that lived within the heart of me…” It mustn’t have been a hit in France. No one recognized it.
Father and son, wearing lead belts and extra-long fins, dove twenty feet to the bottom. Spear guns at the ready, they hid behind brain coral for as long as their breath held out, waiting for fish to swim by. I snorkelled on the surface of the aquarium-clear water, enjoying the coral wonders below and observing the hunt. Madame swam about, towing a Styrofoam boat on a rope. When one of the men speared a fish, mostly barracuda, he would swim up to her, raise the lid on the coffin-shaped boat and dump in the corpse. Later, they explained that they had originally stored their kill in string nets attached to their waist, until one day a hungry shark snatched the dad’s sack.
Every afternoon, Ros and I undertook our “Long March,” one hundred steps across the island to an open-air thatch-roof bar. To avoid socializing with the few strangers perched on barstools, we carried plastic chairs onto the sand. Songs of the U.S. 60s played on the bar stereo, Bob Dylan most popular. Local children ran and jumped from the dock—black outlines against an apricot sky. As the sun transmuted the leeward waters into shimmering copper, we sipped our cold Belikin and released more streams of consciousness.
The day the French family took me snorkelling in their boat, I invited them to cross the island for a sunset beer. As we sat down, I complimented Philippe, the dad, on his sea-hunting skills. Did he ever scuba dive? Not any more. Too limiting. You could only dive for maybe an hour before running out of air, and then you had to wait for the dissolved nitrogen to leave your system. He much preferred free diving, which he could do as long and as often as he wanted. With practice, he had increased his down time to more than two minutes.
I told him of meeting a man in Placencia, who could dive sixty feet for lobster. He pointed to a sailboat anchored offshore. Half a dozen dugout canoes were stacked on its deck. These were lobster fishers from Belize City, he said. Each man paddled a canoe away from the mother ship and, with only mask and fins, dove as deep as a hundred feet to find lobster.
“Amazing! How deep can you free dive?” I asked.
“Ah,” he smiled. “I once set a world record… eight hundred feet.” Since Ros was listening, he had switched to fractured English.
“You mean eighty feet, don’t you?” I suggested.
“No, no. Eight hundred.”
“But that’s not possible!”
He took a sip of beer and leaned back. His wife got up, saying she’d heard this story many times, and walked to the dock.
In the early seventies, Philippe had worked as a scientist with a team researching how to build oil rigs in the North Sea. In one experiment, his group was lowered in a diving bell to eight hundred feet. For the next twenty-four hours, the internal pressure was slowly increased until it equalled the outside. At that point, he was able to open the hatch and swim out. It was the greatest depth any human had reached without special gear.
Mind you, after three days in the briny deep, he and his co-workers had to spend a very boring week in a decompression chamber. Today, men can work for a week at twelve hundred feet and only need three days of decompression. But back then, the science was all-new.
At such pressures, nitrogen liquefied, so they couldn’t breathe natural air inside the bell. They settled on a mixture of oxygen, hydrogen and helium. The only negative was that everyone sounded like Donald Duck. Scientists understood the problems caused by an accumulation of gases in the system. But the effects on solid tissues, like bone, had been a surprise. In one case, a man’s tooth fillings exploded as they brought him back to the surface!
We were still groaning and grimacing when Madame returned. She excitedly recounted seeing rays. Every afternoon spotted eagle rays approached the island, snuffling in the sandy shallows to stir up food. Ros and I would lie on the sun-warmed dock, chin on hands, and look down at the rays hovering within reach. Their ten-foot wings rippled like flying carpets as their duck-billed snouts overturned shells. Silt shot from gill slits. Small fish circled for leftovers. These eagles of the sea, as the French call them, so wary of our presence whenever we snorkelled nearby, would swim back and forth under the dock, seemingly unaware that, a few feet above, two humans lay watching, slack-jawed and reverential.
Tobacco Caye would be the high point of our summer in Belize.

Learning: The lifestyle of the chosen few might be enjoyable for a week, but for a retirement home, we would want amenities that only a town could offer, like cultural centres, libraries, stores and hospitals.

TWO CAN

The national bird of Belize is the toucan. Placencia and Tobacco Caye, where we spent the first half of our Belizean holiday, were beach communities on the Atlantic Coast. Toucans live inland. Our next destination—San Ignacio, a Spanish-speaking town in the mountains near the Guatemalan border—would provide opportunities to see the big bills in the wild.
Our bus crossed a one-way bridge over the Macal River. Naked kids with cinnamon skin splashed in the clay-coloured water. San Ignacio was more village than town: a few blocks of unpaved streets and single-storey wood buildings. The bus slowed for a horse and buggy driven by a pale white man in overalls and a wide brim felt hat—a Mennonite. We stepped off at an open-air terminal. A horde of Hispanic men descended on us like Scrooge McDucks to money. Each offered “the best deal” on taxis, hotels, tours and currency exchange. No, gracias.
After securing a hotel room, we visited San Ignacio’s backpacker Mecca—Eva’s Bar—for a late lunch. The walls were festooned with hand-made posters advertising forest walks, mountain biking, kayak expeditions, cave explorations and visits to Mayan sites. A miniscule gift shop was tucked into a far corner, just beyond a computer cubicle offering e-mail and Internet access—for a price.
We quickly discovered that everything in San Ignacio had a price. All tours required a guide and transportation. A two-hour kayak paddle in a Mayan cave cost $300! We signed up for the least expensive, an all-day tour of the Mountain Pine Ridge Forest Reserve. We’d use this trip to check out the possibility of taking a local bus to the forest and hiking on our own. After a week on tiny Tobacco Caye, we needed to stretch our legs. We also hoped to see our first-ever toucans.

The next morning, a misty rain was falling. We ate breakfast at Eva’s. At 8:30 sharp, a van pulled up in front of the restaurant. Six of us got in. Angel, our guide and driver, said that we first had to pick up a couple at a resort on the edge of town. As we drove past the San Ignacio cemetery, he shouted out: “People are dying to get in there!” Groans.
We returned to Eva’s, where two more young men were waiting, making a total of ten. They approached the driver’s window. In a Texas accent, one asked if they’d need food… We had to wait while they re-entered Eva’s and ordered bag lunches. By the time they clambered to the back of the white Ford van, taking the last two seats, it was almost 9:30—we had lost an hour. I muttered a quote from Sartre, “L’enfer, c’est les autres.” Hell is others. Ros patted my leg. I sighed.
We left town on a dirt road that meandered through fields of corn and millet. Every few hundred yards, we’d pass a farmhouse surrounded by chickens, geese, cows, goats and human kids. We bounced through two backwater villages. Local buses ended their run at the second hamlet, dashing our hopes of taking public transport to the forest.
The road grew rougher. Angel stopped the van next to a tree. He turned his round brown face toward the passengers and asked, “Who can identify this species?” A few tree names were called out. It looked to me like a member of the eucalyptus and arbutus class: its bark peeled off the trunk to reveal a reddish wood. “You’re all wrong,” Angel said, laughing. “It’s a Tourist tree; always red and peeling.” More groans.
The next time he stopped was to show us a sapodilla tree. He pointed to V-cuts on the trunk. They had been carved by sapodillos to make the tree bleed a latex-like substance, called chicle, used to make chewing gum, like Chiclets. There was no punch line.
Another half hour of lurches and bounces brought us to the national park entrance and a well-graded gravel road through forests of mountain pine. At the Thousand-Foot Falls viewpoint, everyone stepped out for a look. But fog filled the valley and hid the falls on the far side. Angel said we’d wait up to an hour for the mist to lift. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t have to pay the $2 viewing fee. Some passengers trooped to the gift shop, others to the outdoor toilets. We told Angel we’d walk back along the road and he could pick us up on his way out. No, we didn’t really want to see the falls, even though they were 1600 feet high, the highest in Central America.
We strode under a fine rain, scanning the sparse forest for toucans. Wild orchids provided some colour. The soggy silence was regularly broken by bird cries that stopped us in our tracks. We’d peer in the direction of the song but rarely see the singer. We identified a red-crested woodpecker but no toucans.
After forty minutes, the van rumbled up. The fog had lifted and people paid their two bucks. But the valley was many kilometres wide and the falls too distant to impress. One woman described it as “photographing a string.”
We reached a parking lot with two other vehicles. Under a hard drizzle, we trudged down a muddy trail to the Rio Frio Cave. At its high point, the two-hundred-yard-deep vault arched seventy feet above a trickling river. People clambered down slick limestone to explore terraces and sandbars. We hunkered in the damp dark grotto a full hour, long enough to eat lunch: soggy sandwiches, plantain chips, an orange and two cookies.
On the way out, Angel directed the group to a jungle trail that began beyond the parking lot. He would drive the van two kilometres to the exit and wait for us. Preferring to hike on our own, Ros and I let the others go first. Once alone, we entered the sea of chlorophyll. Trees were labelled with both their English and Latin names. We walked under a gentle rain along the marked trail, serenaded by bird songs new to us.
The van’s windows steamed up from damp hikers as we rolled to our final destination: the Rio On Pools. In spite of the inclement weather, we were “invited” to swim for an hour. On a sunny day, this might have been fun. The setting was spectacular. The On River flowed over granite outcrops that created a complex of cataracts and pools before tumbling sixty feet into a gorge. The water was chilly, but warmer than the air. Ros and I explored various levels and wound up sitting chest-deep in water, our heads and shoulders hidden behind a waterfall. We felt like Atwood’s Edible Woman, who let herself slide behind a sofa to escape strangers at a party.
As we drove back to town, I asked Angel to describe the call of the toucan. He assured me it was very distinctive, but would only say that it sounded like a toucan. Where would we have the best chance of seeing one? He pondered the question, then his face brightened.
“Clarissa Falls,” he exclaimed. “Every time I visit, I see some.”
“Can we get there by local bus?”
“Sure. But it is an hour’s walk from the highway to the resort.”
That night in our hotel room, we discussed our outing and agreed that the highlight of our gloomy day had been our solitary walk along the road.
Learning refined: Avoid group tours, even those for backpackers.

The next morning, we boarded a bus heading to Benque Viejo, a village on the Guatemalan border. Ten kilometres out of town, the conductor shouted to us, “Clarissa Falls.” We thanked him and got off at a sandy track that cut through pastures. Unlike the previous day, the sun was in full splendour. A few fluffy clouds sailed the celestial blue. Ahead in the distance, a caballero on a quarter horse was rounding up his cows, galloping after stragglers. As we walked, we watched the herd stream across the road and follow a worn side-hill path, until the cowboy and the last bovine disappeared around a rise.
We were in a sweaty lather by the time we reached the resort: a few wooden cabins and a main building with an outdoor restaurant overlooking the falls. First, we needed to cool off. Steep wooden stairs inlaid in the clay led down to the river. Clarissa was more rapids than falls; the water dropped no more than three feet. We stripped to our swimsuits. The reddish-brown water was opaque and the squishy bottom booby-trapped with rocks and branches. We swam a bit, found a submerged tree trunk and sat in swirling shady waters to read our novels. The heat of our walk faded and goose bumps sprouted. We dried off and climbed the stairs to the restaurant.
It was noon. As we were ordering lunch, a dozen very wet middle-aged English tourists tramped up the stairs. Our waitress explained that they had spent two hours floating down the river on inner tubes. The resort owner charged $5 for a tube ride, which included a lift to the starting point, eight miles upstream. We looked down at the rapids; they seemed more menacing. Ros checked with a woman her age, who assured her the experience was “quite delightful,” and the ten rapids not at all dangerous. Ros proposed that we take the plunge after lunch. Yes!

The pick-up truck pulled over where the river flowed next to the road. We stepped from the cab. A newly married couple, who had ridden in the cargo bed, handed us truck-sized inner tubes. They, too, planned to float downriver. I invited them to launch first, preferring to be alone with Ros.
As they jumped onto their tubes with a whump and a splash, the smell of marijuana drew my attention. I approached two dark-skinned men, who sat fishing from the bank. I raised my eyebrows in query and smiled knowingly. The closer one grinned to reveal a missing front tooth as he held out a half-smoked joint he had hidden from my view. We shared a few tokes. They showed me their catch—two tiny perches. One asked where I came from. Vancouver, Canada. Si, mucho frio. They lived in a village just upriver and spoke of inundación, a flood, but I could not catch the context. I thanked them and returned to mi esposa, vowing to improve my Spanish. By then, the newlyweds had gone around the bend.
It was our turn. Rather than jump onto the oversized tube from shore, I’d make a more decorous entry by wading in. Unfortunately, chest-deep water and a spongy bottom made a poor launch pad. I sprang up, but my feet sank and my chest landed on rubber. The unbalanced weight flipped the tube. I surfaced, spewed brown water and hooted with laughter. A titanic struggle ensued to get my buns in the hole and one arm through a loop of rope provided to hold onto if I overturned. The two pescadores giggled throughout. Ros managed her entry with more elegance.
We paddled to the middle of the river, waved to the stoned fishers, tugged our caps on more tightly and held hands as the gentle flow lulled us downstream. The sun poured heat onto our shoulders and legs. Wise Ros had put on sun block back at the resort, where our daypacks were stored. Yet again, I’d failed to plan ahead. I turned my cap around, so that the peak shaded the back of my neck, and tugged the hem of my surfer shorts over my knees.
As the river turned, the current increased. We accelerated toward the first rapids. It was impossible to predict how much of a drop we were in for, but the growing roar sharpened our senses. The Brits had advised us to raise our bottoms while negotiating the rapids, to avoid unseen rocks. I aimed for the smoothest water and leaned back to horizontal. The river sped up and zipped me over small rapids. My tube bumped a submerged rock and spun a quarter turn; otherwise, all was fine. Ros followed, and soon let out a triumphant whoop. This was fun.
The water slowed and we drifted in silence. Leafy trees lined the shore. From overhanging branches, small yellow fruits plopped in the water and floated along with us. Now in relaxed mode, I let my bum sag through the hole in the tube. Minnows nibbled the hairs on the back of my thighs. Not to worry, no piranhas here. A deeper, more vibrant sound warned us of larger rapids. Where to position the tube for safe passage? I paddled toward the smoothest section, slightly left of the middle. The water below the falls came into view: a four-foot drop! Oh, boy!
To my surprise, Ros volunteered to go first. She paddled to line up with the tongue of water we had chosen. Two rules: raise bum and keep feet pointing downstream. She did both. Unfortunately, the mirror like section hid a rocky corner. Water flowed downstream on the right but sideways on the left. She dropped into the turmoil. The side flow caught her tube and flipped her. I back-paddled hard to remain above the falls. Her head popped up, eyes bulging, mouth spurting water. One arm flailed; the other was caught up in the “safety” rope. No danger of drowning; she was being dragged downstream over shallow rocks. She managed to find a foothold and spring onto her tube.
I edged to the right to avoid the side flow that had dumped her and did my best imitation of a hypnotized man lying rigid between two chairs. The current swept me down. The drop was significant, but I stayed upright. I was about to shout in victory, when I noticed I was moving in reverse. A back-eddy was drawing me upstream. When my tube reached the falls, the force of water on the back edge sent me into a nose-flushing flip. Rather than fight the torrent as Ros had done, I lay flat out, clung to the rope and floated downstream behind the tube. Bad idea. The fast-moving water grew so shallow that my knees and hips bounced on the rocky bottom. I yanked my chest onto the tube and swung my legs forward. That way, when my feet found the next underwater boulder, I was able to vault back on. Whew!
Ros had watched my struggle from a quiet side pool. My shins and insteps were scraped bloody. She had no visible injuries, although she had felt scared when her arm got caught in the twisted rope. Still, she was determined to continue. The current abated. Birds chirped. A gentle breeze dried our skin.
“Hey!” I called to her. “You lost your hat!”
Her hand flew to her short dark hair. “Oh, no! It was my favourite. A souvenir of Kauai.”
She seemed near tears. I stroked her hand as we searched downstream for the flowery fabric. Then, I remembered my own cap. My fingers found an uncovered bald pate. The river had got us both.
We still had ninety minutes left on the river. Sin sombrero, I paddled my rubber craft to the shade to avoid sunstroke. The current was slower near the bank. As we drifted, we re-evaluated. Bruised and hatless after only two rapids, we needed a new strategy. Most of the English tourists had completed the entire journey without overturning. All had agreed that Clarissa Falls were the most difficult. Smooth water meant shallow rocks. We needed to find the deepest section. But how?
The next rapids interrupted our planning session. But they were small and easy to negotiate. Nevertheless, once through, we cheered with relief. Shadows now covered one third of the river. Ros was chilled. Rather than hold hands, we hooked our feet together and drifted sideways, me along the edge of the shade, her in sunshine. Plastic bags and articles of clothing littered the bank and fluttered on branches that hung to the water. The inundación the locals had mentioned must have washed them downstream. Were our hats being swept along at the same speed as our tubes? The water was opaque, dimming our hopes of seeing them.
We continued our slow drift. Tension mounted each time we heard the roar of rapids. Most turned out to be no worse than accelerating over a speed bump and we cleared them without spilling. None was as powerful as the one that had robbed us of our hats.
We’d been on the river nearly two hours. Pastures appeared on the high bank. We must be near the resort. As we rounded a turn, the deep roar of serious white water made us wary. Our eyes scoured the riverbank. Sure enough the back cabins came into view. Clarissa Falls was just ahead.
“Where should we aim?” Ros shouted.
I had no idea. There was smooth water everywhere and the drop so great that the water below the falls was out of sight. Since we’d need to paddle to shore if we survived, it seemed wise to move to the right edge. I went first.
Drawn by liquid fury, my tube gained speed. I noticed a deeper section and paddled hard to it. Bum up, feet first, fingers digging into the rubber tube, I yelled to loosen my breath. I fell three feet, rocked sideways, but stayed on. My next shout was one of exultation as I paddled upstream, a surprisingly easy task thanks to a backwash.
Ros chose the same route. She howled the entire way but managed to stay upright. As she paddled to shore, she beamed a smile as bright as the sun and slapped the water in victory.
We stored our inner tubes on the bank and chose to climb the back stairs that led to the cabins. Less steep, they zigzagged between bamboo and flowering trees. Lo and behold! Sitting on a low branch at arm’s length from us was a full-sized toucan!
As gaudy as Carmen Miranda’s fruit hats, the bird’s oversized banana beak was tinted lime and lemon. And like Carmen’s lipsticked pucker, its tip blushed cerise. We gawked. The bird tilted its yellow face to scan us with a beady eye. Like a fashion model at the end of the runway, it posed, offering a frontal view then a profile that showed off its black body and crimson tail. We watched in open-mouthed silence until we began to shiver.
We moved into delicious sunshine on the deck of the restaurant and toasted the successful end of our quest with Belikin Beer. What an adventure! And a toucan, too!

CAYE CAULKER

Backpackers believe they are more adventurous, more open-minded and morally superior to other tourists. They never book ahead, knowing that cheap digs can only be found on site. They deplore the commercialization of beautiful areas by international developers, who transform pristine beaches into tropical versions of home comforts for middle-class visitors, with familiar foods, Beautyrest mattresses, maid service and absolutely no cockroaches. Tourists blithely pay big bucks to jetski, parasail, take guided tours and watch locals perform cultural activities in the lobby of their hotel. “Packaged tourists” are herd animals. They lounge at oceanside pools with swim-up bars, or on sandy spaces no bigger than their beach towel. They read the latest New York Times bestseller, while coated in this year's new improved sunscreen with papaya extract for tenderized skin, as advertised in People magazine.
Meanwhile, backpackers see themselves as rugged individualists, condemned by voracious tourism to travel ever further afield in search of that undeveloped beach, unmentioned in Fodor and reachable only by local transport. They rant against tourists for replacing local flavour with mainstream pap, turning paradise into timeshares. Success for a backpacker means spending the least money in discovering exotic places. They never ask themselves if locals might prefer big-spending tourists. Nor do they worry about opening up a pristine area to foreigners, thus irrevocably changing it. They know they are right, with the certainty of youth: most of them are under thirty. Tourists fly to Ambergris Caye. Backpackers take water taxis to Caye Caulker, which our guidebook described as a favourite stop on Central America’s “gringo trail.” That’s where we were heading, in spite of our age.
Forty people sat shoulder to shoulder on benches set along the gunnels of the open boat. Packs and merchandise were piled in the middle and covered with a tarp. The captain eased the craft between sailboats moored on Belize City’s Haulover Creek. Soon, we were roaring over shimmering opalescent water.
Half an hour later, a small island came into view. Passengers stretched and leaned to get a look. The first sight was of two cranes, not shorebirds but heavy equipment. Then a marina, and finally a golf course. This was unexpected. I studied the faces across from me: confusion and chagrin. When the boat reached the dock, the captain called out “Caye Chapel.” A collective sigh took place, except for one passenger in a Tilley hat, who disembarked, received his wheeled suitcase and trundled off.
A short while later, our boat rounded the south end of a larger island. Pastel-coloured clapboard buildings stood on stilts along the waterfront between stretches of mangroves. There were no beaches. Instead, people lounged at the end of long wharves that extended from each property. For fifteen minutes, the scene remained the same. Finally, the boat turned toward shore and docked. We stepped off, shouldered our packs and joined the parade of new arrivals, all intent on finding lodgings. A billboard with a hand-painted map of the island welcomed us to Caye Caulker.
Bicycles and golf carts were the only vehicles on the sandy main street. We walked past souvenir stores, dive shops, restaurants, even an open-air basketball court with bleachers. At the police station and jail, a notice warned the public: No persons are allowed to communicate or hand food or anything from over the fence! As we walked, we discussed what “anything” might include. Soon the ocean reappeared on our right and the breeze cooled us, reaffirming our resolve to rent on the windward side.
The Rainbow Restaurant perched like a daddy-long-legs over shallow water. We found a table on the shaded balcony, plunked our packs on chairs and ordered soft drinks. The breeze dried our faces. From this perspective, it was easy to see why no one swam from shore. The water was knee-high for a hundred metres and the clay bottom covered in turtle grass.
The server agreed to store our packs in the back room, among sacks of potatoes. We promised to return within an hour and tipped her well, at least by Canadian standards. A Belizean joke asked, “What’s the difference between a Canadian and a kayak?” Answer: “A kayak will tip more often.”
As we moved north, the bustle diminished and buildings stood farther apart. A for-rent sign was painted on the front of a two-storey building. A Hispanic woman was hanging clothes on the upper verandah. She told us that all four apartments were occupied, but the casita next door was available from the same owner. What casita? Hidden behind palms and round-leaf seagrape, a tiny clapboard cottage had escaped our notice. It had seen better days, but we had seen no other.
It was almost three o'clock by the time we reclaimed our packs and walked to the casita. The interior was drab and tired, but reasonably clean. It had all we needed: double bed under wobbly ceiling fan, kitchen table with two chairs, rust-freckled fridge and stove, and a bathroom with shower. Best of all, the sea breeze poured in.
Within an hour of our arrival, we had found and rented the only stand-alone beachfront cabin north of the town centre. We sat on our verandah, relishing the ocean’s cool breath and making plans. I wanted to scuba the reef and the famous Blue Hole. Technically, a blue hole is a “karst-eroded sinkhole.” This one formed a million years ago when Lighthouse Reef was a sizeable island, perhaps even part of the mainland. As the rising sea covered the area, the weight of the water collapsed the roof of a large cave, leaving a vertical cylinder edged with columns of merged stalactites and stalagmites. In the 1970s, Jacques Cousteau listed The Blue Hole among the top three dive sites in the world.

Early the next morning, Ros went to town to check on snorkelling tours. I was drifting in delicious pre-wake bliss when she returned.
“Every shop offers the same trip,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed. “They only go to Shark-Ray Alley, an area near the reef where operators feed the animals.”
“They’ll be as tame as the raccoons in Stanley Park,” I replied. “Remember the girl on the balcony of the Rainbow Restaurant? She bragged that a manta ray had tried to give her an icky hickey.”
“Exactly, I don’t want a trained-animal act. Our guidebook says that a marine biologist, Ellen McRae, offers reef tours and bird walks. Well, I found her at a local shop. Ellen doesn’t go to the reef right now because it’s off-season, so I signed up for some early-morning bird watching—just Ellen and me. We’ll meet at six the day after tomorrow.”
We read all morning on our verandah. The breeze was constant and carried the scent of passers-by: cigarettes, perfume, after-shave and, most often, the buttery coconut smell of sunscreen. Later, we changed into our swimsuits and walked to the “beach.” In 1961, Hurricane Hattie tore a gash through the island just north of the village, creating a channel, now known as The Split. Next to it stretched an elevated beach crowded with sunbathers. Music drifted from a circular open bar, surrounded by a bevy of daytime drinkers. A cement wall kept the sand from dribbling to the water four feet below. Local kids played in the shallows and a few adults swam near the channel. Silt stirred up by tides flushing in and out turned the water the colour of pea soup. And, like soupe du jour in a greasy spoon, it was lukewarm and salty. We didn’t stay long.

The next morning, the dive boat for Turneffe Atoll was scheduled for seven. After a home breakfast, we crossed the street to Frenchie’s Scuba Centre. Ten divers were checking their gear. I picked up a buoyancy vest, an air regulator and a weight belt, but declined a wet suit. Water temperature was above 80°F.
My first dive took me along coral gardens of impressive beauty. Meanwhile, Ros snorkelled with the wife of one of the divers. Back in Yugoslavia, this woman and her husband had booked a diving holiday, only to learn a week before their departure that she was pregnant. Unwillingly to jeopardize the life within, she restricted herself to snorkelling.
When the pregnant woman declined to snorkle at the second location, I chose to accompany my lover. I didn’t miss much by swimming along the surface and diving for brief breathless explorations. The water was never deeper than twenty-five feet and visibility four times that distance. The reef was surprisingly undamaged and varied: elkhorn, brain, fan, finger and fire coral, as well as six-foot-tall yellow tube sponges with openings a foot wide. Purple sea plumes, greater than a peacock’s tail, swayed to the pulse of the ocean. In addition to reef fish, we saw a six-foot nurse shark.

I was awakened the following morning by Ros' return from bird watching. She quickly undressed and snuggled up for warmth.
“We went to the town dump,” she said. “The stench was so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a handkerchief. Hard to handle binoculars with just one hand. Still, we spotted thousands of birds, mostly gulls, brown pelicans, white ibises and roseate spoonbills.”
She held up a two-page checklist.
“We also saw a salt-water crocodile. The whole time, clouds of mosquitoes and sand flies surrounded us. After an hour, Ellen suggested that we move to a mangrove swamp. I begged off.”
Blue Monday. Rain drizzled as the boat headed out to Hol Chan, Mayan for “little channel.” It anchored outside the narrow opening in the reef for our first dive. The sea was rough. That was why Ros was not on this trip. But forty feet down, the water was placid. I flutter-kicked through narrow coral canyons like Lloyd Bridges in Sea Hunt, except that no emergency rescue was needed.
After our first dive, we powered back inside the reef to escape the swells, and tied up to a permanent buoy. Eleven other boats were roped to similar buoys. Our divemaster announced that this was Shark-Ray Alley. Each operator had thrown out fish food and released a phalanx of flailing snorkellers. Ros had been right to give this a miss.
A true Canadian strong and free, I had declined to wear a wet suit. But the cool rain and gusty wind turned me into a blue Canadian wrong and free-zing. Donning mask and snorkle, I escaped into the warm cozy water and hung onto the ladder at the back of the boat. Tide poured so fast through the narrow gap in the reef that my body fluttered like a flag in the wind. Below the hull and facing me was a three-hundred-pound grouper! It remained in place by sculling its pectoral fins. We stared at each other until I climbed back into the boat as it powered up for our next dive.
We returned to Frenchie's dock at one o'clock. The manager informed me that the following day's trip to the Blue Hole was cancelled because of a forecasted tropical storm—baby sister to a hurricane. When was the next outing? The day of our departure. Had I come all this way to be denied the one dive I most dearly wanted? Ros suggested that I book with another dive shop. But other PADI centres could only be found at Ambergris Caye. The cost of a water taxi was minimal; she proposed we visit the upscale island.

Ambergris Caye was much bigger than Caulker. The main town of San Pedro—population 4000—reflected elements of its smaller sibling: pastel-painted two-storey clapboard buildings, sandy streets and golf carts. But every shop was air-conditioned, prices higher and nary a backpack could be seen. The average age of the clientèle here was over fifty. The waterfront was crowded with expensive restaurants, discos and multi-storey hotels with names like Xanadu, Royal Caribbean and Changes in Latitudes…
One PADI shop offered daily excursions to the Blue Hole. Their boat was large enough to travel outside the protective reef in this weather. Better still, we’d be picked up from Caulker.
It felt good to return “home.” We visited the owner to pay for our final three days. She must have grown fond of us: she reduced her rate from fifteen to ten dollars a night. When we told her that we had not liked San Pedro, she explained that on Caulker locals owned all businesses, whereas Ambergris was controlled by foreign money.
During the night, winds increased, driving rain through the shut louvres. We were sprayed as we lay in bed. In a country known for its hurricanes, living on the windward edge might have disadvantages.
Except for diving, Caulker in the rain had little to offer. We hunkered in our muggy cabin all day, kept cool by the overhead fan at high speed. In the late afternoon, I decided to take a shower. Standing next to the bed, I pulled my T-shirt over my head. Thunk! A three-foot fan blade whacked my left index finger. Excruciating pain! I yelped like a tortured animal. Blood poured from the gash. Ros rushed to the fridge and brought me some ice cubes in a plastic bag. The cold intensified my agony but staunched the bleeding. In time, the hurt receded and I was able to bend the finger, so it probably wasn't broken. I’d read that the Blue Hole was a hangout for sharks, and they were drawn to blood…
Learning: Look up before undressing in the tropics.

The next morning, my wound had scabbed over. I covered it with a Band-Aid. Wearing hooded rain jackets, Ros and I tramped to the main dock to meet the dive boat from Ambergris. After a short wet wait, a black hull materialized from the mist, its twin 250-horsepower engines raising foamy plumes. We clambered aboard and found seats near the bow. Ten divers, two snorkellers, a dive master and the pilot hunkered under leaden skies.
The short ride to the nearby barrier reef was fast and smooth. But once outside its protective embrace, the sea reared up with ten-foot waves. Conversation became impossible. The young pilot zigzagged, trying to ride diagonally down the swells. Inevitably, we’d feel the loss of gravity in our stomachs and a moment later the bow would hammer the water. This ride was rougher than the bus we had taken to Placencia, but I could predict the hits and absorb the force with my hands. It took ninety minutes to reach Lighthouse Reef. By then my arms were shaky and my Band-Aid bloodied.
The Blue Hole was ringed with coral. Inside, the sea was calm. Aquamarine water covered a sloping ribbon of sand that surrounded a dark-blue circle. Seen from above, it would look like a dilated pupil in a blue-green iris, an eye trimmed with brown eyebrows. Our boat tied up to a permanent buoy. Ros swam off to snorkle with the wife of another diver.
The dive master gave his briefing while we assembled our gear. The Blue Hole was four-hundred-feet deep, so it was important to keep an eye on our depth gauge and not sink below our planned limit of one hundred and fifty feet. At that depth, nitrogen narcosis was probable. Despite its name, it was not a dangerous condition. We'd feel mildly drunk. Enjoy the feeling, but watch your depth gauge. We’d stay down only eight or nine minutes, and then come up to thirty feet for a twenty-minute decompression stop before returning to the surface.
Each diver did a reverse entry from a sitting position on the gunnels and floated on the surface. Satisfied that everyone was ready, the divemaster pointed a thumb downward. I inserted my mouthpiece, sucked in cold metallic air, partly deflated my vest and slowly sank. Pressure increased on my eardrum as I descended, so I pinched my nose and forced air into the Eustachian tube to equalize.
At thirty feet, we left the sand and descended along a sheer rock face. Below, total darkness. Above, a circular white glare. At our level, sharks circled: reef, bull, black-tipped and hammerhead.
At one hundred feet, columns as wide as my shoulders replaced the rock wall. We descended fifty feet along these pillars until the dive master signalled for us to level off. The effect was surreal: spotlit from above, ten-storey-tall stone columns lined the walls of this cave. The scene produced the same transcendent awe, as does Notre-Dame de Paris. Or was it the nitrogen narcosis?
I touched the limestone surface: knobby, slimy and cold. My Band-Aid had lost its stickiness and hung limply from my finger. Before it fell off and drifted down into the abyss, I removed it and tucked it into my weight belt. The cut was open but not bleeding. Since the red-orange-yellow part of the light spectrum could not penetrate to this depth, my wound appeared dark green. Trippy!
All too soon, the divemaster gave the thumbs-up signal. I added a little air to my vest and began a slow ascent toward the light. When we reached the sandy slope, we held onto the anchor chain and relaxed for our twenty-minute decompression stop.
In the middle of the watery cylinder, the sharks accelerated toward the surface, where a school of fish was swimming. We witnessed a feeding frenzy. The power of these thrashing predators was chilling. As suddenly as it had begun, calm returned and the sharks repaired to their deep-water circling.
One after the other, we resurfaced and climbed back into the boat. Ros sat shivering in the stern. She had not received a wet suit. Her raincoat reached to her hips, so I covered her legs with my jacket and put an arm around her shoulders.
“How’d you enjoy snorkelling?” I asked.
“Aw, there was almost no coral and fewer fish. I felt like a tagalong.”
“Yeah, dive boats sure don’t cater to snorkellers. Well, my dream dive was ridiculously short. So much effort for eight minutes of downtime. And except for the columns, there was nothing to see. What I’ll remember is watching the sharks… You know, it seems that everywhere we’ve gone in Belize, we’ve had unsatisfying experiences.”
“Except for Tobacco Caye.”
“Could you imagine living there?”
“Of course not, but it was great for a week.”
The return ride to Caulker proved much more comfortable.
Learning: Sit near the stern of a speedboat in rough waters.
Final Learning: We would not return to Belize.



















MELAQUE, MEXICO
(2001)

FINDING HOME

Time fluctuates. I woke up in Houston, two hours ahead of Vancouver, which I had left the day before. I flew into Puerto Vallarta and was told not to reset my watch because Jalisco Province was in the same time zone as Texas. I then rented a car at the Puerto Vallarta airport and drove North for ninety minutes to Sayulita, only to discover that Nayarit Province was an hour behind Jalisco. The following day, I would head south, with my watch tucked away in my suitcase.
Sayulita was the first stop in my search for an escape from Canadian winters. My room at The Hideaway was quite wonderful, with high-peaked thatched roof, bamboo curtains, and tile floor. The bed and sofa were set on cement bases. The decor was high-level kitsch. Two carved swans held a mirror on top of the chest of drawers. Two more birds formed the commode’s wooden sides and the base was scalloped like waves. On one wall hung an oil painting of a tropical beach with women, children and half a dozen iguanas. It was signed Philippo LoGrande, Yelapa, Mexico.
At one hundred pesos a night, this was a good deal. The young Mexican owners were friendly and impeccably honest. I had to pay Eduardo with American money since there was no bank or moneychanger in the village. He asked for ten dollars, which converted to 93 pesos. I bargained him up to eleven.
Would I choose The Hideaway as a winter home? I doubted it. First, this room did not have a desk. To write, I’d have to sit on the bed, back supported by pillows, fine for penning a letter but not for the novel I planned to draft during my three solitary months in Mexico. Also, the room’s single window offered no inspiring ocean views, just a tangle of bushes that blocked the light. Finally, the toilet was outside, around the corner, inconvenient for a sexagenarian, who must pee during the night.
Facing a six-hour drive the next day, I went to bed at 9:30pm. I had a terrible night. The bar’s stereo blared Mexican music that made sleep impossible. Instead, I rested by relaxing. At 11:30, the music was finally turned off. I sighed. But soon the local canines intoned a chorus of barks and howls. After a full hour, their throat must have grown sore because they all stopped, as if by common accord. The silence was now absolute... Except for a high-pitched hum, like that of a Formula One racer half a kilometre away. The whine grew louder until it seemed right next to me. Aw, damn! A mosquito! I slapped at it, giving myself a solid shot to the head, while the blood-sucking beast not only escaped but waited until I drifted off before returning. Another slap, another miss.
I resorted to the mosquito-trapping technique I had developed while living in Nigeria. I lay flat on my back, facing the ceiling, and waited for the buzz to return. The key to successful mosquito hunting in the dark is to delay your natural reaction until the mozzie seems about to enter your ear canal. The sound grows amazingly loud. At that point, quickly turn your head so that the invaded ear is fully against the pillow and rub back and forth for five seconds. In spite of an excellent record in Africa, I failed miserably here.
My only option was to crank the overhead fan to high speed and lie with my head at the foot of the bed. (Overhead fans in tropical hotel rooms are always above the foot of the bed, so shouldn't they be called overfoot?) The flow of night air chilled my shaved head. My teeth clacked like castanets. I got up, dug into my bag for my pakama—a cotton cylinder that Thai men wear as a casual skirt—and wrapped it turban-style around my head. Thus attired and inverted, I was finally able to sleep.
The Hideaway was no longer on my list of potential winter homes.

On my drive south, I planned to check out a number of locations, all beyond Puerto Vallarta. I was soon cruising high above Banderas Bay: thirty kilometres of coast, crammed with hotels, condos and timeshares, each bigger and more pretentious than the previous. At Los Arcos, named for two rocks that rise near the shore but do not form an arc, a dozen tour boats had released hundreds of thrashing snorkellers. No, gracias. Just like that, I deleted two areas from my list.
The road now headed inland, winding through mountains. Traffic was light; a good thing since my car’s suspension was non-existent. On one curve, a truck had crashed through the protective barrier and planted its nose in a creek. Kids and adults scurried up and down the slope, making off with as many free watermelons as they could carry.
Soon, I learned a new Spanish word: topes. Barrelling down the highway, I first saw it on a sign: Topes, 300 m. And again a moment later: Topes, 150 m. I could see a roadside restaurant ahead. Topes must be some kind of food, like tacos. It was too early for lunch… Thump-thump! Speed bump!
Over the next few hours, I checked out Punta Perula (too small, no grocery store), Bahia Chamela (the promised bungalows were motel rooms blocked off from the ocean by a fenced private resort with signs that forbade trespass), Bahia Careyes (Club Med!) and Tenacatita (nice beach but no rooms). I was nearing the end of the line I had drawn on my map.
San Patricio-Melaque’s main street was cobbled, with craters worthy of a war zone. I bounced along as far as I could, assuming that the further from the highway, the better my chances would be to find a quiet place. Wrong! The street ended at a makeshift RV site. I parked the car and walked to the beach. Mexican tourists covered the sand like termites. Similar numbers were playing in the water. A jet skier lost control of his craft and, hanging on with one hand, continued at full-throttle dangerously close to the swimmers.
My heart sank. Melaque was my last hope. I stood on the sand, wondering what to do next. To my right, a rocky point marked the northern end of the wide bay. To my left, in the distance, I could see the fat hotels of Barra de Navidad. In the middle ground, the beach was empty. Well, well...
I hurried back to my car. There were no street signs, but it was easy enough to follow the water. After I had driven back a mile, I once again parked the car and walked along the beach looking for seaside bungalows.
Sure enough, behind a chain-link fence nailed to crooked posts made from unpeeled tree trunks, lay a sandy expanse with coconut trees, two camper trailers and four well-separated bungalows. I squeezed through the opening in the fence and approached a white-haired Mexican sitting in the shade. He informed me in excellent English that he was the owner. I told him I wanted to rent a small house with cooking facilities. For how many? Just myself, but my wife would spend Christmas with me. How long did I plan to stay? Three months. His face brightened.
He led me to the far end of the property. Palm trees and flowering shrubs surrounded a thatched-roof bungalow with whitewashed walls. Outside the front door stood a table and four chairs. Inside, the kitchen was equipped with fridge, gas cooker and sink. Hidden behind a six-foot-high wall was a bedroom with separate shower and toilet.
I opened the shutters to check the cross-ventilation. Subjected to constant salty air, the screws must have completely oxidized. One shutter came off in my hand and fell onto the double bed. The owner promised to have it fixed by the next day. I had read that mañana was Mexican for never.
Meanwhile, the diminutive man vaunted the cooling benefits of thatch over modern roof materials. A fan hung from a crossbeam over—you guessed it—the foot of the beds. The bungalow was well wired. There was even an outside outlet for my laptop. I pictured myself writing the great Canadian novel while sitting out under the thatch roof he called a palapa. This was perfect. Would it be within my price range?
We sat facing each other across the outdoor table. My chair legs sank six inches into the sand, allowing us to bargain eye to eye. But rather than talk business, we first chatted about where I was from, and how he had learned English in the United States during the forties while training for the military. As a veteran, he could have remained in El Norte, but he preferred the lifestyle here “in paradise.” I let him talk, figuring the price might shrink as our relationship grew.
After the pleasantries, I finally asked how much he wanted. Thirty-five hundred pesos a month. Click-click-click went my internal calculator. That made around $375 US a month, or $12.50 a day. I offered twenty-five hundred pesos.
“Ah, mi amigo, that's not possible. Three years ago, an Italian woman, an artist, stayed here for six months and she paid 3500 a month.”
“Yes, but the peso was worth less back then.”
It was just a matter of price. Bargaining was interspersed with personal details. His wife of 49 years lived in Guadalajara. I had recently retired as a teacher. Eventually we settled for $1000 US for the full stay, with weekly change of linen and no extra charge for my wife.
I signed ten travellers' cheques and introduced myself as George. He called me Jorge. His name was Pedro. He explained that in Mexico it was disrespectful to call older people by only their first names, so I would be Don Jorge and he Don Pedro. As we chatted, a man in his forties came by to invite Don Pedro for a beer. Did I wish to join them? I declined.
I had just emptied my backpack and was making a shopping list when Don Pedro and his friend appeared at my door with a six-pack of Modelo. The three of us sat outside my new home to drink beer with lime and salt. We conversed as best we could with my baby Spanish and his friend's lack of English. Don Pedro translated the essential and demonstrated a propensity for bilingual word play that I found challenging.
After the first beer, Don Pedro proposed a snack. Before I could find the words to refuse, he trotted off to his trailer. His friend, using simplified Spanish and hand gestures, managed to inform me that Don Pedro owned a ranch just north of here where he raised cattle. Sure enough, the old ranchero returned with cheese from his very own farm! My host was an educated Mexican, who owned beachfront property in Melaque, a 200-hectare ranch nearby and a home in Guadalajara. The two hours we spent together were filled with laughter and conviviality.

Postscript: The next day, I drove my rental car back to Puerto Vallarta and returned to Melaque by bus, in time for sunset. The shutter had been repaired.

MY NEIGHBOURHOOD

I have settled into my beachfront home. My fridge is well stocked and, after discovering that my casita had no closet, I bought a length of rope in town and stretched it across an unused corner of the bedroom, so I could hang my clothes. I have also begun to explore the twin towns of San Patricio-Melaque (population 9,000), or simply Melaque as locals call it. In fact, my new home is in a “suburb,” called Villa Obregon.
Dilapidated buses connect the various villages along this five-mile arc of sand, bracketed at either end by rocky points. On the passenger-side windshield of each bus, the name of the four communities is scrawled in white paint: Melaque, San Patricio, Villa Obregon and Barra de Navidad. San Patricio is so named because, a century ago, Irish sailors landed here and chose to stay. Their lineage lingers in the blue eyes and red hair of many children. The village’s biggest feast is Saint Patrick's Day.
I have met a number of snowbirds, most from Seattle or Vancouver. Martin, a widower, who has spent 25 consecutive winters here, gave me a tour in his van, pointing out the market, the best stores and restaurants, all the while lecturing on the history of the area. We drove to Barra de Navidad, which is separated from the other three villages by a lagoon that attracts birds of all feathers. Barra is the upscale part of the bay. One hotel offers rooms starting at $270 US a night. In the 1500s, Spaniards built ships there. The town’s name celebrates an expedition to Japan that left on Christmas day, thus the name Navidad. As for Melaque and Obregon, I've yet to discover their meaning, but I've see an Obregon street in every Mexican town I've visited.
To write, I sit outside my front door on a fifties-style chrome kitchen chair that sinks deeper into the sand with every shift. My laptop is now at eye level on a thick-legged wooden table covered by a red plastic cloth. It is late afternoon. The lengthening shadows of palm trees dance breezily on the raked sand of the courtyard. From the ocean comes the roar of surf.
I was swimming just minutes ago, mostly floating on my back beyond the breakers in warm buoyant ocean. With ears immersed, I hear my body: the lub-dub of my heart, the rush of air into my lungs, an occasional intestinal gurgle, like returning to the amniotic fluid. After thirty minutes, I emerged from the brine, my mind clear of the whirr of writing. I paused on the steep, damp slope and looked around. The nearest human was half a kilometre away. Under a cloudless sky, the air held a haze of salty moisture, the stuff that corrodes everything metallic. The steady breeze chilled me, but a hot shower awaited.
Fresh and clean, I return to this description of my surroundings. Behind me, a chain-link fence runs along a line of palms whose bases have all been whitewashed. (Esthetic or practical?) Across the street, stand the Bungalows Pacifico. Each cottage is trimmed in a different colour: purple, yellow, red and green. Martin, the 85-year-old from Seattle, sits on his stoop in a square-cut canvas chair reading a magazine. His “gentle” Doberman, Kerbie II, lies at his feet. Next door, William and Glenda are shuffling about inside the living room. Their golden lab is lying in the shade just outside the entrance, muzzle on paws. These suites rent for $550 US a month, a good deal really, given that they have daily maid service, clean sheets every second day, shiny tile floors, modern living room, two air-conditioned bedrooms and full kitchen. The only drawback is that they aren’t waterfront. Residents sit on their front stoop. To reach the beach, they must cross the street and cut through Don Pedro’s property.
Midway in our sandy courtyard, stands the caretaker's casita, identical to mine, where Marcella, her labourer husband and their three kids live. The boys, ten and eight, have just finished whitewashing the communal bathrooms for the trailer crowd. I've been told that, next week, rigs will fill the space between our two bungalows. I’ll lose my view, but only until the New Year. This weekend, the feast days for Our Lady of Guadelupe will begin. The church in Villa Obregon is dedicated to this version of the virgin, so the town will be swarming and noisy. Ros will arrive in time for the fiesta.
Marcella's boys walk over. They stand in silence on either side of me and watch me type in a foreign language. I decide to dazzle them a bit, shut down the word-processing application and open Gobbler, a video game where a snake grows longer as it eats mushrooms that pop up magically on the screen. Their eyes widen. Having played Gobbler for many years, I make it look simple. I quit my game and invite the older boy to try his hand. He loses his three lives in less than a minute and groans in disappointment. The younger boy, who has already caught up to his brother at school, manages to devour three or four mushrooms before he expires.
Setting clear limits like the teacher I used to be (the French call this une déformation professionelle), I tell them they can play again tomorrow, but now I want to write, so adios. They leave reluctantly, but their eyes glow with anticipation. Nice kids.
Shortly after they’ve gone, Martin comes by. I motion for him to sit down. All that's left of Martin is a slack, wrinkled bag of skin and bones. His chair barely indents the sand. I'm glad I bought a six-pack of beer yesterday. He's my first visitor. I shut down the computer and hurry into my kitchen.
As we sip from cold tins of Modelo, Martin informs me that he has invited William and Glenda for sunset dinner at Banana's in Barra. Would I like to join them? After so many winters here, Martin has become the cog around which the small community of snowbirds revolves. His wife died three years ago. People stop and visit whenever his front door is open, a signal that he is home, awake and receiving. Every day, as if on a planned rota, a gringo neighbour comes over to cook or invite him to dinner. Tonight he is treating William and Glenda because they fed him three times this week. May I be as well taken care of when I'm his age.
We chat over beers, covering topics such as his wife's death from pneumonia after four days in a local clinic, his former job in Seattle as government health inspector, the ten acres he owns next to the new Microsoft campus, four of which have been optioned by a corporation at $90, 000 an acre. I offer details from my life.
Later, when I see William and Glenda at Martin’s door, I cross the street and we all board his Ford van, Kerbie II included. In spite of trembling hands, Martin drives well. Nevertheless, this year for the first time, his children insisted that one of them drive him down from Seattle.
Banana's is on Barra Beach, upstairs in a hotel complex that was destroyed by a freak storm two months ago, when monster waves pounded the shoreline for seven consecutive days, leaving a string of demolished buildings. Amazingly, the hotel has been rebuilt in time for peak season. However, the restaurant is still getting its act together and is currently open only for breakfast. The owner, Ricardo, greets Martin by name and invites us in for a look.
While they talk, I step out onto a balcony. The setting sun gilds the sea and burnishes the sand. Below me, on the ribbon of beach, four longhairs sit, leaning back on their packs. A few steps away, half a dozen soldiers form a circle and play at keeping a football in the air, M-16s slung on their shoulders. At the far end of the beach, a bulldozer and workers are rebuilding the seawall. Glenda, William's Chinese-Canadian wife, limps over and whispers conspiratorially that the soldiers carry guns to make tourists feel safer. Her left hip joint is worn out and she'll get a synthetic one after William, now 71, loses his fight with cancer. She’s hoping he'll last long enough to return to Victoria in March. For the time being, she's putting her energy in supporting her husband of many decades.
We eventually cross the street to another restaurant and have a quiet meal, except whenever a person, dog or cat walks by, which sends Kerbie II, a fully grown Doberman, into paroxysms of territorial aggression. He scares the bejesus out of all passers-by, human or furry, and each time, almost yanks old Martin out of his chair.
By nature, the snowbird community is old and dying. I'm the puppy at a mere sixty-one. Although conversations often revolve around physical ailments, most of the people I've met are intelligent and well informed. Carl, who lives half a block from me, was head of computer studies at the University of Washington. His lab assistant was a whiz kid named Bill Gates. Cancer-ridden William was born in Edinburgh, educated in France and worked for an insurance company in Montreal. Later, he and Glenda lived in the Philippines and travelled throughout the Orient. He speaks fluent Spanish, French and Tagalog.
This simple undemanding camaraderie is enjoyable. I picture myself returning every winter...

PS: According to William, palm tree trunks are whitewashed with a quicklime suspension to deter crawling insects from climbing up and damaging the leaves.

PPS: Alvaro Obregón was President of the United States of Mexico between 1920 and 1924. He initiated many social reforms and demilitarized Mexican politics. After a term out of office, he was re-elected in 1928 but was shot dead before being sworn in.

LOST AND FOUND

Today, after writing for four hours, I decide to go snorkelling at the north end of Bahia de Navidad. I walk three blocks to the nearest bus stop. For three pesos, one can ride around the entire bay, a total distance of eight kilometres. The bus is on its last wheels. To change gears, the driver has to wrestle with the stick shift, producing a grinding metal sound that sets teeth on edge. At every pothole, the chassis thunks the frame. The corrosive salty air has feasted on the floor, chewing out fist-sized holes, through which I watch the ground scroll by. Dust funnels in whenever we stop.
I get off before the bus turns inland to the mystery village of El Ranchito, a place no gringo I’ve met has ever visited. I walk along the cobblestones of Main Street, in the shade of high-walled compounds and soon reach the remains of the Casa Grande Hotel, destroyed by the 1995 earthquake. The broken pride of Melaque sits on a half-kilometre stretch of downtown beach. Its outer walls have crumbled, leaving a honeycomb of empty rooms, with concrete floors askew and rebar poking out at odd angles. In the yard, brambles and cacti envelop the decaying body of a pick-up truck. Near rusty front gates that are chained shut, a solitary uniformed guard sits in a makeshift shelter, guarding against what?
I reach the end of the street and cross a creek that offers safe shallows for three cinnamon-skinned toddlers. As I wind my way through the tangle of trailers near the cliff at the end of the bay, I wonder why so many gringos choose to live cheek by jowl on terrain that offers no greenery, no shade, no electricity, no water, nor sewage outlets. The RVer mentality is as foreign to me as Mexican ways.
I look back. This end of the beach teems with Mexican families enjoying a Sunday outing. Restaurants set tables and umbrellas on the sand. Roving guitar-players entertain the drinkers. Standing waist-deep among swimmers, fishermen sidearm-pitch circular nets into the surf. Dozens of birds—gulls, kingfishers, frigates and pelicans—circle above. Some dive neatly into the water. When I stopped here last Sunday, the crowd dismayed me. Now, it feels good—a wholesome Mexican scene.
I embark on a path that parallels the water and leads to the point a kilometre away. Three Mexicans are fishing from shore. Their monofilament lines are wrapped around empty family-size Coke bottles. I hike up and down two rocky rises. In the hollows, carcasses of puff-fish, dorado and pelicans lie in various stages of decomposition. I breathe the complex smells of sea and land, of life and death. At the end of a pebbly stretch that separates the bay from its neighbour to the north, I scramble over rocks to my launch site. Two crosses and a brass pot with plastic flowers rest on a boulder rising above the surf, a reminder of human lives lost, and a warning to me.
Even though no one is in sight, I cinch my Thai wrapper around my waist to change into my swimsuit. I place snorkle and mask on a rock, then stuff everything else into my daypack and carry it to a hiding place. Since the volcanic rocks here are sharp and rough, I’ve kept my runners on, a pair of smelly five-year-old beaters that won’t make the return trip to Canada. At water’s edge, I remove my shoes and place them on a table-sized rock, so they’ll be available when I come back to land.
I enter the ocean, careful to step only on the smoothest rocks. Black-shelled crabs scurry to safety. Knee-deep in water, I study the flow through a gap between two boulders. As it recedes, I slide into the cool water and let the powerful Pacific whoosh me through the narrow passage and into deeper waters. A five-minute swim takes me to a coral garden in a cove.
Today, the water is murky with algae, visibility no more than six feet. Still, I enjoy swimming among reef fish that number in the thousands. The surge is strong and constant. I float over a bed of green coral, sloshing forward and back to the rhythm of the ocean. A bright-yellow boxfish swims by. I’ve never seen one that colour before. Snorkelling always absorbs my attention; more so here, where I have to be alert to avoid getting slammed into craggy boulders near the surface.
An hour later, I’m chilled and ready to get out. Water temperature is just over 80°F, but this is Mexican winter and my furnace runs on old blood. I negotiate my exit, timing it to the surge. Surf swirls around my calves as I stand and turn toward the flat rock... My running shoes are gone! Hobbling onto shore, I hurry as best I can over sharp stones to where I hid my pack. Whew! It’s still there. But I’ll have to walk barefooted a kilometre over flesh-slicing rocks. Will my soles survive? I could swim, but my pack would get soaked.
As I appraise the challenge, I notice three Mexican boys, a hundred metres away, crossing to the next bay. One of them is wearing oversized shoes that make him walk like a circus clown. Cupping hands to mouth, I shout in bad Spanish, “Hola, estoy mi zapatas!” The three amigos freeze in their tracks and look back. The clown bends down and removes the shoes. Holding them in one hand, arm extended before him, he hip-hops back toward me over the sharp stones. I stand on the rise, legs astride, arms folded across my chest like a prison guard watching a criminal’s shoeless dance. His face is down, eyes focused on every step. Why didn’t he make his trek easier by keeping my Reeboks on? Shame, I guess.
He scrambles up the craggy slope and, when within reach, finally looks up: brown eyes a baby seal would die for. Barely five feet tall, he’s lean enough to show ribs. He hands the shoes up to me, as if making an offering to a Mayan god. Unable to deliver a stern lecture with my limited vocabulary, I snarl, “¡Muy malo!” His head lowers, shoulders rise, an animal cowering. Without a word, he turns and tiptoes off to rejoin his waiting mates. My shoes are dripping wet. Damn!
On the other hand, had he walked away, I’d never have caught up with him, not in bare feet. He wasn’t a thief. He found abandoned sneakers and took them in order to keep up with well-shod friends. I might have done the same at his age. The ultimate proof of his honesty is that, as soon as he realized the shoes had an owner, he removed them to bring them back.
I watch him totter away, wishing I hadn’t called him a bad kid.

WILLIAM’S PROBLEM

Early one evening, I was chatting with Martin at his home. As I stood to leave, William appeared in the doorway.
“Are you OK, Martin?” he asked.
“Fine,” the elder replied.
I figured that polite William was using code to say that dinner was ready. All week, he and his wife, Glenda, had fed Martin, their winter neighbour for the past eight years. I followed William out the door and caught up with him at the sidewalk. I teased that he needn’t worry about not inviting me because I’d already eaten. He chuckled and said that he truly was checking on Martin, who’d been unwell all day.
“Everybody here is close to death,” he added with a cryptic smile.
At seventy, William was lean, handsome, clean-shaven, and one of the few male snowbirds without a paunch. And yet, he was dying of cancer.
He asked about my pen problem. The salty mist had sabotaged my computer, so I was now writing long-hand. After a hundred pages, I had emptied six ballpoint pens. I held up two high-tech German pens I had bought in town.
“Hope these last longer.”
“I need to talk to you,” he said and leaned closer. “When do you plan to return home?”
“February 22.”
“Would you be willing to drive back with us?”
“Aw, jeez, I already have my return air ticket.”
“That doesn’t matter. You see, I’m dying of cancer.”
Martin and others had told me about his condition, but this was the first time William had brought it up with me. I nodded and said, “I know.”
“I take morphine,” he continued. “Five milligrams four times a day.”
I hadn’t known about the morphine. William often slurred his words, lost his train of thought and showed poor balance. I had assigned it to alcohol, a common problem among snowbirds.
“I don’t want to drive when medicated.” he added. “The doctors say I have one chance in a thousand of surviving. If my condition gets worse, I’ll need to go back early. I don’t want Glenda to be stuck having to drive all way back to Victoria.”
“Whatever I can do to help, William,” I said. “Just say when and I’ll drive back with you guys. Still, I’d prefer it to be after the end of January. That’s when I should finish the first draft of my novel.”
“Aw, never mind,” he said and turned away.
Back in my bungalow, I pondered the abrupt end to our conversation. Had he thought me reluctant to help? He might have taken my hesitation as a refusal. I had come here to write and certainly didn’t want to abort my project. On the other hand, William was in need… and I liked him, a refined, thoughtful man.
He had lent me a book on Mexico. It lay next to my bed, where I sat with my back against pillows, bare legs protected against mosquitoes by my night-time T-shirt. It was only 8pm. I decided to return his book and use the opportunity to reassure him of my willingness to help.
He was sitting in a folding canvas chair in his doorway, to catch what little breeze there was at that time of evening. His bare chest was tanned darker than his khaki shorts. I handed him the book. Glenda, who was reading inside the living room, asked how I had enjoyed it.
But before I could answer, William cut in.
“Who told you about my cancer?”
Surprised by the angry tone, I looked beyond him to Glenda, who was out of his line of sight. She wagged a finger and mouthed, “Don’t tell him.”
“Who told you about my cancer?’
“Jeez, William, I wouldn’t feel right revealing names. It goes against my principles. Like snitching in school.”
“Who told you about my cancer?”
Glenda shook her head, so I kept silent.
“I’ve only told my two nearest neighbours,” he pointed right then left. “This one or that one?”
Still, I said nothing.
“This one or that one?”
Glenda now waved both hands, imploring me not to tell.
“Neither,” I replied.
“It wasn’t them?” he pointed to Dorothy and Ed’s bungalow.
“They got here yesterday. I’ve yet to have a conversation with them.”
“I’m going to have to apologize, then.”
“You accused them of telling me?”
He nodded. “So who told you?”
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
“I refuse to be a subject of gossip.”
“This is a tiny community.” Glenda said softly. “Word gets around.”
“I hate this place!” William shouted. “I will not have everyone discussing my personal affairs... I’m leaving,”
“Where will you go?” she asked. “Back to Canada?”
“We’ll go south… or north.” He turned to me. “So, who told you?”
“I’m sorry, William. But I will not tell you that.”
“Well, then...” His features slowly twisted. “Get out of my sight!”
I stood stunned before him.
“Get out!” he screamed.
Glenda patted the air, as if to say, “Go. I’ll take care of him.”
Before leaving, I said, “William, I’m terribly sorry I upset you. But I didn’t want to pretend to be surprised by what I already knew. I believe in being honest with friends. But whatever happens, I want you to know that I like and respect you.” Then I left.
A short while later in my bungalow, I heard shouts from across the street. William and Glenda were arguing. I grabbed my folding chair and escaped to the beach, where the pounding surf drowned out all voices. The land breeze was growing, blowing away sand flies and mosquitoes…
I’d have saved William pain and stress if I had not said that fateful “I know.” Once again, my lack of sensitivity had created a problem. Why did I always have to try to impress with my knowledge? William didn’t need this kind of anguish. If only I had replied, “Really?” or “Oh, no!” Still, Glenda might talk him out of it. For the next few days, it might be best for me to avoid him. He was drugged, maybe he’d forget. Yeah, right.
Later in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I knew from experience that, when engrossed in first drafts, I grow hypersensitive and over-emotional. I needed to reason this out. But it was too late for logic. I should have thought before opening my big mouth. I kept replaying the scene with William. Each time, my stomach tightened at my inconsiderate “I know.” Why? Why? Why?

I was startled awake by the slamming of a car door. It was 5am. I hurried to the front window. The streetlight cast William’s white SUV in surreal sepia, like a silent film. He came out of his bungalow carrying a cardboard box, which he loaded into the back of the car. “Oh, no! Please don’t leave,” I whispered in prayer. Glenda was pacing the living room. Her limp was more pronounced than usual—from stress, or because she thought no one was watching? Once the car was packed, William went inside and closed the door. I waited in darkness, but no one came out.
Even though I knew I would not sleep, I returned to bed. Where might William go? His friends and support system were in Melaque. And what of Martin? Who would feed him now? My one thoughtless comment was tearing this snowbird community apart. What a mess I’d made. I thought of crossing the street and pleading with William, maybe name someone who had told me about his cancer. I’d heard it from many sources. But what good would that do? Probably upset him even more. Why aggravate a dying man?
At 7am, a car door slammed. A moment later, a motor started up. I rushed to the window, in time to see William and Glenda drive off. My body returned to bed but my thoughts went with them. I lay there travelling over well-trodden ground until I heard Dorothy’s voice. She must have discovered that her neighbours had left. I got up, groggy. She was nowhere in sight, but Martin’s door was open. After dressing, I walked up my side of the street. The old guy was sitting alone in his living room. He might not know of his neighbours’ departure. Well, I wasn’t about to play town crier. I’d caused enough trouble. I shuffled back to my bungalow and fixed coffee.
I was pouring a cupful when Dorothy came from the administration office, brandishing a key. She opened the door to William and Glenda’s cottage. I ran over and got there at the same time as Martin. I reported what I had seen during the night. Dorothy said she wasn’t surprised; William had threatened to leave many times. Besides, the previous evening, he had yelled at her for feeding Bryn, his Labrador retriever.
“I figured he was angry at a joke I’d made in the afternoon,” she said. “After he’d bathed Bryn, the poor dog lay in the shade, shivering. I said I’d have reported him to the local SPCA, if there had been one. But that’s not all. Later, he accused me of gossiping about his cancer. Christ, everyone knows about it because he, himself, tells everyone, and then forgets.
“I came here to relax, not to get stressed,” she continued as the three of us stood in the depersonalized living room. “Still, after he yelled at me and stomped off, I had myself a good long crying jag.”
I finally confessed my gaffe of the previous evening. Both Dorothy and Martin insisted that William’s departure had nothing to do with my comment. He was mixing alcohol with morphine. Absolved of the guilt that had gripped my gut for twelve hours, I broke down in tears. I was also crying at the loss of two friends.

GRINGO CHARITY

Many snowbirds in Melaque “lend” money to locals. For example, a week before Christmas, Carl Young, former head of the University of Washington’s computer department, “loaned” $200 US to the local plant shop owner, so that the man could buy presents for his kids. Carl did not expect to be paid back.
Each year, Martin drove from Seattle with boxes of pens and scrap paper to distribute to schools. Dorothy arrived in January with three suitcases full of toys and children’s clothes. Once a month, a gringo service club, Friends of Melaque, meets to plan ways to help the community. Last year, they donated a second-hand American fire truck to the town.
But a most unusual form of charity took place last night.
As I returned home from dinner in town, I stopped to greet Martin, who sat reading in his living room. He no longer read books but subscribed to different magazines: Time, Newsweek, Playboy, Reader’s Digest, National Geographic and its new Traveler’s Magazine. They accumulated in Seattle and he brought them to Mexico in his Ford van, hundreds of magazines stacked among personal belongings and bundles of paper.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked as I sat down on one of those folding canvas chairs so popular among RVers and snowbirds.
With trembling hands, Old Martin marked his page and placed the Reader’s Digest on the table between us. “Much better,” he said. “My stomach has settled down, but Dorothy is concerned about the swelling in my ankles. She insists that I prop my feet up.”
“Well, she used to be a nurse, so I guess she knows.”
“She’s also a busybody.” He smiled and shook his shaved head, mottled after years in the sun. “By the way, she called William’s son in Victoria. He and Glenda reached home safely.”
“Good. Did she find out how he’s doing?”
“She sure did. As soon as they got there, William had a Catscan. They found no trace of cancer. Seems he’s in remission.”
“Really? That’s wonderful news, in so many ways,” I said, taking a deep breath. “How about you, Martin? How’s this winter been for you?”
“Better than the last two,” he said. He pulled a loose thread from the tablecloth. “After three years, I’m finally getting used to living alone. Mind you, everyone’s been so helpful. First, William and Glenda took care of me by preparing every meal. Now that they’re gone, Dorothy and Ed have taken over. I’ve got this well-equipped kitchen and all kinds of food packages I brought from Seattle, but I never cook anymore. I get almost too much care”
“As Ros’ grandmother used to say, ‘May that be the worst thing that happens to you.’”
“By the way, have you seen Ed and Dorothy?” he asked.
“Yeah, around four o’clock, on my way to the Internet store. They were boarding the bus to Beer Bob’s book exchange in Barra.”
“Well, it’s almost nine and they’re not back.”
Was he worried about their welfare, or still waiting for his meal?
“They probably stayed for dinner,” I said. “Want me to fix you something to eat? Or we can drive to Barra and look for them…”
“No, no. I’m just worried about them.”
As he finished his sentence, Dorothy’s raucous voice reverberated in the narrow passageway next to Martin’s bungalow. Dyed orange hair aflutter, she lurched into Martin’s living room, leading a florid-faced Ed. The rest of his body was hidden behind a black presentation case, like those used by beach vendors to display jewelry or braided bands.
The first time I had seen Dorothy she was wearing a Crocodile Dundee hat with one side tacked up, striped fuchsia-and-orange blouse and Day-Glo Hawaiian shorts. Strapped to her lower legs were field hockey shin guards. She explained that she’d been bumping into things and breaking the skin. At age 78, her wounds took forever to heal. With her carrot crown, piercing dark eyes, hooked beak and receding chin, she might well be a parrot in human form. Her lime-green blouse might have been plumage.
“Hola, Martin,” she slurred. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah, I fixed some leftovers from last night’s barbecue. So what have you two been up to?”
She laughed—a squawk, really. “We had a grand time. Look at this.”
She reached back for the case that Ed had been holding like a stagehand. Both were tipsy. After a brief struggle, she released the catch and revealed silver necklaces and bracelets tacked on a red velvet lining.
“Where did you get this?” Martin and I asked simultaneously.
Ed chuckled as Dorothy set the open case on the coffee table.
“When we came out of the Sunset Bar,” she said, “a Mexican tried to sell us some silver. Well, we chatted with him for a while. He was such a sweet man. We found out that his wife is hospitalized in Puerto Vallarta. The poor bugger needed to sell his entire case to get enough cash to join her. So, to help him out, we bought the whole thing!”
She looked at Ed and both giggled like neophyte pot smokers.
“How much?” Martin asked.
“Five hundred, U.S.” Ed said between titters. “Money for plane tickets back to Vancouver. We’ll need to sell twenty-five at 20 bucks apiece to get home. Genuine silver. Make great gifts. Wanna buy some?”

This morning, shin pads strapped on and bearing the case like a shield, Dorothy, the warrior bird goddess, marched across the campsite to the beach. Trooping single file behind her were Ed, Martin and Kerbie II, the Doberman. The recently risen sun set her red hair ablaze. She swooped toward an unsuspecting sunbather, opened her case with a flourish and displayed her wares. Ed wielded a Hasselbach F-16, shooting at will.
She swept down the beach toward town, besieging every blanket. In the silence between surf bombardments, we could hear her battle cry: repeated squawks that at times sounded like laughter. The rest of us viewed the blitz with a mixture of shock and awe... and bemused amusement.
An amateur jeweller from Wisconsin, whose RV was parked on the grounds, examined a bracelet using a magnifying glass and claimed to be able to read 9.3 on one of the links, proof that this was “decent” silver.
I returned to my casita, mulling over the gringo propensity for charity. We have so much more than locals that it’s only natural to want to help them. What we give will not impoverish us or even change our lives, but it will improve conditions for the Mexicans, at least temporarily.
On an individual level, this charity seems commendable. But on a systemic basis, it is like the largesse of the Carnegies, Rockefellers, Buffets or Gates, who give millions to good causes, yet remain the richest of the rich. The money they spend on charity and social improvements is not only tax deductible. It absolves them of blame, defusing resentment that could lead to resentment if not revolution and cost them their wealth. In the same way, gringo generosity, so evident in this small town, buys us a welcome mat and a comfy conscience, while we maintain our privileges.
But who was I to judge? Martin and Dorothy were good, honest people, trying to assist those less fortunate than themselves.
The following day, I was talking to Brett at his downtown craft store. He was a twig in Martin’s family tree, a grand-nephew once or twice removed. Brett had taken one of Dorothy’s bracelets to a Mexican silver dealer. The verdict: silver-plating over copper—not worth $5. Brett never told Dorothy. Nor did he reveal that two other gringos had bought entire trays of silver from a desperate man with a sick wife in Puerto Vallarta…
A week later, Dorothy had recouped her $500 and had eight pieces of jewelry left over to bring home as gifts... along with a fine story to tell.

HOW I ALMOST LOST MY WIFE

Every Wednesday, I ate dinner at the Maya, the best restaurant on our side of Bahia de Navidad. Peg, a co-owner, had been executive chef for eleven years at Delilah’s, a landmark in Vancouver’s West End. Her life partner and maîtresse d’hôtel was Anna. They had opened in Melaque two months earlier.
When a cement stairway was built from the beach to the elevated Maya courtyard, Anna set a table on the landing, above the sand. That became my Wednesday evening roost. Away from the chatter of other diners, and always alone after Ros had left, I was free to watch the slow-motion kaleidoscope in the post-sunset sky. Every few minutes, I’d reach for my notebook and jot another idea for the next day’s writing.
That fateful night, I ordered my favourite meal: dried pear salad with blue cheese dressing, to be followed by a baked filet of sea bass in almond crust, served with mango chutney on a bed of couscous. A glass of cold Chilean Chardonnay and slices of warm baguette with a smoky cheese spread would round out this feast.
While waiting for my food, I listed what I would tell Ros when she called at nine-thirty that evening. I often got so excited that I’d forget what I planned to tell her. Phone calls to Canada were outrageously expensive: $1.50 per minute. However, the management of Bungalows Pacifico allowed me to receive her weekly call on their phone at no cost, as if I were a guest.
The food arrived. Every bite was a Zen experience. The sight of the fiery sky, the sound of surf, the feel of a breeze and Mamma Ocean’s perfume, all harmonized with my fifth sense, and the lead singer in this quintet, El Taste. I savoured each exquisite morsel.
After dinner, another kind of fun began. I shifted to the bar for a game of chess with the bartender, Anna’s twenty-something son. In spite of the constant interruptions of his job, he had managed a win and a draw in our two previous matches. That night, I was prepared for his sneak attacks and mounted a careful offense that led to checkmate and tied our series.
I strolled back to my casita along ill-lit cobblestone, a threat to aged ankles. It was 8:30. What to do for the rest of this fine evening? I reached Jacques and Sharon’s bungalow at the near end of the campground, a bigger version of my little house, and paused to chat across the wire fence. Jacques was rolling a joint. He invited me to join him.
As we sat, sharing the hallowed herb, he pointed to an RV parked within inches of their bedroom window. The rig was angled so that it took up two spaces and blocked Jacques and Sharon’s view of the ocean. There was plenty of room elsewhere on the site. The first day, Sharon had talked to the woman, who gruffly replied that she wasn’t about to spend half a day setting up again. Jacques had approached her the following day, but she refused to listen. He tried her husband—who weighed close to four hundred pounds—too obese to assist his wife. Jacques offered to help. No chance.
We decided to make them want to move. The view-blockers went to bed at nine. We sat on the patio next to their rig, shouting and guffawing like drunken louts. At ten to ten, Jacques took out his guitar and I fetched my harmonica. We played long and loud. I left after the last trailer window had slammed shut.
Inside my casita, I unloaded my daypack and saw the notebook with the items I would tell Ros. Omigod! I’d forgotten her call! My smile disappeared and my stomach lurched. It was after eleven, too late to run into town and place a collect call or buy a phone card; the entire village shut down by ten. Ros had left a long-distance card with a few pesos still on it. That might work. I only needed to tell her to call the next day. What was the dial code for Canada? Martin or Dorothy would know. I looked across the street at their bungalows. Total darkness.
The nearest payphone was a block away. I took a shortcut through the Bungalows Pacifico courtyard. Mario, the assistant manager was sitting in the reception area, watching TV.
“Your wife called,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. But what’s the code for Canada?”
Ever helpful, he phoned the local operator and soon had the answer: dial 0-0-1, then the area code and the number. I dashed out the courtyard’s rear exit, across a dusty boulevard to the public phone.
I had never used a Mexican payphone. When I lifted the receiver, a rectangular screen lit up. In Spanish, it instructed me to insert my card. I did. Please wait… A moment later, it told me to dial. 0-0-1-6-0-4… But new words appeared, telling me to remove the card. Something was wrong. My card might not have enough value left to initiate an international call. Or perhaps I had inserted it wrong. Like a Kama Sutran, I tried every position. The screen repeatedly shouted “COLGAR!” I had no idea what “colgar” meant. Damn, I should have brought my Spanish dictionary… and a flashlight... and my glasses. Anyway, this was useless.
Back at the Pacifico administration, I asked Mario if I could please make a collect call from the business phone, the one on which I received my weekly love fix. I’d pay whatever was necessary. He hemmed and hawed, moved to the phone and examined it for a moment. He then reached for a device that timed calls and, holding it up, said, “Too late. Line closed.” Translation: “I won’t say no to you, but you can’t call out on this phone.” I nodded, thanked him for his help and shuffled back to my casita.
There, I looked up “colgar” in my dictionary. It meant “hang up.” At least, I had done that right.
I could do nothing more until morning. I set my alarm for 7:45. The corner store opened at eight. I tossed and turned every which way, except onto my left shoulder, which I had separated a day earlier. Reckless as usual, I had tried to body surf six-foot shorepound. It slammed me into the packed sand. Lucky I didn’t land on my head. The force might well have broken my neck. Plummeting toward plegia, I had managed a mid-air twist, and my left shoulder took the hit. Since then, I’d been unable to raise my arm or sleep on that side...
How could I have planned for Ros’ call at dinner, then forgotten it until 11:00? Was it my first win at chess? But then, why hadn’t I remembered it while walking home? Was it the dope? Compared to B.C. Bud, Mexican marijuana was akin to smoking oregano. Or the second glass of wine that Anna had offered in a gesture of friendship? Perhaps. But most likely, I’d simply suffered a cerebral synapse failure—a senior moment.
Poor Ros must be worried sick. How puzzling for her to be told that I wasn’t there to take her call! She had no way to find out if I were dead or alive. What a fool I was. On and on, my mind galloped. My Stoopid Voice had a field night...
I slept fitfully. Periodically, I’d awaken with a start, cursing myself for my mistake, one that hung the woman I loved on tenterhooks. She probably imagined the worst. How frustrating to be so cut off from the outside world…
I got up before the alarm and prepared coffee. I carried the mug out the door, trying unsuccessfully to walk and sip at the same time—much trickier than chewing gum. Dorothy’s door was wide open. In fact, she was chatting with Martin on his doorstep.
“Where were you last night?” she asked. “Your wife called. We looked all over for you.
“I forgot,” I mumbled, toeing the sand like a naughty boy in trouble. “I’m going to call her now.”
“The international code is 0-0-1,” she squawked as I turned to escape.
The abarrotes (convenience store) was open. The woman told me she only had thirty-peso cards—good for three minutes. Oh well. Then, she added something in rapid-fire Spanish that I didn’t understand. I asked her to repeat. Like a bridge player with an ace of trump, she flashed a solitary hundred-peso card. Things were looking up; we’d now have ten minutes.
Eight o’clock in Melaque meant 6am in Vancouver. On a workday, Ros would already be up. At the payphone, I quickly dialed. Electronic pings were followed by a ringing sound.
“Hullo?” a sleepy man’s voice. Wow! She hadn’t wasted time. One missed call and I’d been replaced!
“Ros?”
“Wrong number.”
I excused myself for waking him before dawn and hung up. My card now said nine minutes. Damn!
I took a deep breath, dialed carefully this time, heard the ping before the ring… then Ros’ voice. The first two minutes were taken up with my abject grovelling. Our lovely lingering Wednesday evening chat was thus reduced to seven minutes on Thursday morning.
Mea maxima culpa!

BETELGEUSE

Having lived many years in the tropics, I no longer sunbathe. Rudyard Kipling explained it best: “Only mad dogs and oily gringos lie out in the midday sun...” Or something like that. Mind you, I spend lots of time outside, at my writing table or on a beach chair salvaged from the campground’s storage shed. I used to sit in the shade of the palapa near the beach. But once I acclimatized, the sea breeze chilled me to the point of discomfort, even though afternoon temperatures hover around 85°F. That’s still thirteen-point-six degrees cooler than my body. So, I’ve resorted to sitting near my front door in the dappled shade of palm trees. Less breeze, more heat, no people, just right.
To Mexicans—and this extranjero—it is wintertime. Nighttime temperatures rarely drop below 60°F, and yet I sleep under two blankets, wearing T-shirt, sweat pants and socks. Evenings, I walk into town in a long-sleeve shirt and fleece vest. Many Mexicans ensconce themselves in down jackets. Like them, I shake my head in disbelief at tourists who parade around town in tank tops and shorts—as incongruous as the lack of hands on San Patricio’s clock tower, but without the symbolism.
The sun will set in half an hour. I walk out to the upper beach, bundled up like an octogenarian on the deck of an Alaska cruise ship. As usual, I choose to sit alone, with my selves.
Below me, lean Mexican teens sprint down the steep slope, drop their skim board on the wet sand, hop on, and slide into incoming breakers. If their timing is right, Mamma Ocean flings them ten feet into the air. The better athletes manage full somersaults before landing in shallow foam. Beginners practice cutbacks on smaller waves but duck under biggies. These nut-brown boys use three-foot long almond-shaped plywood boards decorated with surfer symbols, peace signs and marijuana leaves.
When they move away to follow the wave action, my attention turns to Marcela’s three kids, Jairo, Noi and Lise, the two boys in underpants and the five-year-old girl in blouse and shorts. They are playing unsupervised in powerful surf. Most gringos avoid swimming here, afraid of the shorepound and the undertow. But these youngsters know better than to resist, or turn their backs on Mamma. They sit on the sand and let the crashing waves sweep them up the incline as if they were flotsam. When a big wave forms, they scamper screaming up the slope. Such simple fun!
Poor enough to receive gringo charity, these children are growing up in an environment where toys are unnecessary. They have daily schoolwork as well as chores—rake the grounds, water the plants, take in the laundry. The rest of the time, they play games like soccer and tag, build beach shelters, fish from shore or ride the surf. All three are calm, polite, down-to-earth and surprisingly gentle with each other; the nicest kids I’ve ever met.
Ah! The light show has begun, both in the sky and on the beach itself. After each wave, bubbling water hisses back down the steep slope, leaving the wet sand a rippled mirror of liquid metal, first mercury, then gold, then copper. And when Sol reaches the watery horizon, the glistening froth recedes, leaving the fractal topography of rivulets in the blood-orange sand.
The fiery globe slips below the horizon. Some gringos watch for the “green flash,” a modern myth propagated by a popular French film. Supposedly, on rare occasions, when the last sliver of sun blinks, a green glow momentarily appears. Anyone fortunate enough to see it will be blessed with good fortune. I call it eidetic memory.
Today, we are all fortunate because wispy cirrus clouds are stretched out above the Pacific. With the sun gone, clouds provide the light show. Colours mutate so slowly that, like the minute hand on a clock, the human eye cannot observe their evolution, only the eternal present.
With this vermilion sky as backdrop, a middle-aged Mexican wades into the surf, fishing net clutched in both hands. He turns sideways to reduce the force of crashing waves until he stands hip-deep beyond the breakers. Swinging his arms in unison, he deftly launches the net so that it opens into a six-foot circle before hitting the water. Weighted edges make it sink. The man gives a tug and draws it back. He disentangles two small fish, tucks them into a bag attached to his waist, and prepares his web for the next cast.
By now, Venus is visible, even though the western sky is still blue. The loss of light accelerates. Shades of grey accumulate. It’s time for me to warm up with a walk into town and dinner.

At 8:15, I return to my bungalow. My belly bulges with quesadillas con pollo and agua fresca con arroz. I assemble my notebook, pen, flashlight and folding chair, and return to the beach. In total darkness, I sit alone again, naturally. The ocean crashes below me, runs up the slope, then recedes with rain-like sibilance. Venus is approaching the horizon, barely visible through the mist blanketing the bay. Overhead, Jupiter, Saturn, Orion and the Pleiades glide imperceptibly west. I lean back in my chair, aware that I am the one turning.
My mind drifts to what I wrote today: the lead-in to the final part of my novel. Among the trivia relating to the spring of 1984—Russia’s boycott of the Los Angeles Olympics, and Pierre Trudeau’s retirement—I inserted an item to show progress in the men’s support group that my main character was leading. He had helped a wife-beater understand how his violence came from fear of losing power. But this detail niggled. It was too much of an epiphany to throw in without development. Why not a smaller event? Like Art, another member of the group, admitting that he was functionally illiterate. That would explain his unwillingness to read recommended articles or write out his observations. He’s not stonewalling, he’s ashamed.
I switch on my flashlight, tuck it between shoulder and chin, slide my notebook into the cone of light and scribble this idea. Once the words are on paper, I can let them go.
Orion is overhead. Its uppermost star is Betelgeuse, a red giant. Its name comes from Arabic, meaning Hand of the Central One. Looking at it, one can see both past and future. The past because my eyes are receiving light that took 1400 years to reach me, light from events that occurred on Betelgeuse in the year 602 AD. This star also tells the future because our own sun is destined to become a red giant. In a few million years, Old Sol will run out of hydrogen, cool to a reddish colour and swell to engulf Mercury, Venus and eventually our home planet. Bye-bye all earthly life; hello global grilling.
My solitary station on the edge of the Pacific lights up once more as I note these ruminations. When I turn off my flashlight and close my eyes, the sea grows louder. The crash of waves against sand provides rhythm without a beat. A pregnant silence warns me that a big slammer is approaching. Boom! The thunderous crash shakes my chair. My eyes snap open. I may have to bail out.
Once, as I sat in this spot, a surge powered up at such speed that when it reached the crest, rather than flowing under my chair, it continued straight into the air and drenched me from head to foot. It coated me with wet sand, like a sugar-sprinkled Mexican postre. This time, the surf stops below my feet and reverses with a whoosh, releasing both a mist that speckles my glasses and a warm exhalation redolent of briny life.
The evening land breeze has finally begun to flow. I feel its gentle breath on back of my neck like a lover’s lips. Vancouver winter winds would bite it.
Time to go to bed.

MELAQUE BLUES

When I was a teacher, February was always the longest month even though it had the fewest days. After two months of solitude in my thatched-roof bungalow, I am counting the days until my departure. February feels as endless as an unwanted visit.
I’m running on empty. My energy for finishing my novel and tolerating Mexican noise has waned. I’ve begun the last section. The others took an average of eleven days each to write. I have sixteen left. The timing is good, but I wish a fast-forward button were available.
Last Saturday evening, I went to a bar/restaurant that advertised live music by The Chicago Hit Man. Word from his first gig was that he played great blues. Perfect for my mood.
I arrived at El Gato Ciego (The Blind Cat) early and got a front row seat. Two other musicians played with him. But they were not blues men. The trio sang Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young tunes. Near the end of the last set, the Hit Man finally played the blues, a killer version of Sweet Home Chicago, transforming the Robert Johnson standard into his signature tune.
After the gig, I approached him. He was in his forties, slim, shorn-headed and sporting a D’Artagnan beardlet. I asked if he was planning a blues evening in the near future. He wasn’t sure, but he had a blues CD for sale: $10 US or 100 pesos. I reached for my wallet.
“Oh, I don’t have ‘em with me,” he said, patting my shoulder like an old buddy. “You can find me at Hotel Santa Maria, around the corner from the restaurant. Come by anytime. Just ask for Richie.”

The next evening, on my walk into town for dinner, I stopped at the Santa Maria, a U-shaped building with a courtyard open to the ocean. In the hallway, outside every door, stood a wooden table, each with the tenant’s bric à brac. Inspector Clouseau would have a field day. One couple sat reading at their table. I asked for Richie and was directed upstairs. There, I found what had to be his table: four packs of Mexican cigarettes, a full ashtray, half a bottle of tequila with no cap, two glasses, lined paper with song lyrics and Robert Johnson’s Complete Songbook. Above the table, open-pattern cement bricks allowed air into the room. Curtains on the inside prevented peeping. I called out “Richie!” No response. I knocked on the door. Still nothing.
Downstairs by the pool, a group sat watching the purples of sunset. I recognized many faces from the concert. I walked over and asked for Richie. He and his guitar man had gone to Barra for the evening.
I dropped by the next day. The still life on his table consisted of two open bottles of beer and a half-full tumbler. Tilted in the ashtray, a cigarette burned. Surely, Richie had to be nearby. But neither knock nor shout roused him. I returned to the pool. People reported seeing him earlier, but no one knew where he was.
On my third attempt, the state of his table again suggested a presence. This time, I detected a light through the orange curtain. I knocked. From inside came a muffled, “Whozzit?” Had I disturbed a late afternoon siesta? Like a penitent at confession, I told him through the grilled opening that we had talked at the Black Cat and I wanted to buy his CD. He whispered, “I won’t be long” to someone inside, and then called out to me, “Gimme two minutes, awright?”
Not wanting to wait by a window that could not be shut, I moved to the end of the hall. Five minutes later, he appeared, dressed in chinos and short-sleeved cotton shirt, holding a CD in his hand.
With a smirk, I said, “Sorry for the interruptus…”
“I got lotsa time,” he shrugged and handed me the CD. He casually tossed my ten-dollar bill onto his table. Theft must not be a problem here.
“If you’ve got a minute,” I said, “I’d appreciate knowing the key for each song. I’m learning the harmonica and would love to play along. But my ear isn’t very good. I have trouble figuring out the keys.”
“Sure, man.” He ran his fingers through his close-cropped ginger hair. “Wanna beer?”
“Ah… no.”
“Whazzamattah? Don’t drink?”
“I prefer ganja,” I replied, in an attempt to be cute.
“Cool. I’ll roll us a joint.” He turned toward his room.
“No, no. I really don’t want anything, just the keys.”
“Well, I need a beer,” he said with finality and walked down the hall to a table where two overweight middle-aged gringos were sitting. I recognized one of them as his guitar man. Richie tried to cadge a beer from his rotund partner, who said he was clean out. In a male show of friendship, Richie threatened to throw him over the banister. The sidekick laughed, patted his ample belly and replied, “Better get a crane.”
Richie turned to me and said, “Back in a sec.”
I approached the guitar player and asked if he knew the keys to the songs. “Hmm, most of them.” I read out the first title, Malted Milk. His eyes rotated to the ceiling and his left hand rose to fret an air guitar. “E,” he said. San Francisco Bay Blues. “C, for sure.” The fifth song, Girl From The North Country stumped him. He got up, reached inside the door to his room, pulled out his guitar, finger picked the intro and announced, “C.”
We were at the sixteenth and last song when Richie reappeared, a Corona in each hand. He offered me one. I declined. There were only three songs whose keys the guitar man hadn’t known. Richie filled the blanks.
“By the way, we may have another gig at El Gato Ciego Saturday night,” he said. “Bring your harps.”
“Oh, I’m just learning. Besides, I’ve only got an A harp.”
“A’s fine for blues,” he countered.
“I’ll be there,” I promised, “but I doubt I’ll play.”
“Shit, man, I saw you singing along last Saturday. You knew the words to all our songs. You can join us.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said, raising the CD. “I appreciate your help.”
“Why not have a beer and stay a while? We can play some tunes.”
He broke into Nobody Knows You. The guitar player joined in. Richie’s awesome blues voice reverberated off the cement walls. I wondered if other tenants appreciated his impromptu acts. Was he the type to burst into song late at night and keep everyone awake? He continued to belt out the tune, so I tried a low harmony line. A moment later, the guitar player got tangled up and stopped. Had I confused him by singing off-key?
“I gotta go,” I said, and then smiled at Richie. “Besides, you’ve got some unfinished business.”
“Aw, shit, man. Too late now.” He looked past me.
I turned to follow his eyes. A woman stood talking to a worker near the stairs. Both were Mexicans. Had she shared his bed? Had there really been someone else in his room? Let the mystery be.

Richie did not play that Saturday. In fact, I would never see him again, although I managed to get him a gig. Two days after buying the CD, I brought it to Maya, my favourite restaurant, and suggested they play it. After two songs, the manager, Anna, came to my table. She wanted to hire Richie for her Sunday barbecue. After my meal, I went to the Santa Maria. Guess what? Richie wasn’t there. I left a note on his table telling him to contact Anna. The following week at Maya, Anna thanked me. Richie had wowed the crowd the previous Sunday. I had missed him, yet again.

THE CLIQUE

Last week, a couple approached me as I sat writing under my palapa. They introduced themselves as Doug and Judy, from Penticton, British Columbia. After spending two nights in town, they were searching for larger quarters. Judy’s sister was about to join them, and she would find their current rooms too cramped. “Really claustrophobic,” Judy said, leaving me to wonder if she was referring to her sister or the rooms.
In her mid-forties, Judy wore a cream-coloured ranchero hat, a sequined denim vest over a red tube top and cut-offs. A pair of tooled Mexican boots completed the image of an urban cowgirl. In fact, she was lead singer in a Penticton country band called The Reckless Hearts. In her absence, she added with a smile, they had changed their name to The Heartless Wrecks. Doug stood more than six feet tall, with a strong build, but a hint of a limp. A former supervisor at the Penticton airport, he had just retired at fifty-two, after a compensation claim was settled in his favour.
“Try across the street at Bungalows Pacifico,” I suggested.
They did, and rented a two-bedroom next to the pool. The three casas facing the ocean were for the Old Guard: Martin (25 yrs), Ed and Dorothy (6 yrs) and, formerly, William and Glenda (8 yrs).
The day after Doug and Judy moved in, the sister arrived with her husband to share the bungalow. Concerned that her sister, who was “used to five-star hotels,” might find their new lodgings too basic, Judy brought her over to my shack “to show what basic really was.”
Later that same day, the foursome rented a boat and went fishing. Doug caught a 32-pound dorado, one of the biggest of the season.

The next morning, Martin hobbled over to report what had happened the previous evening. “The Penticton people ordered the staff to set up the communal barbecue near their door. They wouldn’t even light the darn thing themselves. They treated the workers like slaves. And then, they never so much as offered a tip, or a piece of fish. Believe me, the staff is really upset. Those Penticton people are aloof and snobby.”
I said nothing. I saw Doug and Judy as working-class stiffs, ignorant of local rules.
That afternoon, a busload of Guadalajara University students arrived for the weekend. They were assigned the two bungalows next to Doug and Judy. These kids had come to party. They drank ballenas—whales in Spanish, 940mL bottles of beer—as if parched after a semester in the desert. All evening, pool, courtyard and beach resounded with shouts, laughter, boombox music and firecracker explosions. After midnight, a bunch of them engaged in a contest to find who could howl loudest and longest. I inserted my earplugs and slept reasonably well. When I got up to pee at 4am, the kids were still at it.
The next morning, Dorothy, the Parrot Lady, flew over. “Those Penticton people pestered the staff all night to put a stop to the student party. Imagine complaining about noise in Mexico.” She shook her red feathered hair. “And now, they want to move into William and Glenda’s bungalow. But Martin and I headed them off. We reminded Marion that the bungalow is still rented. William paid for the full month before he left. Anyway, I’ve got some friends coming tomorrow and they’ll need a place.”
That night, the students again partied until the wee hours. By morning, Doug and Judy had had enough. They went off to find other lodgings. In fact, they left as I was talking to Ros on the Pacifico Bungalows phone at the admin desk. After hanging up, I walked by Martin’s place. He called me over. “The Penticton people skipped out without paying their bill.”
I doubted it: I’d seen them hand money to Marion before leaving.
“Good riddance,” Martin added. “They were bad people.”
I countered that the students had partied too long and too loud, that Doug had every right to ask the administration to make them quiet down.
“Didn’t you party when you were their age?” Martin asked, and then added, “Well, I sure did. These kids were just having fun.”
Both Martin and Dorothy are stone deaf without their hearing aids, which they remove at night. They hadn’t heard a peep. I replied that people screaming at the top of their lungs next to where others were trying to sleep was really not acceptable.
“It’s their country,” Martin replied. “If those people don’t like it, they can just leave.”
I backed off, but was left with a bad feeling. Early on, Martin and Dorothy had decided that “the Penticton people” weren’t nice and made a point of excluding them. No one had informed the newcomers that they should share their catch, tip attendants or avoid complaining about noise, which Mexicans never notice. It was their first trip to Mexico and they had yet to learn the rules. Now, every old hand was gossiping about their misdeeds. I heard the BBQ story from three different neighbours.
A number of times during that day, I thought of replies I might have made to Martin’s comment that “if they don’t like it here, they can just leave.” Would he refuse to hear the complaint of a visitor to Seattle, his hometown? Would he tell the foreigner to leave if he didn’t like it? Did foreigners have no rights?
The Old Guard was generous with the staff at Pacifico Bungalows, tipping for every service, sharing leftover food, and offering gifts for their kids. Dorothy distributed toys and clothes throughout the neighbourhood. Martin donated scrap paper and pens to local schools. And yet, although they each welcomed a stream of guests to their bungalows, neither had a single Mexican friend. After 25 years, Martin didn’t speak Spanish as well as I did. Still, they condemned the “Penticton people” and had prevented them from moving into the vacant bungalow.
The next day, it was assigned to Dorothy’s friends, a couple with two adult sons. When I was introduced to the younger man that evening, he was so drunk he could not stand. But these were “good people.” They treated the staff well. And they fit in. They spent their mornings shopping, their afternoons drinking, eating and gossiping, and their evenings eating, gossiping and drinking. For a change, they might drive to Tenacatita Beach to gossip, drink and eat. Though serious tipplers, they were good tippers.
Bad Doug and Bad Judy found a bungalow a block away, one much quieter. They walked by my casita almost every day, often stopping for a chat. They knew they had been shut out of the available street-front bungalow. Marion, the manager, had promised it to them, and then without explanation reported that it was no longer available. Doug admitted he had made mistakes, but he was learning.
Later, I learned that the Pacifico Bungalows administration had barred the Guadalajara students from future stays. They had trashed their rooms, destroyed furniture and ripped doors from empty suites to make a bonfire...

Will I return to Melaque next winter? My thatched-roof casita has provided a fine environment for my writing. And the snowbirds have been friendly with me. But they form a closed community, one that would require me to keep Mexican friends separate from fellow gringos. In addition, Melaque lacks cultural amenities; no bookstore, no theatre, no writers, no artists, no cinema, not even Pedro Infante films. When Ros was here, she pointed out that there was no hospital. And she didn’t dare swim in the surf. Without a car, our options would be very limited.
A good writing location might not be an ideal place to spend winters. We’ll keep looking.

















COSTA RICA
(2002)

THE BEST OF NOSARA
“In spite of the fact that religion looks backward to revealed truth while science looks forward to new vistas and discoveries, both activities produce a sense of awe and a curious mixture of humility and arrogance in their practitioners.”
Paul Davies, British physicist and author of God and the New Physics.

I have spent forty days and forty nights at Almost Paradise, on the west coast of Costa Rica. The five-room all-wood hotel stands on stilts atop an 86-step slope, which I climb many times a day.
My writing station is on the balcony: a wood table and chair in the corner that best catches the breeze. As I look up from the page, I see tropical shrubs and trees that host howler monkeys, parrots, hummingbirds, trogons, parakeets and white-throated magpie jays with their curly double panache. Beyond the greenery, the Pacific Ocean stretches out to meet the cloudless sky. Parallel white breakers scroll toward me, their earth-shaking roar a metronome for my muse. High above, five birds soar on a thermal: black-headed, white-winged vultures, so elegant in flight, so macabre on land. It has rained once since I arrived. By mid-morning, the temperature is scorching. When the breeze pauses, sweat trickles.
In the distance, surf pounds the shore and howler monkeys emit deep-throated roars. Nearby, birds sing, insects chirp and palm fronds rustle in the breeze. Every half hour or so, a motorcycle or car bounces along the gravel road a hundred feet below. This balcony has provided the best setting ever for my writing. In four weeks, I have penned the equivalent of 280 printed pages, an average of ten a day—a personal record.
At night, traffic stops. So do animal sounds, except for an occasional barking dog in the distance. The silence is so complete that the sea seems to crash just outside my window. On moonless nights, the blackness is palpable. It’s not a matter of waiting for your eyes to adjust. There is no light, except the faint glow of distant boats on the invisible ocean and the pinpricks of stars in the black sky.
I have developed a day’s end routine. The sun sets early, between five-thirty and six. While Old Sol is still above the watery horizon, I put on my hiking shorts with attachable legs. I stuff the pockets of a long-sleeved shirt with socks and a cotton toque. The hotel manager lent me a deck chair—wood frame with canvas seat. I fold the shirt into the chair, which I carry in one hand, my flashlight in the other.
After descending the 86 steps to the gravel road, I amble past the Mariposa Café, where Rolando and Karin offer baked goods and cappuccinos. “Hola, Don Jorge! La pura vida!” shouts Rolando, a Giancarlo Gianini look-alike with black curls and droopy moustache. Although we have yet to talk at length, we greet each other effusively. I turn down a narrow path. The young gringo staff at Milenio’s restaurant-bar wave as I pass. From there, it’s another hundred metres to the ocean.
When tide is high, I set my chair at the back of the beach on a sand plateau near bushy coastal greenery. From this vantage, I gain the beauty of changing colours on the glowing wet sand, and the kiss of Mamma Ocean as she whooshes up, so close that I feel her warmth and smell her breath.
Biting, sucking, stinging and nibbling insects thrive here because of a ban on cutting down trees and bushes within two hundred metres of the tide line. As soon as the sun disappears, I put on my socks and zippered pant legs to counter the evening attacks of jejenes, a tropical form of sand flies. The temperature drops quickly. But I’ve come equipped. Within half an hour, I’ll be wearing my flannel shirt and toque. I must seem a strange apparition to Ticos walking home from fishing or surfing. But by protecting myself from insects and cold, I remain comfortable into the night.
Most evenings, a lower tide allows me to walk out on a slab of flat rock that stretches two hundred metres into the ocean. I set my chair on pockmarked volcanic remains, as far out as tide allows, within a stone’s throw of the water. The Pacific’s power is transformed into a chair-shaking crash, awesome, exhilarating. The gigantic surf deflects ten metres into the air. Like a symphony conductor, I raise my arms in time to the rising translucent curtain backlit by golden light.
One massive outcrop splits the waves; the halves rush around opposite sides to meet head-on in a high-speed collision. The resulting spray shoots high into the air and crashes onto the flat rock directly in front of me. Every now and then, a fish or a black rock crab gets caught in this explosion and lands stunned and disoriented on the rock. The fish flips in shallow froth until it lands in a water-filled crater or is washed back to sea with the next wave. Palm-sized crabs pause to regain their bearings, and then tippy-toe back to their rocky home, presumably resolved to hang on more tightly.
A few days later, I sit further back on the rock, surrounded by moon-like craters. Each is edged in white, as if some artist highlighted the rims with broad brushstrokes. In fact, these are salt crystals left by evaporated tide pools. Does the salt form only on the crater’s upper edge because crystallization requires seeding?
The ever-changing hues of sun, sky and clouds, the chaotic power of the ocean, the grace of birds diving for dinner, and later the mass of stars, all combine to lift my spirit so that it soars unfettered. The most complete entertainment system available to me is my mind. I plug into sunset and remain energized for hours. As I glide within my personal galaxy, ideas surface about what I wrote that morning and what I’ll write the next. I meditate, observing the day’s flotsam on the shores of my consciousness. Sometimes, I mediate between my voices. Meditation and mediation—similar activities, as long as I remain aware.
Most evenings, I sit solitary on my field of rock. Other gringos watch sunset from La Luna, a bar overlooking the ocean, where they drink beer and chat with fellow expatriates. When acquaintances come by to greet me, I politely inform them that I prefer to be alone. But this is not quite true. I’d rather watch sunset with Ros, or an old friend.
Mark Twain wrote, “To get full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.” Sharing such grandiose beauty is a profoundly intimate act. That may be why women get all mushy and romantic at sunset. Myself, I prefer to mindfully surf on light waves that sweep me to drug-free altered states. Only when Nature’s spectacle is over do I open myself to other forms of sensual pleasures.
Every now and then, I tuck my flashlight between chin and shoulder and scribble a new thought on a folded sheet of paper. By evening’s end, every square centimetre of the page is crammed with notes.
I write many questions to myself. Some are scientific. If a high tide is created by the gravitational pull of moon and sun, would a 10-kilogram mass placed on a precise scale on a boat at anchor in a calm bay weigh less at high tide than at low?
Other questions are political. I have heard many resident gringos condemn Ticos for harvesting truckloads of turtle eggs for the Japanese market. The local population of sea turtles is endangered. The most damning accusation is that Ticos don’t do it for food but for filthy lucre. But then, our northern wealth, which provides us with so many privileges, comforts and freedoms, came from similarly destructive exploitation of resources, including humans. White Americans grew rich from a workforce of slaves. Europe has effectively no forests left. And we hunted buffaloes, whales and elephants to near extinction.
Until we gringos understand that our special status was achieved and is maintained by the destruction of our environment and the subjugation of peoples, we will continue to condemn those who are doing what we did, and world poverty and ecological woes will never be eliminated. Would I give up my privileges if it meant improving the lives of poor people in the world? Absolutely. The horror lies in the knowledge that, given the present world structure, it’d change nothing. Gandhi countered this argument: “Whatever you do will make little difference. The important thing is that you do it.”
Behind me, the wooded slopes twinkle from the lights of grand houses owned by foreigners, but built by locals who live in shacks in the nearby village of Nosara. The neighbourhood council, composed of expatriate residents, has banned all development along the ocean. This land is owned by Ticos, who will remain land rich but money poor, while foreigners maintain the environment they treasure. There is so much beauty here. What have we Whites done to deserve this?
In Costa Rica, the leaf-cutter ant is called the “gringo ant.” It works all day to build a home for its family and, when done, it continues to work until it dies. Ticos live for today, gringos work for the future.
Some ruminations are anthropological. One day before sunset, sitting on the sand, I watch high tide recede. Twenty sandpipers stand on a glowing strip of wet sand, all facing inland, all immobile, like troops on review. Eventually, a wave pushes foam up the slope, covering their feet. As if a switch had been flicked, the brown and white birds begin to move about, pecking at tiny organisms flushed up by the surf. Moments later, they are again lined up with their backs to the ocean, switched off and waiting motionless for their next course.
A wizened man emerges from the bushes. His family owns much of the property along this stretch of beach. He wears a short-sleeved shirt, baggy dress pants and a sweat-stained hat with side brims folded up. He hobbles halfway to the waterline and stops. The sun is about to slip below the horizon. He stands stiffly, shoulders up around ears, as if fighting the gravity of old age. Then, with obvious effort, he bends down, scoops a handful of damp sand and flings it at the shorebirds. They fly off. The old man reassumes his contorted stance. A moment later he turns to retrace his path. I wave to him as he shuffles back into the bush. He waves back. Why did he shoo the birds?
Some observations are more easily explained. After the sun sets, a waxing crescent moon hangs above the horizon like the Cheshire Cat’s grin. Illustrations in our children’s books show the sickle at an angle, sometimes with a child sitting inside its curve or swinging from its lower end. That’s the moon we see in Europe and Canada. But here, near the Equator, it’s as horizontal as the grin on a smiley face. The sun sets almost vertically here. Being directly below the moon, it illuminates the bottom edge.
I head back to my room, walking along pitch-dark roads, following my flashlight’s beacon. More than anything else about Nosara, I’ll cherish the hours spent alone on sand or rock, surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells of Nature. I passed up Super Bowl and the annual local fiesta for my daily allotment of Solitary joy.

GOOD DOG, BAD OWNER

“Three things are best avoided: a strange dog,
a flood and a man who thinks he is wise.”
Welsh saying

Every afternoon for more than a month, I have gone to the beach for sunset. I descend the eighty-six steps of Almost Paradise, the five-room wooden hotel where I am staying and turn from the main road to enter a coastal forest of small trees adapted to ocean flooding. Scattered within this raggedy forest near Pelada Beach are a few buildings, small, unpainted and minimally maintained.
Next to the rutted cart path—an impassable quagmire after heavy rains—stands the Milenio Restaurant and Bar. Three young Canadians, a woman and two men, have been living cost-free in tents next to the restaurant since before my arrival, helping out in return for food and shelter. The woman is from Québec; the two guys are on winter leave from a high-end resort near Tofino, on Vancouver Island’s West Coast. A fourth man, a Swiss surfer, sleeps in a hammock suspended between two palm trees. I have grown fond of them. We play chess, share meals and discuss the world.
If one of them is hanging out, I stop to chat. Pierrot, the Swiss, is most talkative. Isabelle, who acts as server, has just returned from Nicaragua to rejoin her new boy friend, a young Tico from the next village, south of Nosara. With her I converse in French.
But all is not perfect on this day. As I approach the Milenio, a steel-gray colossus charges at me, teeth bared. Its eyes are the same hue as his coat, giving it a murderous look. I shift my chair to the hand nearer the beast to block an attack. Its owner, a fat blond man in his twenties, watches impassively from the bar.
This dog has come at me before. Each time, I have requested, “Please call your dog.” But the owner seems reluctant to do so, as if it’s my fault that I can’t control his pet. The previous week, I was returning from the beach, and planned to eat dinner at Milenio. As I reached the path leading to the restaurant, the dog roared out. I stopped in my tracks, chair held as a shield, and repeatedly asked at the man to call his dog, which he eventually did.
I chose to say nothing. In fact, I muttered a thank you as I passed the bar on my way to a table. But I never looked at him. Perhaps that was my mistake. I should have explained then and there that I was afraid of dogs and would appreciate his help. But I ignored him. Before I’d finished my meal, the man had driven off with his dog in a Jeep Wrangler.
Today as I head to the beach, the same cur barks ferociously and lunges ever closer to me. The man simply watches, grinning as if I were the day’s entertainment. I shift to the far side of the road and manage to get by. But once my back is to the dog, it charges to within inches. Fearful and panicky, I yell out, “Call your dog or I’ll ding it with a fucking rock!” No response. I pick up a fist-sized stone and fling it at the dog. I miss by quite a bit, but Fido backs off and the incident is over. I resume my trek to beach.
The aftermath of my near encounter haunts me as I sit alone amid enchanting beauty. The sun has turned orange and the sea is spraying. Meanwhile, I stew in anger. Why won’t the guy call off his dog? Does he really believe it’s my fault? I’m reminded of one evening on the edge of Stanley Park, when a big dog came running out of the bushes, heading straight for me. The owner was nowhere in sight. I turned to face it and clapped my hands as I shouted, “Stop!” The dog flew into paroxysms of fury, barking and lunging at me. The owner soon appeared, folded leash in his hand. “Control your dog,” I said. The man stared at me wide-eyed before replying with a sneer, “Me? You scared her.”
Whew! The sun is almost at the horizon and I’m still all worked up about the stupid dog and his asshole owner. Deep breath. Observe the subtle colour change in the clouds. Let go of the anger. Wow! What a breaker! And with the outline of a good-sized fish in the backlit foam. Must be a major surprise for a fish to get thrown up as part of the spray. Did it feel scared? Was its little heart pumping like mine did when that dog came at me? Why does the owner refuse to call it back? I should have talked to him last week instead of ignoring him. But what could I have done today? “Call your dog or I’ll ding him with a fucking rock!” was not the friendliest request. But I was scared. “Ding.” Strange verb to use. Would I have had more success if I’d said, “I’ll hit him with a rock!” Probably not. I needed something more conciliatory—not easy to do when awash in fear. I should have said, “Please help me. I’m afraid of dogs.”
I certainly raised the ante by throwing the rock. What would the guy have done if I’d hit his dog? In my rush, I threw sidearm, much less accurate than straight overhead. Well, if the dog’s still there when I head back, I’ll take my time and chuck a strike. But then the asshole will probably get all pissed off. He probably sees me as an ineffectual grumpy old man. Well, I’ll teach him the meaning of effectual.
A crashing wave, louder and bigger than the others, diverts my stream of thought. I’m sitting on the still-damp lava shelf. The sun is gone. I’ve missed sunset. A wave rushes up a miniature rift at my feet. Then the water reverses down the slope, producing a standing wave and a light babble in high harmony with the surf’s bass rhythm. Another surge, another reversal, like breathing.
I take a deep breath. I’ve been here half an hour and still my stomach is churning and my mind keeps revisiting the confrontation with the dog. Why can’t I let go? The clouds are aflame in post-sunset glow and I’m missing the show. My fight is over. I only have a few days left here. I may never again encounter the jerk and his dog.
It’s not as if dogs are a big problem in the Nosara area. I’ve walked around day and night and no other dog has charged. Some bark as I pass the property they instinctively defend, but none has been as snarly and aggressive as this guy’s dog. He probably trains it to scare people, to make up for his own problems. Short and chubby like the Pillsbury Doughboy, he looks weak and uncoordinated, the last one picked in Phys. Ed. class. Must make him feel good to have his dog scare a big man like me. Does he think of me as a big man, or just an eccentric old fart, who carries the only folded chair seen on the beach?
Stop! Enough, already! Stay in the here and now… The western sky shows a strip of beige, in which the sunken sun has squirted a drop of crimson, while the still-blue sky added two drops of lilac. Mars is already visible overhead. Mars, the God of War, the colour of diluted blood. Blood would have oozed from that dog if I’d taken the time to aim properly. But why hurt the animal? A dog responds to power—a weaker animal turns belly up and squeals in submission. Well, fuck it, I may be scared but I’ll show that dog and its smug owner who the alpha male is…
On and on as the world grows dark and stars appear in the millions, I rehash the same scene. In the depths of first drafts I become obsessive and emotionally volatile. Tonight, I simply cannot let go of my anger, so I might as well get into it...
When the dog first rushed at me, I was frightened, not angry. Anger is a secondary emotion. For me, it usually follows fear. If a car cuts me off unexpectedly, I am startled and afraid for a microsecond, then I’ll turn angry with the idiot driver. Many men respond in this way. Women tend to stay with their fear in similar situations, and if that fear triggers a secondary emotion, it will often be sadness rather than anger.
For the dog, aggressiveness is part of a territorial imperative, in this case encouraged by its owner. The fat man and I are in a power struggle. To me, he’s a total asshole. To him, I’m probably an old grump who hates dogs. W.C. Fields once said, “Anyone who hates kids and dogs can’t be all bad.” A telling joke.
So many white American boys grow up with a puppy that they consider anyone who does not like dogs to be affectively deficient. And yet, few cultures treat dogs as man’s best friends. Some eat them, others beat them. But in Whitey land, people are judged inadequate if they don’t like dogs. “The best dog I ever had,” I often quip, “is one I ate in Guangzhou.”
So why am I still upset? My fear is long gone. Well, I feel diminished in two ways: by my inability to control the aggressive dog and by the owner’s refusal to bail me out. Somehow, the asshole gained power over me, destroying my sunset meditation and leaving me to stew in my own rancour. He’s probably telling the story of the wimpy old man; that is, if he even remembers the incident. My heart-thumping fear was short-lived. What remained to spoil my evening has been anger at my loss of power. I should be free to walk along a public path without being frightened. But the asshole denied me that basic right. And I can do little about it, other than attack his dog in response. Either way, I lose. And that’s what really irks me.
Unfortunately, I see no way to change the situation... except to choose another access road to the beach. I won’t be giving up much: a longer walk and a missed opportunity to greet my young friends. But I can visit them earlier in the day. That way, I’ll reach the shore relaxed and ready to enjoy Nature’s son et lumière.
There are two lessons here. First, be aware of how my fear turns into anger, so that I express the fear, not the anger. I instantly classified the dog’s owner as an asshole, but I’ve never so much as had a conversation with him. My anger prevented me from seeing him as a human being. Fear makes it easy to objectify strangers: the atavistic us-against-them, good-versus-axis-of-evil tribal mentality.
Secondly, if I cannot change the behaviour of someone who upsets me, I’m best to avoid that person. And that’s what I’ll do from now on.
One lost sunset, two new learnings. Fair trade.

THE FRANK STORY

“If you meet a man you admire, try to emulate him;
If you meet one you despise, look within yourself.”
Lao Tseu

I first saw Frank sitting at the bar of Almost Paradise, the small hotel where I was staying. Frank was in his forties, wore a faded grey baseball cap with no logo, a short-sleeve cotton shirt, washed-out blue jeans and the local brand of flip-flops. His fine-featured face was leathered from years in the sun. He spoke softly, which made it difficult for my old ears to catch his words. In any event, he didn’t say much.
He was drinking beer with Kevin, one of two American men who have taken over management of the bar and restaurant. Kevin, ten years younger and keen to corner the sport-fishing market in the Nosara area, was the talker. He seemed to be trying to impress Frank with fish and sea stories, to which Frank mostly nodded or added a half-whispered word at the end of Kevin’s monologues, like stirring a campfire to bring back the flames. I didn’t stay long that first time, but left impressed by Frank’s demeanour, a laconic American in the John Wayne tradition.
A few evenings later, Frank and Kevin were again sitting side-by-side at the bar. I went to get my personal bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. Kevin was recounting his day on the ocean. As I opened the fridge door, Frank said to me, “So you’ve got special privileges.” I couldn’t tell if he was kidding. His deadpan face revealed nothing. I explained that hotel guests had permission to keep their own wine in the bar’s fridge, to which he replied, “While you’re at it, get me a Pilsen.” I squatted down behind the open fridge door. At that point, I heard a voice, which I took to be Frank’s, saying, “Naw, no beer.” I stood up, wine bottle in hand.
“Where’s my beer?” Frank asked.
“I thought you said you didn’t want one.”
“That was Kevin,” Frank’s sun-browned face revealed little, except a narrowing of the eyes and a smirk that hinted at contempt, or maybe anger.
I told André, the young barman, to serve Frank, poured myself a glass of wine and left to read my novel at a corner table away from the bar. But this minor exchange had unsettled me enough that I couldn’t concentrate on the written words. Rather than babble an explanation about the wine, I should have answered a pithy, “Resident’s privileges.” Besides, I didn’t feel right serving drinks to customers. I didn’t know the tab system. It struck me that Frank had somehow scored a power play against me.
For fifteen years, Frank had run a deep-sea fishing business out of Maui. Now semi-retired, he lived in Nosara. To Kevin, Frank was a fishing guru. He knew more about catching fish than anyone in the area. What struck me were not his movie-star looks but his quiet self-confidence.
A few days later, I saw Frank with another man at the Mariposa Café. I sat at the next table and read my book while waiting for my lunch: tuna salad sandwich and papaya milkshake. This time, Frank was doing most of the talking, but in a voice so soft that I couldn’t make out his words. He seemed to be giving business advice to the other man.
A female kitchen worker passed our tables on the way to the washrooms. Frank called out to her, in Spanish, “Need any help?” The young woman laughed nervously and declined his offer. That was the first time I’d heard him speak above a whisper and the first time I’d seen him smile. He lit a cigarette and resumed his conversation.

The following day, I was talking with Marie-France, a new friend from Montréal, who had spent a month at Almost Paradise and was now renting a house nearby. Her husband, Claude, had returned to Québec the previous week for business reasons. I was telling her how I’d met Ros, my wife, who was back in Vancouver, teaching. Marie-France seemed surprised to hear that what had first attracted me to Ros was her obvious intelligence. I explained that I had finally reached a life stage, in my fifties, where my lover’s mind had become more important than her looks. She agreed. Claude was far from the physical specimens she had been drawn to in her youth. She’d never cheat on Claude, but she had met a super-sexy guy the other day at the Mariposa Café. He’d approached her and they had talked throughout lunch. The man was a professional fisherman who had lived in Hawaii. Frank? She didn’t know his name. I suggested that she point him out to me the next time our paths crossed. The expat community of Nosara is so small that all paths cross regularly.
Sure enough, a few nights later, we were having dinner at my hotel when Marie-France whispered excitedly, “That’s him at the bar!” Of course, it was Frank; tall, lean, tanned, soft-spoken and so very worldly. I reported the comment he’d made to the woman kitchen worker. Marie-France shook her head in disappointment, declared him a sexist loser and dismissed him with a flick of the hand. Our conversation headed elsewhere and we finished our dinner with no more talk of Frank.
In the course of the next week, I saw Frank a few more times at the hotel bar but he never acknowledged my presence, as if he didn’t recognize me as the guy at the fridge. Fine with me.
A new long-term guest appeared during that week, a curly blond-haired man named Jali. He had come to Nosara’s internationally known yoga centre. The owner of a service station in Big Sur, California, Jali made friends with one and all, like an oversized tail-wagging puppy. With me he talked of his troubled marriage and how soul-destroying his school days had been; how teachers and kids had mocked him and left him feeling stupid. With Kevin and Frank, he discussed boats, motors and equipment.
I noticed during the second night of his stay that, as Jali talked with the two fishermen, Frank’s pithy comments were sly put-downs. Jali seemed unaware that the story of the Harley he had rebuilt was not only of little interest to Frank, but made him the butt of quips. Kevin seemed immensely amused by his mentor’s one-liners.
The very next night, I was chatting with three women guests from Florida as they waited for their dinner to be served. Jali came by and I introduced him. In the course of conversation, one woman said she wanted to kayak up the Nosara River. Jali warned her to be careful: the previous day, an alligator had attacked a woman. I had heard that she had paddled up to the alligator’s nest, whereupon the animal had snarled and thrashed the water in a territorial statement but had not charged. Whatever. Jali said that the villagers had been planning to shoot the alligator, but “an amazing guy, called Frank” had captured and relocated it, thus saving its life. Jali embroidered on Frank’s reputation as sport fisherman and environmentalist.
I interrupted to argue that an environmentalist sport fisher was an oxymoron. How could getting pleasure from hooking a fish and battling it until it was terminally exhausted be environmentally friendly? And what of the pollution created by his twin-engine powerboat? The women agreed that “hurting any animal for pleasure is simply not very conscious.” Encouraged by their support, I compared it to hooking and reeling in a howler monkey using a banana for bait, then releasing it when I’d had my fun. Why should catching a fish be any different?
Later, lying in my bed under the slow-turning ceiling fan, I realized that, as soon as Jali had launched into his panegyric to Frank, I had barged in to prevent him from completing his story. In fact, I had done the same when Marie-France identified Frank as the man she had found attractive. In both cases, I had felt compelled to disparage him. But Frank had never done me wrong, except perhaps to ignore me. Clearly, he pushed one of my psychological buttons. Why such a need to discredit the guy?
I knew that the answer could only be found within myself. To my eyes, Frank was a subtle poser with a smooth style. A classic American male of the fifties, this man was as hollow as bamboo; he had no soul, only image—all show and no mo’. His pals, all males, were either fellow braggarts or sycophants. Women were not friends, perhaps because they demanded too much. Better to fuck ‘em and move on.
Sure, I was being harsh, but such posers always upset me. Why? Probably because I’d been a poser all my life.
At age fourteen, I was the only freshman selected for my school’s senior basketball team. We played in an old-style gym with tile floor and elevated track around its perimeter. Students crowded three-deep along the track’s railing to watch our games. Once during warm-ups, a student from my grade had yelled out, “Hey, Potvin! You’re nothing but a show-off!”
Down on the floor, I had suddenly felt naked. Someone had seen through my bravado. Now the entire student body knew I was a fake. The boy who had shouted wasn’t a friend but I recognized him. He was much smaller than me. And yet, I never challenged him. For the next three years, my only response whenever I crossed him in the halls was to avoid him.
As I grew older, my shell game grew more refined. I read enough to qualify as an intellectual. I travelled the world and always found a way to let people know of my exotic adventures. In the past few years, I’ve turned to writing. This winter, in Nosara, I drafted my fourth novel... See?
People marvel at the fact that I am either writing or have just finished a novel. Lately, I’ve tried to avoid bringing it up, but it’s not so easy. When meeting fellow travellers, the conversation revolves around where we’ve been and where we’re going. Whenever I mention that I’ve been in Nosara for more than a month, one question invariably comes up, “What do you do every day?” I answer that I write. “Really? Like a journal?” No, a novel. “Really? Is it your first?” No, my fourth. “Really?” Each “really” increases in pitch and volume until they ask (and everyone inevitably does), “Have you been published?” As soon as I answer no, the response becomes a weak “Oh,” as if publication is the ultimate proof of worth.
And so I’ve taken to answering with a smile that my publisher is Kinko’s. I share copies with friends and that satisfies me. Sometimes, I’ll add, “I plan on posthumous fame.” Or I explain that I don’t write to sell because I don’t need the money; I’m independently poor. Therefore, I’m free to write my stories as I please. At other times, I’ll describe my friend Jim’s struggle to sell his first novel, the one closest to his heart, the one Simon and Schuster bought with a five-thousand-dollar advance, then insisted that he cut from seven hundred to four hundred pages and add some violence in a later chapter, to increase “the punch.” Jim has managed to earn a living as a newspaper columnist. But he is still trying to sell his cherished masterpiece. I want no part of that process. I’m a writer, not an author. Blah, blah, blah…
So, the show-off in me, a trait I’ve long hated and try to repress, reacts negatively whenever I meet a poser like Frank, not so much because we’re competing for the same social niche—that of worldly wise man—but because, seeing in someone else a part of me I dislike, I instantly reject that person, the way I reject the trait in myself. Thus my need to remove Frank from the limelight.
The next afternoon, I was sitting in the open dining room, mulling over that day’s writing, when Jali joined me. He excitedly reported that he’d just spent the day snorkelling and fishing with Frank and Kevin. They had taken him out on the boat, at no cost. I nodded as he described the bay of San Juanillo and the sheer joy of being on the big ocean. I silently envied him, wishing I, too, had been invited. Sure, I hated sport fishing and might even have refused an invitation; nevertheless, I felt excluded.
Thinking about this exchange later in my room, I decided that I needed to transcend my knee-jerk rejection of posers. The best place to begin was with Frank. Next time, our paths crossed, I’d be friendly, not to obtain a free ride on his boat or make him like me, but simply to let him know that I accepted him as a fellow human being.
I didn’t have to wait long. That very evening, after sunset, I found him alone at the hotel’s bar. Rather than pour myself a glass of wine and retire to a far corner of the restaurant, I sidled onto the stool next to him. He glanced over but said nothing.
“Hey, Frank,” I said softly.
“Hi.” This guy was as hard to read as his no-name cap.
Daunted but determined, I asked, “Did you ever capture that alligator at the river’s mouth?”
“Naw,” he downed a serious slug of Pilsen, straight from the bottle.
“What happened?”
“Locals shot it.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Whatever.”
So much for this topic.
“I hear you had a fun outing with Jali today.”
For the first time, Frank turned to look at me. His tanned face showed no more than idle curiosity.
“It was all right,” he mumbled.
He downed the rest of his bottle and set the empty on a cardboard coaster. He then took a deep drag of his cigarette and dropped the butt into the bottle. With that, he stood up, mumbled “See ya,” and walked out.
I left Nosara three days later without seeing Frank again.

SPEECHLESS IN SAN JUANILLO

I spent last night in an unpainted concrete room in Ostional, a village up the coast from Nosara, along Costa Rica’s Península de Nicoya. This morning, I went to the beach to check the surf. Ostional is known for its tube waves, great for boogie boarding, and my reason for coming. But tide was low and breakers small, with no shoulders to ride.
I had heard that the very best snorkelling in the area was further north, in the village of San Juanillo, the bay Jali had raved about. Since good surf would not be available until mid-afternoon, I had time to go north. But first, a traditional breakfast of scrambled eggs and onions, with rice, beans and tortillas at the only restaurant in town. During my meal, one vehicle went by, a tractor-trailer heading south. How could it navigate these narrow byways? And how would I hitchhike with so little traffic? Well, I’d walk the eight kilometres, if necessary—only five miles.
Back in my fan-swept motel room, I loaded my daypack. What to wear, swim trunks or walking shorts? Why not sweat into my trunks and keep dry shorts for the return journey? Made sense. I took out the cash from the pocket of my shorts, about twenty bucks. I also had forty dollars tucked in a notebook I planned to leave behind. The room would be locked, so wasn’t it safer than my daypack, especially when I’d be snorkelling? Hmm… Like a biblical king, I divvied up the money, switching dollars to have an equal amount in notebook and hiking shorts.
When I first arrived, I had been shown room number seven. Its key chain ended in a wine-red miniature pool ball with a black seven in a white circle. I almost took that room for the lucky number. But I preferred to be at the very end of the row, nearest the beach. The sea breeze flowed through openings high in the concrete wall. And I’d have neighbours on only one side. So the key that I tucked into my pack as I left was attached by metal chain to a black eight ball. Tum-ta-rum-tum…
It was a quarter to nine, still cool enough to walk. I ambled north on the gravel road, past the restaurant where I’d eaten breakfast, past the football pitch, past classrooms strung along the far side of the field. Students in white shirts and navy blue slacks or skirts were gathered near each classroom door. A few waved as I walked by. The village quickly petered out. On the beach to my left, stood the palapa, where I’d watched the previous day’s sunset.
How long would it take to walk eight kilometres? Even at a tropical pace, no more than three hours. I should reach San Juanillo before noon. Already sweating freely, I walked along the sandy ribbon of road hemmed in on either side by exuberant greenery. My black runners were grey from dust clouds stirred up by each step.
At a dip in the road, across which a creek flowed, I splashed cool water on my face, and looked for stepping-stones. Finding none, I sat on a fallen tree trunk and removed shoes and socks. The river bottom was covered with rocks the size of tennis balls, not great for bare feet. But the water was clear, which allowed me to step on only the flattest ones. After re-shoeing, I plodded up a long hill. The coolness of the river was lost in shimmering pore-dilating heat. The sun seared my back. I touched my neck. Burning. So I rotated my baseball cap front to back, like a beer drinker.
Forty-five minutes into my trek, not a single vehicle had passed. I crossed a cement bridge. Just beyond, a giant mango tree offered a pool of shade on the dusty road. A perfect place to cool down, and maybe catch a ride. I removed my pack and placed it at my feet.
From a nearby tree came the unmistakable roar of a howler monkey. I soon located the source of the guttural call, one that can be heard kilometres away. A full-sized male lay belly-down on a thick horizontal branch, arms and legs hanging loose. Smaller monkeys clambered in the tree’s canopy. I grunted in imitation of the howler’s cry. Sure enough, the male bellowed a response, probably informing me that this was his turf, or his tree. Alone on the side of the road, I grunted and roared to encourage him to howl. He did, without so much as raising an appendage.
The sound of a car engine ended our conversation. It was ten o’clock. A black pickup truck crossed the bridge and turned in my direction. I stuck out my thumb, put on a happy face. I also removed my cap to let the driver see my white hair, in case the salt and pepper beard wasn’t enough. Three men sat shoulder to shoulder in the cab. A tarp covered a load that filled most of the box. I shrugged and waved as they drove past. But after cruising fifty feet, the truck actually stopped! I jogged to the passenger window.
The driver leaned forward to ask where I was going. San Juanillo. He could take me part way. Good. I clambered into the back of the truck and sat on the spare tire, facing sideways, one hand on the burning-hot metal tailgate and the other on the tire, to avoid falling over during starts and stops. We drove off.
The wind flapped at my sodden T-shirt and licked the sweat from my face. I watched the passing scenery: deep green jungle that opened onto fields, where hump-backed longhorn cattle watched me glide by.
We had travelled no more than half a kilometre when the truck skidded to stop at the entrance to a farmhouse with adobe walls and corrugated tin roof. I grabbed my pack and jumped out, ready to trek on. The two passengers, both in their early twenties, stepped out, motioned for me to stay, and said, “Momentito.” With that, they walked to the house. I found shade on the far side of the road, and enjoyed the whisper of a breeze and the songs of unseen birds.
My shirt was almost dry when the driver stepped out of the cab and waved me over. I crossed into skin-toasting sunshine. He asked in Spanish where I was from. I told him. He mentioned how touchy Canadians were about being mistaken for Americans. Over the years, I’ve learned that many nationalities have a hot button. In Vancouver, I will ask a blond European if he is Dutch rather than German, or an Asian if he is Chinese or Korean rather than the hated Japanese. The reverse rarely upsets Americans, Germans or Japanese.
But I didn’t have the Spanish required to express this concept. To illustrate, I posed a question that might miff a Tico: “Are you Nicaraguan?” The middle-aged man’s eyes widened. He smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. His brown fist thumped his chest as he boasted, “Soy Nicaraguan!” He raised matted eyebrows, impressed that I had correctly identified his nationality. He prattled about Somoza and Ortega, and how his country was still in terrible shape. He’d been living in here for sixteen years. Costa Rica might have as many thieves as Nicaragua, but at least they weren’t violent…
At this point his two helpers returned. They untied the tarp and flipped it sideways, revealing stacks of pants, shirts and dresses. The driver explained that they toured the countryside selling clothes. He tapped the alligator on his imitation Lacoste shirt, and tugged at baggy jeans, samples of his wares. The two young men found what they were looking for and walked back to the house. I escaped to the shade and rested the Spanish-speaking part of my brain.
As I debated whether to wait or walk on, the young men returned. I asked how far we were from San Juanillo. Five kilometres, mas o menos, more or less. Ticos seem fond of this expression, which they pour out as one word. As I climbed back on the truck, the driver stuck his head out the window and shouted at me, “I speak Engleesh. One, two, t’ree, cuatro, cinco!” With a whoop of laughter, he drove off.
We crossed another river and climbed a long steep hill, which made me grateful I had a ride. But when we reached the top, the truck stopped. The driver pointed to a side road where he was turning. Time for me to start walking. The downward slope was so steep that I skidded at every step. At the bottom, yet another stream. This time, I found stepping stones and was able to cross without removing my sneakers. Of course, from this low point the road climbed. Soon, I was puffing and sweating.
After a half-hour of trudgery, I came upon an old man working in his vegetable patch by the side of the road. I asked him the distance to San Juanillo. Three kilometres, mas o menos. It was almost eleven. The sun’s glare off the dun-coloured road made me hanker for sunglasses.
On and on, I walked. Only a few swigs of water were left in my bottle. My mouth was dry and my throat scratchy. I coughed up some phlegm, probably dust induced. After pondering my options, I spat it out. I was in no danger of dehydration, but Technicolor scenes of parched actors lost in the desert flickered in my mind. Well, I wasn’t about to tear off my clothes in a demented attempt to cool down, although I did walk on the edge of the road that offered patches of shade. Lizards scuttled away at my approach.
A sweaty hour later, I reached a junction. A sign with the words San Juanillo pointed left. A few hundred metres down the road to town, I reached a long cement building with a Coke sign and the word, Restaurante. A man with a child entered through an open door at the far end. I followed them into a cavernous unlit room that might be a dance hall or community centre.
At a counter in the near corner, the man bought a cup of ice cream, which he handed to the girl along with a wooden spoon. The mustachioed man behind the counter asked if I wanted food. Not before swimming, just a Pepsi muy frio, por favor. I needed a buzz to restart my fried brain. I asked him what time the daily bus south came by. Three o’clock. Perfect. I had two and a half hours to snorkle and still get back to Ostional in time to surf.
I returned to the outdoor rotisserie and followed the dusty road until I came to a path that veered to the water. The slope was steep enough for me to gravel surf. On the beach stood a solitary cement building, painted sea green. The words Pescadores and Collectivos were printed in red on the near wall. In its shade, a man sat on a red crate repairing a net. He smiled and nodded. A dozen fishing boats were moored in the small bay, no more than a quarter mile across. The water was as calm as in a rain barrel. Its colour varied from aquamarine to azure, a setting prettier than a Corona beer ad.
I hurried to the far end of the beach and headed into the trees to find a place to hide my daypack. In Nosara, I would stuff my few necessities—no valuables—in a blue and white plastic bag from the local supermarket, which I’d leave on the sand or under a tree, as locals did. No one had ever touched it.
A hundred feet inland, I saw what I took to be an old cement foundation, a good place to set my pack down. But as I reached the low wall, I realized that it was in fact the local garbage incinerator. Nearby, lay a fallen tree. Its horizontal trunk created a platform at shoulder level. I lay my pack on it and removed my snorkle gear. But first, I had to take a photo.
I returned to my pack. Should I hide it? I had seen no one. This was a tiny village, much smaller than Nosara. Well, I’d leave it on the tree trunk, fully unzipped with the front flap peeled back and its contents in plain view. Should a thief pass by, he (or she?) would find nothing of value, except a trifling amount of cash in the pocket of my shorts. My disposable camera had five shots left, and so was useless to anyone but me. If the pack were closed, a thief might simply grab it and check the contents later. Anyway, there was no one around, so the odds were with me. But then, odds are just a matter of chance.
As I walked to the water, a man appeared, carrying a bundle on one shoulder. I could see fish through the clear plastic.
“Pescado?” I asked.
“Si,” he offered a smile that warmed my heart.
Standing in the shallows, I watched him approach the incinerator. He didn’t even glance at my pack before disappearing into the brush. I relaxed and swam in the clear ocean, enjoying its refreshing coolness, one with no chill. There were coral gardens here and there, with some pretty fish. I’d snorkelled in better locations, but not in Costa Rica.
After almost an hour of pleasant underwater exploration, I returned to my pack. As expected, everything was still in place. I walked to the far end of the beach, where three gringos were now standing.
All were in their twenties, all blond-haired, as was a naked two-year-old boy splashing in the gentle waves. The child sat at the waterline, waiting for the next wave to bowl him over. Each time, he’d howl with laughter. His parents were Quebeckers. This was their third winter in San Juanillo. The other man was German. He drifted away as we spoke in French about renting a house here.
Looking for shade, I continued my walkabout along a sand bar that led to a rocky point. As I crested, a radically different ocean greeted me—with a roar. In the next bay, waves taller than a human pounded against granite outcrops. A young Tico, who had been floating on his surfboard near a boulder at the entrance to the bay, caught a breaker and rode it away from danger. The water reflected not the turquoise of a sandy bottom but the dark greens of underwater concretions. The surfer bailed out by falling flat onto his back, probably to avoid plunging too deep and shredding skin on sharp rocks.
I found a seat in the shade, sat on my daypack and leaned against the ragged cliff, my back protected by the soft rubber of my diver’s booties.
What an amazing place! Before me, a raging ocean; behind, a calm coral-laden harbour. This rock outcrop was perfect for watching sunsets. How long before this little gem was discovered by the hordes? Costa Rica’s West Coast drew surfers. That meant dangerous waves for families with kids. But the bay behind me offered gentle waters. What might it be like to spend a winter in such a tiny village? For the past three years since my retirement, I had visited many tropical locations in my search for paradise. With this magical setting, it was love at first sight.
The young surfer rode one wave all the way to the gravel shore, stood up, undid his ankle leash and walked away with surfboard tucked under one arm—all in a single smooth movement, as if he’d done this all his life.
Time for me to return to snorkelling. What to do with my daypack? This time I’d hide it. There were people around and the problem with snorkelling is that it’s impossible to keep an eye on the shore. I had certainly taken a risk by leaving it out in the open. Better check… Camera in its box. Shorts still folded at the bottom of the pack. In one pocket, two coins. In the other: a paper hanky. Where was my money?
Aw, Jeez, I had been robbed! What else was gone? My watch lay at the bottom. My Swiss Army knife was still in the front pouch. But I couldn’t find my room key, the one with the black eight ball hanging on the chain.
I was left with one hundred colones in coins, worth about thirty-five cents. Was this enough to pay for a bus ticket to Ostional? I doubted it. However, the bus ended its daily run at my motel. That’s where the driver spent the night. So I’d have no trouble cadging a ride. But I had looked forward to an ice cream treat for lunch, like the little girl had eaten. It surely cost more than my two coins.
Damn! I wasn’t as upset with the loss of thirty dollars as I was about the key. What would I say to the woman who ran my little hotel in Ostional? She supported four young-adult children as well as elderly parents by renting eight rooms and running a convenience store. She impressed me as a peaceful presence. My loss would cause her problems. The nearest place to cut another key was Nicoya, a rough forty-five-kilometre ride from Ostional. Anyway, what would the thief do with the key? The hotel was not identified; the chain only bore an eight ball. Had it brought me bad luck?
This was not about luck, but about stupidity. I had left my daypack out in the open for an hour. Plain dumb, especially for someone with my travel experience. The thief probably saw the open pack as an invitation to help himself. At least he hadn’t taken the camera. Leaving the pack wide open had not been the mistake; in fact, it may well have saved the rest of its contents. Stupidity lay in my decision to not hide it
My mood had now changed. I no longer wanted to snorkle, only to leave. The bus wouldn’t leave for another two hours. No matter. I had to get away. I hurried into glaring sunshine. The fisherman was still on his crate. A couple had joined him. None of them looked my way as I passed. Did they know about the theft? Were they the ladrones?
At least, my shoes were where I had left them. Reshod, I shuffled past the fishermen’s union building and the three Ticos next to it. Should I tell them about the theft? Ask if they had seen anything suspicious? How to explain in Spanish that someone had robbed me? I only knew the words for money, thief and bag. Anyway, what would be the point? On the other hand, someone should be made aware of the theft. I’d tell the barman. That way, he’d realize I wasn’t a cheapskate when I asked him to refill my water bottle without buying anything.
The ten-minute climb made me forget the coolness of the beach. When I entered the restaurant, I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. The man who had sold me the Pepsi was alone behind the bar. Good.
As I approached, I unzipped my pack to take out my empty water bottle. I didn’t know the Spanish word for refill or tap water, so pointing to my bottle, I asked for “ordinary” water. He laughed and opened the cooler.
“No, I don’t want to buy water,” was the best I could manage. “A thief has my money.”
The man turned to me, holding a beat-up plastic container, obviously ordinary water. He took my bottle and filled it. Cold water was better than I had hoped for. But he hadn’t heard about the robbery.
“A thief has my money,” I repeated, my right hand mimicking a dip in a cookie jar.
The man’s smile disappeared.
“Where?” he asked.
“At the beach. From my bag.”
“When?”
“An hour ago, mas o menos.”
The man seemed caught off guard and distraught. “It is not one of our villagers,” he assured me. “Someone from outside.”
“Probably a surfer from another village,” I added.
At that, he sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “How much?”
“Around twelve thousand,” I answered.
His eyes widened. “Dollars?”
I chuckled. “No, colones. So it’s not a big problem.”
He handed me my water bottle and opened the cash register. Before I could utter a word, he thrust a one-thousand-colon note toward me, worth three American dollars, saying what sounded like “Pay me in Ostional.”
Not only was I rendered speechless by this stranger’s generous offer, but an unexpected rush of emotions forced me to pinch my lips, sniff and swallow hard to avoid crying.
“No, no,” I finally managed, waving him off.
He switched the bill to his left hand. I reached out and shook the right.
“Gracias,” I whimpered as my voice broke.
I quickly turned and half-ran out of the bar.
The road climbed away from the ocean. The houses were set back from the dusty gravel, far enough that no one would notice a snivelling gringo shuffle by. I was boo-hooing like a kid whose dog had just died. What a wonderful man. But why had his offer of money triggered such powerful emotions? Why all this grief for thirty bucks and a room key?
A month and a half of intense writing had left emotionally fragile. I magnified negative events into tragedies. But magnified did not mean invented… Was it because someone had riffled through my things and left me feeling violated? No… The real reason was that after being so excited by this idyllic village and its perfect bays, the theft had plummeted me back to reality. A friend’s mother used to warn her son. “Don’t be too happy now; you’ll cry that much more later.” That’s why I was so sad. My dream had been irrevocably destroyed. This postcard perfect tropical bay had so beguiled me with its serene beauty that I had let down my guard and, for a brief moment, trusted people again.
The barman’s simple act of kindness, perhaps to rescue his village’s reputation, had provided a spark to revive my fantasy of wintering in San Juanillo. But, in the balance, his generosity wasn’t enough. Given the precipitous descent to the beach, the rough roads that became impassable in the rainy season and the lack of access to medical services, this village was best left to youngsters like the French-Canadian family I had met. Old men are often so smitten by young women that they are blind to their limitations. This bay’s beauty had blinded me. As my mom used to say, “There’s no fool like an old fool.”
The intersection offered blessed shade and a steady breeze. I dropped my pack onto the dust-covered grass by the road and faced the airflow. If no car passed in the next hour and a half, I’d hop on the bus. I took the bottle from my pack. The water was delightfully cool. My face and eyes were almost dry.
Like an Internet pop-up ad, the image of my daypack splayed open on the tree trunk flashed in my mind, causing a sudden visceral tightening. I muttered to myself, “Stoopid.” I hadn’t even checked the contents after snorkelling. Stoopid! Given all the truly dangerous places I’d visited, I should have known to hide my valuables. Stoopid! I had sensed a problem when I saw the man with the fish. I should have done something then and there. Stoopid!
I began to sing a tune my Vancouver band plays: Australian Paul Kelly’s Dumb Things.
“In the middle… in the middle…
In the middle of a dream…
I lost my shirt; I pawned my rings,
I’ve done all the dumb things.”
A rumble brought me back to the crossroads. The sound grew. Two motorcycles appeared around the bend. As they turned toward San Juanillo, each rider waved at me. Everyone was so friendly… until they robbed you.
Now, that was not fair. San Juanillo was an idyllic village. Of course, some stranger would take money from a pack offering its contents to all and sundry. In fact, the thief could have taken everything. Unlike Paul Kelly, I still had my shirt. But I wished he hadn’t taken the key ring. How would I explain its theft in Spanish?
Pacing within the circle of shade, I mulled my loss for another half-hour, until I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. I turned to face the intersection. A black four-wheel drive appeared, crammed with Ticos. It slowed to a stop. A second car, a white sedan with a solitary driver, pulled out to pass. I stuck out my thumb and forced a smile. But the man ignored me and drove on, perhaps to stay in front of the black car to avoid eating more dust.
I turned toward the stopped car. Six boys in pale blue shirts and navy pants scrambled out, leaving only a couple inside. The boys began to walk toward the village, and the black SUV moved in my direction. Grin and thumb in place, my eyes pleaded for them pick me up. I needed to get away from this place, to stop replaying the theft. The driver studied me as he passed. He said something to the woman passenger. Not only did he then stop, he even backed up to where I stood.
We reached Ostional in surprisingly short time. After all, it was only eight kilometres from San Juanillo. I explained to the woman hotel owner that I had been robbed of money and room key by a ladron con corazon. She was quite fat. Her jowls jiggled as she laughed and shook her head. She waddled into the office and returned with two bundles of keys.
I followed her across the courtyard to room eight. Her shiny hair was tightly wound in a chignon, like a black bagel. A seam by the left arm of her print dress had burst and brown flesh bulged out. At the door, she tried the first key. Nope. Of course, the very last one on the second set opened the lock. Surely, this is a Cosmic Law.
I thanked her, stepped into my room, retrieved the cash from my notebook and offered to pay for a new lock. She told me to wait, saying she might still have another key. Anyway, she added with a wry smile, I needed to take better care of my money.
It was only three-fifteen. I took out my notebook to write down the strange events of this day. A knock at the door. The woman stood in the opening. She handed me a new key on a chain, one with a wooden turtle. On its shell was carved the number eight. I was receiving royal service for my four bucks a night. This woman’s heart must match her body.
An hour later, my notes were scribbled; time to boogie board. My pack was still half full. In my rush to write up that day’s bizarre happenings, I had neglected to unpack. I emptied the front pouch onto the bed. Lo and behold! The eight ball and key tumbled out! Laughing with relief, I ran out, crossed the courtyard and showed the woman. She chuckled good-naturedly as she pocketed the turtle key holder.

The next morning as I left, I looked for her. She was out of sight, probably fixing breakfast. Her son was at the pulperia, selling cheap treats to students on their way to school. He said he’d take care of the room key and wished me well.
As I walked down the road, I kept turning back to search the yard and reception area for the owner. At last, I saw her at the kitchen window washing dishes. I didn’t know her name, so I called out, “Señora!” She raised her full-moon face.
“Muchas gracias!” I shouted.
She smiled and waved.
I walked to a shady spot, from where I would wait for a ride. This adventure was complete, but my search for paradise would continue.



















YUCATAN, MEXICO
(2004)

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

We gave up hope of finding a winter home in the Yucatan and now wanted to spend the rest of our time near coral. A number of locals suggested Mahajual. It had a coral reef and was near Banco Chinchorro, the largest atoll in the Northern Hemisphere. Our Lonely Planet guide said that Mahajual’s population was only 200, but the government was investing heavily in tourist development. A new road and a cruise-ship port had just been completed. The area was expected to grow to 150,000 by 2013. For now, it remained a sleepy fishing village with cheap cabañas near the beach.
Our guidebook also offered information on getting there: “Though locals hope bus service will improve with the better road, public transit currently consists of either cabs from Limones (about $25 US) or dilapidated buses that run from Chetumal’s main bus terminal to Limones, then Mahajual… The buses arrive (barring breakdowns) at Limones around 6am, 7:30am and 5:30pm. Schedules fluctuate…”
Limones proved to be smaller than expected: a dozen whitewashed buildings and fruit stands on either side of the highway. No bus terminal. We stood next to our bags on the edge of the road and watched our Cancun-to-Chetumal bus pull away. It was 3:20pm. The Mahajual bus wasn’t due for two hours. What to do while waiting? First, get out of the sun. Then, find a place to have lunch. Except for cookies, we hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
As we craned to survey our options, a man stepped out of a taxi parked under the only shade tree. He approached us and said, “¿Mahajual?” Ros explained in Spanish that we were waiting for the 5:30 bus. He shook his head and replied that it had already come and gone. Bizarre.
I asked how much he charged. “Two hundred pesos.” Ros reminded me that even if a bus did show up at 5:30, we’d reach Mahajual after sunset, awfully late to find a room. And what if no bus materialized? Our guidebook didn’t even have a separate entry for Limones. This highway stop had no accommodations. Anyway, 200 pesos translated to less than $20(US) for a sixty-kilometre ride. We looked at each other and nodded.
The Honda barrelled south along the highway. We sat holding hands in the back seat, our free hand resting protectively on our precious daypacks. Our Spanish had resurrected after two weeks in Mexico so that we were able to converse with the driver with relative ease. A considerate man, he spoke to us slowly and clearly.
A few kilometres south of Limones, we left highway 307. The new road was as wide as the Cancun-to-Tulum freeway but empty of traffic. Our driver explained that it had opened three months earlier. I commented on how straight it was. He chuckled. There was one turn forty kilometres ahead, at Mahajual. In fact, he added, all roads in Quintana Roo province were as straight as arrows. The reasons: no hills and little private property. Few buildings were visible, but the jungle regularly gave way to fields of sugar cane, banana and what looked like rice paddies.
The speedometer indicated 120 km/h. We had yet to encounter another vehicle. Air blustering in through the open windows dried our skin. It was Yucatan summer. The sun was now heading south after its annual visit to the Tropic of Cancer. Although it was almost 4pm, the outside temperature was still near 100°F.
We soon stopped at a military checkpoint. Two armed guards in camouflage fatigues marched up. They mumbled a few words to the driver. He stepped out, walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. I got out and joined them. The soldiers ignored our backpacks but ordered me to open our carryall. I unzipped the bag and showed him our snorkle masks, swim fins and folding chairs in their nylon sleeves. He tapped one chair and raised his chin at me. I loosened the cord, slid out the chair, opened it and sat down in the middle of the road. He seemed satisfied.
As we drove away, I asked the driver what the army was looking for. He explained that Mahajual was a favourite port for cocaine traffic. Boats from Central America discharged their cargo here to be carried overland to the United States. He laughingly added that many rich drug lords lived in Mahajual. And we had thought we were heading to a sleepy fishing village.
Our guidebook mentioned that the recommended cabañas at Tio Phil had “good screening.” Hinting at a bug problem? Ros asked if there were any mosquitoes. The driver reared back in laughter. When he finally caught his breath and his eyes returned to the road, he said, “Se llama Hotel de Los Mosquitos.” It’s called Mosquito Hotel. Ros made a face.
We reached the end of the highway in less than an hour. The wide pavement gave way to a single-lane sandy path that paralleled a palm-lined beach. We leaned forward to peer out the side windows and let air dry our sweaty backs. The taxi slowed for a makeshift speed bump, a four-inch-thick marine rope stretched across the sand. On the water, jet skis and speedboats crisscrossed the pastel-green surface. Up ahead, both sides of the narrow road were lined with bars, restaurants and clubs, each crowded with dozens of tourists. Music blared from immense speakers creating sound bubbles, through which our taxi drifted. Every few metres, the car thump-thumped over another rope.
Our method for finding a room was to stop at a restaurant or a shady spot. I’d wait with our baggage while Ros checked accommodations chosen from the guidebook. We had learned that whatever room she chose would be acceptable to me; however, the reverse was less certain. We told the driver to drop us off at the Casa del Mar. As we lifted our bags from the trunk, a gringa server came out from the restaurant to inform us that the village was “full to the max.” No rooms to be had anywhere. How could that be? Well, it was holiday time in Mexico and, with the new road, Mexican families and student groups descended on Mahajual every weekend. Today was Saturday. Our kindly driver refused to leave until we were settled. He helped repack the trunk and drove on to Tio Phil’s Cabañas, only two rope-bumps further.
There, a young man greeted us in excellent English, introduced himself as Raul and explained that, in fact, he did have one little-used cabin at the very back of the property. As Ros went off to inspect it, I unloaded the trunk, paid our driver and thanked him for his patience. After watching him drive off, I hauled our luggage to the wooden verandah of the main house. I waited in a hammock chair and tried to turn off my sweat faucets. Droplets trickled to the tip of my nose and drip-dripped on my sodden T-shirt. I removed sweat-spotted glasses and fanned myself with the guidebook.
Had we made a mistake? Mahajual was more like Caye Caulker in Belize than a sleepy fishing village. It swarmed with tourists, albeit mostly Mexicans. I felt an itch on my calf. Three blood-engorged mozzies were feasting. Shit! Hotel de Los Mosquitos, indeed. Bugs would force us indoors. And our potential room was so far from the beach that we’d catch no breeze.
Ros returned with Raul. He held up a plastic switch with wires radiating from it. The fan in the last cabin was disabled. “In fact,” Raul explained, “it doesn’t matter. Our electricity comes from solar panels. And with so many guests, we’ve already run out of power. But tomorrow, you can move to the front cabin. It has a private bathroom.” Ros looked dispirited. I didn’t fancy sleeping in a buggy inferno and stumbling out in the dark to reach a shared toilet.
“I’m so sorry but no other rooms are available in the entire village,”
“Is there a bus out of here?” I asked.
“Why, yes! It should pass right in front in less than thirty minutes.”
It was five o’clock. Did our guidebook’s “irregular” 5:30pm bus leave from Mahajual rather than Limones? I glanced at Ros.
“Let’s take it,” she whispered, and then turned to Raul. “We’ll come back tomorrow for the front cabin. Can we wait inside?”
“Of course, but it’s best if you place your bags on the edge of the road so the driver will know to stop. May I fix you a glass of lime juice?”
We nodded avidly. Ros followed Raul into the main room, while I stacked our bags on the far side of the sandy road. Two grizzled local men were playing cards on the verandah, seemingly unaware of the mozzie feeding frenzy. Perhaps the smoke from their cigarettes kept the bugs at bay. I quickly shut the screen door behind me. The room contained three tables. At the back, from an overhead shelf behind a bar, a radiophone crackled.
“Where will you go?” Raul asked as he set down the glasses.
“Where is the bus going?” I replied.
“Limones, Bacalar and then Chetumal at the Belize border.”
We had read that Bacalar was expected to be the next Lake Chappala, a popular gringo retirement community. Ros riffled to the appropriate guidebook section, and read out loud, “Casita Carolina is a delightful place, about one and a half blocks south of the fort. A large lawn leads down to the lake and immaculate rooms are decorated with Mexican art…”
“Sure,” I said. “Bacalar tonight.”
Raul insisted on phoning Casita Carolina. A moment later, he was talking rat-tat-tat-tat Spanish into the receiver. He then covered the mouthpiece with his palm and turned to us.
“Two rooms are available, a large one with king-size bed for $45 and a small one with double bed for $35.”
“We’ll take the thirty-five,” I replied instantly, forgetting to check with Ros. My ego is still tied to cheap travel.
We sipped our limeade and waited for the bus. Raul refused money for phone or drinks, claiming that Bacalar was a local call and the limes had come from a tree out back.
Surprisingly soon, a horn blared and a bus slid to a dust-raising stop. We thanked Raul. Ros asked for his e-mail address, “In case we don’t make it back tomorrow.” Meanwhile, I hefted our bags into the luggage compartment. I had to shove boxes aside to stash our gear far enough from liquid-filled plastic buckets, to avoid a soaking if one of the covers came off. As I was wriggling out of the compartment, the driver activated the hydraulic door. It banged the back of my shoulders and neck. I quickly ducked and crab-walked to safety. Dark faces at windows on my side of the bus were smiling and giggling.
I trotted up the steps, grinned at the driver, patted my head and wagged an index, wishing I had enough Spanish to quip about his itchy trigger finger. He snickered. The bus was crowded. Ros was sitting at an open window. She had chosen the right side of the bus to keep an eye on our luggage. I took the aisle seat. Half a dozen men stood at the very back. In fact, this tired old bus was filled with people who all seemed to know each other. Everyone was in a happy mood, shouting back and forth.
Why, of course! It was Saturday afternoon and these working folk were heading home for their day of rest. The bus stopped three more times before leaving the village. People now filled the aisle all the way up to the front door. Windows were open, but whenever we stopped, the heat grew oppressive. Soon, we were accelerating on the new road. We’d have no more stops until the main highway, fifty kilometres ahead. Wrong!
Mere minutes out of the village, the bus turned onto an unpaved boulevard. It stopped near a clump of thatched-roof buildings to pick up a woman with two children, then continued along this divided road for half a kilometre. There was no other structures, only jungle, until we came upon the back of a Western-style shopping centre—the special zone for cruise-ship passengers—with paved parking for a thousand cars. No ship was in port. The area was deserted. Metrotown in the jungle.
The bus U-turned. As we passed the compound of houses, we skidded to a hard stop. The din grew as people rushed to the left-side windows. I stood to peer between heads. Oh my, one roof was on fire! A man standing on the neighbouring roof threw a bucket of water onto the flames and squatted down, waiting for a refill to be handed up. By the time he received the next bucket, the blaze had grown twice as big. The heat must have become unbearable; he clambered down. There was no stopping the greedy pyre. We watched in awe.
Soon, the roof of the house next door burst into flames. Passenger streamed out of the bus. Men rushed into the burning buildings. They reappeared lugging gas cylinders, chesterfields, television sets, refrigerators and two upright Coke coolers. One building must have housed a corner store or a restaurant. A portly woman tottered out, hugging a brace of clothes. Moments later, the roof collapsed in a gush of sparks.
The near-empty bus was hotter than a sauna. I stepped out to find shade. Trees had been planted on the median. I stood under the leafiest, and listened to the crackle of burning palm fronds and the whoosh of oxygen being sucked out of the air. But even from a hundred feet, the heat forced me away. I walked up the road and huddled with a handful of Mexicans under a weeping fig tree. I was impressed to see so many strangers offering help. Sirens approached. Firemen might stop the fire from spreading to nearby houses, but the two burning buildings were beyond rescue.
Eventually, the bus’ horn sounded. Passengers trooped back on board. Ros had also stepped off to escape the heat but had remained near the doors. Her daypack was slung over one shoulder. I realized that, in the tumult, I had foolishly left my own pack with passport, money, plane ticket and travellers’ cheques inside the bus. My stomach tightened. I hurried aboard. It was still wedged in the rack above my seat. I unzipped it. Nothing was amiss, but I silently berated myself for such a dumb mistake—memories of San Juanillo.
The men returned carrying six-packs of Modelo, a beer popular with working-class Mexicans because it sold for a few pesos less than premium brews. The bus accelerated in lurches between grinding gears. A new sound was heard, the click-hiss of opening beer cans, repeated dozens of times amid growing hilarity. These tired workers had scored an unexpected bonus.
A party atmosphere reigned. Loudest were two men who stood in the entry well and shouted merriment to the driver. I turned to Ros and whispered that they were getting drunk on stolen beer. Always ready to defend those I judge too harshly, she replied that the owner might have offered the beer as payment for their courageous help. Yeah, right.
The fiesta gained volume until the bus reached the military checkpoint, and then instant silence. Beer cans disappeared behind backs. Two soldiers boarded and squeezed down the aisle, asking everyone to open and show their bags. They ignored the ravaged six-packs. The driver opened the outer baggage compartment from his seat. Three guards checked the contents. Our carryall was hauled out and searched again. This type of bag must be a favourite of Mexican narcos, just like in Hollywood movies.
We watched to make sure the inspectors repacked our chairs and fins. One guard crawled into the storage area to ferret out more distant cargo. The two others stood around in angled sunlight. At this point, the soldiers inside returned to the front of the bus and stepped off. Our driver, thinking the inspection was finished—or maybe for the fun of it—pressed a button and the baggage compartment door closed, trapping the soldier inside. Only his black leather boots were sticking out. His partners shouted and banged on the side of the bus until the driver reactivated the hydraulic mechanism. The diminutive guard slid out, slapping oily dust from his uniform—a signal for la fiesta to resume.
Once we reached cruising speed, air again flowed and sitting became comfortable. More cans were opened, empties chucked out the windows. The two men at the front were now on their third or fourth beer. Their shouts and laughter rose above the festivities. I wondered what their wives would think seeing them stagger home. Or maybe this was normal Saturday afternoon behaviour. I stiffened when one of the louts offered a can to the driver, who waved it off. I reported this to Ros. She countered that at least the driver had enough sense to refuse.
As we reached Highway 307, clouds darkened the southern sky. I assumed that most of the rowdies lived in Limones and we’d soon be rid of them. The bus veered off the pavement and stopped in a backwash of dust. Half the passengers stepped off. But so did the driver. They gathered at the open-air counter of a tienda, a convenience store, or more correctly, a convenience stall. Our driver returned a moment later with a Coke and a bag of chips. I walked up to him and asked how long we’d be here. Five minutes.
When he sounded his horn, every party animal returned to the bus. More beer had been purchased, along with snacks. The two drunks got on last and reclaimed the stairwell. The bus backed onto the highway and headed south, toward the tenebrous sky. The onboard party revved to higher pitch. Women passengers didn’t drink but took part in the loud banter and jocularity. A toothless old woman shouted one-liners that made everyone roar. All except us, we could not decipher her Spanish.
We drove into a torrential downpour. All windows were closed. Rain thrummed on the shell of the speeding bus. The inside air grew stuffy. The bus pulled over to let one man out. He scampered up a side road toward a shelter, holding a striped Chinese carryall as umbrella. Everyone laughed and cheered at his high-step prance through puddles. This was certainly the merriest bus I’d ever travelled on.
Half an hour later, the rain stopped and windows reopened. We could see blue water ahead. The bus turned off the main highway and immediately stopped to drop off some people. A road sign said Bacalar. Beyond a speed bump, the gravel road metamorphosed into a paved main street that was soon lined with one-storey buildings.
Ros leaned toward me and whispered, “I have a request for when we get off. Please don’t say anything to the drunks in the front. I’m afraid how they might react.”
I agreed, out of love.
The bus stopped. I slithered through the crowd to check with the driver that this was truly the centre of town. He assured me with a smirk that this was “Bacalar centro.” I waved at Ros to join me, and squeezed past the two drunks without so much as a peep or a peek.
The baggage door opened and I again crawled into the dusty hold to retrieve our bags. Ros kept an eye on the driver via the rear-view mirror, one hand raised like a traffic cop. Our bags were dry but covered in fine dust. I laid them on the sidewalk. She gave the driver the all clear. The compartment closed with a whoosh and the bus ground through lower gears. I dusted myself off, swung my pack onto my back and took up one end of our carryall. Ros lifted the other end and we walked fifty metres to the corner. From here, we’d catch a taxi to Casa Carolina. Or at least get information on how to get there. We stopped in the shade, dropped the carryall and removed our packs.
That’s when it hit me; my daypack was still on the bus!
I looked back. The bus was pausing at the first intersection, a hundred metres away. I sprinted down the street, hoping against hope that it would stop a few more times before heading back to the highway. There was no other traffic. People in shop windows and doorways watched a gringo in T-shirt, shorts and sandals attempt to run down a moving bus. In fact, I made some headway, until it cleared the intersection and slowly pulled away.
With no thought of my fitness for such a stressful run, I, too, shifted gears. After all, my new camera, my passport, traveller’s cheques, plane ticket and all my cash, in three denominations, were leaving without me. I ran faster than I had in years. The rush of air against my skin felt good. And after so many hours sitting in buses and taxis, my legs were happy to stretch out. Meanwhile, my mind processed the options. If I didn’t rescue my daypack on foot, I’d flag down a taxi and order the driver to “follow that bus!” Except no taxi was in sight and I didn’t know the Spanish for “follow.”
I ran the stop sign. The bus was fifty metres away. I yelled “Alto,” the word on the sign, and waved my arms as I raced on. Enough adrenaline was coursing through my body that I didn’t even feel winded. However, if the bus didn’t stop soon, I’d be left in its dust. I was losing ground. I stopped yelling and gesticulating in order to crank my speed up a notch. Like an Olympic sprinter, I focused on relaxing, and maintaining form. Arms and legs were pistons, driving me forward. But I was no match for even an old beater of a bus. Still, with no other solution, I kept on running.
After three hundred yards, the bus reached the next corner and slowed for a speed bump. I was now rapidly gaining ground. I hollered once more, hoping to draw attention from anyone on board. Sure enough, the bus stopped and the entry door opened. Praise Adonai, Allah and the Virgin of Guadalupe! I was saved!
I scampered up the stairwell, shouted to the driver “¡Mi bolsa!” and skipped sideways up the aisle, snaking past standees. At this point, the passengers burst into cheers. I paused for a Rocky Balboa victory signal. I then grabbed my daypack and hustled to the front. As I neared the driver, he wagged a finger and shouted in fractured English for everyone to hear, “Dun’t fohgeit nawting!” He exploded in guffaws, along with his besotted human cargo.
As the bus drove off, I raised the pack above my head to show it to Ros, a tiny figure in the distance. For the first time, I thought of the risk for a man my age of suffering cardiac arrest after such a demanding run. My heart jackhammered my ribcage. I might expire right there on Bacalar’s main drag. Well, I’d die happy: I had my pack.
I was still so full of nervous energy that I actually jogged back. All along the way, people, who had watched me running, waved, laughed, applauded and shouted congratulations. Daypack held above head, I did my victory lap back to Ros.

From Vancouver, Ros wrote this e-note to Raul, the friendly man in Mahajual:

Dear Raul,

We just wanted to write to thank you for your hospitality and help a few
weeks back. My husband and I arrived at your cabanas during an afternoon
when all rooms were booked and we were feeling stranded. You offered us
lime juice and a comfortable table, arranged a reservation for us in
Bacalar and got us on the afternoon bus out. (We tried to phone from
Bacalar to tell you that we wouldn't be able to make it back the next
day, but couldn't get through.)
It didn't surprise us to hear from another traveller we met later in Punta Allen about "this great guy named Raul who went out of his way to help us in Mahajual."
Meeting you was one of those moments that made us feel very
good about our trip to Quintana Roo.

Again, Muchas gracias!
Ros and George in Vancouver

Raul’s e-response:

dont worry, thankyou for the tinks you say abaut me.... I losse 2 guests, but I wind 2 frends.
eny way now you have my adress. see you next time.

Your frend: raul delgado corrales




















LA PAZ
BAJA, MEXICO
(2004)

SI, LA PAZ

The beginning of the end occurred as I watched the Philadelphia Eagles’ futile struggle to avoid becoming the Buffalo Bills of the new millennium. I was sitting in a smoky Baja California bar watching the dull NFL playoff game amid a gaggle of grey-haired gringos. Brilliant sunshine poured in through the open front of Paradise Found on La Paz’s seawall and washed out the bottom of the giant TV screen, a niggling reminder that I should be outside on the last day of my week-long solar therapy.
During a break in the inaction, I decided to order food from a menu wedged in the salt and pepper rack. I no longer need glasses, except for reading. As I pulled them out of my shirt pocket, one lens fell to the cement floor. I picked it up, cleaned it and tried to fit it back into the frame. But the tiny screw that secured it was missing.
In the half-light of the bar, it would be impossible to find the screw, even if I searched the sticky, beer-dampened cement floor on my hands and knees. Anyway, it had probably come off inside my shirt pocket and was best left there until I got back to my hotel room. I put on my disabled specs and one-eyed the menu. As a nod to Jimmy Buffett, I ordered a cheeseburger in Paradise Found.
I returned to my twelve-dollar-a-night room with its canary-yellow cement walls and framed copy of Jean-François Millet’s Angélus hanging way up by the ten-foot-high ceiling. I removed my shirt and emptied the pocket on a street map spread out on the bed: shreds of tissue, a sticky Jolly Rancher wrapper, some tiny lint balls and… the little screw. Yeah! But how to hold the frame around the lens, insert this picayune bolt and, without tools, tighten it with fat fingers and far-sighted eyes? Impossible.
I had removed some staples from a pack of socks purchased the previous day. Perhaps I could use one to wire the frame together. Sitting on the edge of the bed—a mattress set on a cement platform—I searched the wastebasket. Two staples lay in a brownish puddle at the bottom. I’d used this plastic bucket during a massive rainstorm a few days earlier to catch water dripping onto the bed from a ceiling beam. Overcoming my “yuck” response, I picked out one tiny metal clasp from the slimy liquid and hurried to the bathroom to rinse both staple and fingers.
I managed to thread one end of the staple through both holes in the frame. I then inserted the lens and pressed the frame shut. I only needed to lock the joint by twisting the staple. Instead, its free end stabbed me, probably introducing little-known killer bacteria into my system. Visions of snake-bitten cowboys writhed in my mind. Putting spectacles aside, I squeezed some blood from the tip of my index, perhaps five drops.
On my next attempt, I used my fingernails. With pliers, this task would have been simple. Being flat rather than round, the staple was impossible to bend sideways. I managed one twist. I tested my work by releasing pressure on the frame. The lens fell onto the mattress. Damn!
Would I be without glasses until I returned home? My bus left at ten the next morning, the hour when most shops opened. I cursed myself for not adding an extra pair of glasses to my pack, something I usually did. But never before had I needed a spare. Well, I could forego reading on the plane. To paraphrase Baba Ram Dass, “Five hours of boredom can be as interesting as anything else.”

The next morning, I awoke before eight o’clock. The room was quite chilly and, as usual, the shower had no hot water. I washed my face and shivered throughout packing up.
As I handed my key to the young man at reception, I asked the location of the nearest shop for lentes anteojos (literally, lenses before eyes). He pointed down the street. I thanked him and headed out in cool morning air, glad to be on the sunny side of the street. Sure enough, a few doors down, a store advertised lentes. Of course, it was closed. I checked the door behind the padlocked accordion grating for opening times: nada.
I marched to the main commercial street, searching for any store that might offer a solution to my “spectacular” problem. Among myriad clothing and shoe stores, I found four watch shops and a hardware store. All were shut tight, so I continued on to the bus station. After buying my ticket for the ten o’clock bus to Los Cabos airport, I ate breakfast at El Quinto Sol, a health food restaurant one block from the town square.
By nine o’clock, I was back on the uneven sidewalk. La Paz sidewalks are wildly uneven. Perhaps individual owners are responsible for cementing the front of their property and insist that their section be horizontal. But La Paz is a hilly city. As a result, disparate slabs of sidewalk—from concrete to mosaic tiles—are connected by steps, slopes or even vertical drops of up to three feet. This chaotic assemblage force pedestrians to watch their steps, and keeps emergency rooms busy.
Back at the optometrist shop, chain and padlock were still in place. Leaning my pack against a phone pole, I decided to wait until nine-thirty. That would allow time for my glasses to be repaired and for the five-minute walk to the terminal. Bathed in sunshine, I watched the pedestrian parade.
During my week, I had met many fascinating people. On the three-hour ride to La Paz from San Jose Del Cabo, I had first chatted with a patient Mexican from Guadalajara, willing to put up with my fumbling Spanish. After he got off the bus, the man sitting ahead of me introduced himself as a fellow Canadian. Like me, Gilles was in his sixties, spoke French, had attended the University of Ottawa and, as a child, rejected his native Québec culture to become anglified. Even more coincidental, he owned a vast tract of timberland in Québec near Messines, my mother’s birthplace. In fact, his foreman there was a Galipeau, my maternal grandmother’s maiden name, thus likely a cousin of sorts.
Now a lawyer, Gilles operated a number of real estate businesses in La Paz, where he had been living for fifteen years. He was a fount of knowledge on the economics of the city. When the bus reached the outskirts, he pointed out the new Soriana Commercial Center, a vast complex of stores and a modern cinema with fifteen screens. The Mexican developers were his friends. He gave me his card and told me to drop by his office in the waterfront building he owned.
While retrieving my baggage, I had reconnected with a solitary middle-aged woman from Nanaimo. We had travelled on the same charter. She lived on Thetis Island, just north of Ruxton Island, where my friend, Terry, was building his waterfront home. She seemed amazed that I would arrive in a new town without a reserved room. But then, she had no pesos, nor did she speak Spanish.
All these encounters had taken place before I had even found my hotel, a reminder that travelling alone opens one up to meeting people…
At nine twenty-five, the doors were still locked. I asked a passerby what time the store usually opened. He didn’t know but thought it would be around ten, mas o menos. Better check out other options.
The hardware store was open. The clerk directed me to the aisle where I’d find a destornillador mui pequeño to tighten one little tornillo, words I’d looked up in my pocket Spanish dictionary. The only screwdriver small enough to fix my glasses was part of a boxed set similar to one we had at home. It cost twenty-five pesos. I hesitated. Earlier in the week, I’d happily spent ten times that amount for a lobster dinner at Le Chat noir, the only French restaurant in La Paz. My unwillingness to buy the screwdrivers was more principle than practical.
I told the middle-aged clerk I’d buy the set if he helped me fix my glasses. He nodded. Using scissors, the man cut the stiff plastic wrapping. Meanwhile, I assembled lens and frame and pinched them together with one hand, offering the tiny screw on the palm of the other.
Tilting his head to focus through bifocals, the man checked the screw head then selected the smallest screwdriver. He struggled to fit the screw into the hole—his fingers were as cherubic as mine. Still, he managed to place it over the opening. With tongue peeking out, he applied driver to screw and turned… and turned. Finally, he looked up, shrugged and declared that something was wrong with the screw.
At that point, a customer came to the checkout counter. I told the man to take care of business. The screw was already in place, so I was able to pick up the screwdriver with my free hand. I suspected that the holes in the frame weren’t correctly lined up. I adjusted them and squinted to find the slot on the screw’s head, more guesswork than certainty. Still, I managed a few turns and, lo, the screw held! When the man returned, he completed the job. The lens was solidly ensconced in its frame. I left wearing repaired glasses and a smug smile of satisfaction.
I walked past Hotel San Miguel, an eleven-dollar-a-night bargain where Hans was staying. I had first met him at a downtown coffee shop. A wobbly wizened man, he had hesitated before stepping up to the raised patio. He had responded to my greeting with a four-toothed smile—two upper incisors and two lower eye teeth were all he had left. He spoke in accented English. When I asked where he was originally from, he challenged me to guess. I figured he was either from Eastern Europe or a country influenced by Germany. To avoid any insult, I guessed Holland. He roared his surprise, seemingly impressed by my linguistic talents. In fact, he spoke French better than English. We switched to my mother tongue.
Hans was eighty-six years old, and lived in Austin, Texas, with secondary homes in Maine and Colorado. He had been wintering in La Paz for a decade. Before that, he had travelled the world as representative of a major Dutch shipping line, and had lived in Taipei.
He invited me to dinner that night at his favourite restaurant. It turned out to be La Pazta, attached to the six-room Hotel Mediterrané where the Nanaimo woman was staying. She was finishing her meal when we walked in. I introduced her to Hans and watched him ply her with old-style European charm. He must have seduced a lot of women in his day. When the waiter came over to greet him, Hans switched to rapid-fire Spanish.
At our own table, we spent a lovely evening over Swiss beef fondu with four sauces—mustard, dill, tomato, jalapeño—and a bottle of Chilean Carménère. We discussed voyages, literature and politics. As we prepared to leave, a middle-aged American woman, who had been eating alone at the next table, came over. She confessed to having had a most wonderful time eavesdropping on our “lofty” conversation.
Hans beamed. His body might be falling apart—glaucoma so limited his vision that he needed a magnifying glass to read the menu—but his mind remained sharp and inquisitive. And he still grew excited over ideas and women, even though that very weekend he would return to Austin for a second heart-bypass surgery.
I had accompanied him back to his hotel. As I helped him out of the taxi, a Mexican woman of dubious profession appeared and led him inside. Later in the week, I looked for him at Caliente, a smoky gambling bar where he spent his afternoon “betting on the ponies.” I wanted to reciprocate with dinner, but we never connected again. I hoped his surgery went well…
My reminiscences ended at the terminal. A single tired bus was resting in the oil-stained earthen yard. I approached a mustachioed man with Aguila embroidered on his white shirt and asked if that was the bus to San Jose. No, it was going to Pichilingue, the port where ferries connect La Paz to Mazatlan. I had taken this bus a few days earlier to explore out-of-town beaches. Pichilingue Beach had been a disappointment. It faced the ferry terminal and was subjected to the roar of tractor-trailers. The sand was a dirty grey and the amenities dilapidated.
I had walked six kilometres further to paradisiacal Balandra Beach, a bay within a bay, each with aquamarine waters caressed by crescents of white sand. After hiking around the first headland, I had stood alone on as beautiful a tropical beach as I’d ever seen. Instead of the usual palm-tree decor, sunlight turned eroded cliffs into stunning camel-coloured sculptures.
At ten o’clock, the old bus left for Pichilingue. The courtyard was now empty. Maybe my bus would pull up at the front of the terminal… I kept close watch. Missing it would mean I’d miss my charter flight home.
Minutes later, as I wondered if there might be a problem, another mustachioed employee in a white shirt with Aguila on his breast called out, “Santiago, San Jose Del Cabo y Cabo San Lucas.” I stepped up, as did two young Americans with backpacks. The man herded us into the empty terminal yard. Well, it was only empty of buses. He led us to a grey Datsun from another era parked in one corner. He said he would drive us to the main terminal in another part of town.
Without a key, he opened the trunk. We stowed our packs. The two doors on the passenger side were held shut by a length of rope, which the man quickly untied before waving us in. Claiming the privilege of age, I chose the front seat. I closed the door behind me, but it bounced open. I pushed down the lock and tried again. This time it held, although a ribbon of light outlined the seam. At least the seatbelt worked fine. The driver turned the ignition key. The mufflerless car groaned, coughed and died. He tried again, And again. On the fourth attempt, the engine came to life, alternately roaring and wheezing, like a lion with asthma.
We drove along the malecón, an artfully tiled promenade along the city’s sandy shoreline. As we passed Allende Street, which had been washed away by the heavy rains earlier in the week, workers were finishing the repaving job. I was impressed. Within a few days, the city had rebuilt a roadway destroyed by raging waters. But then, I had been impressed by the city in general: clean, hassle-free, few beggars, little apparent theft and, best of all, no time-share touts.
Being the state capital, with three universities and numerous hospitals, La Paz was a white-collar town. Locals were well dressed, mild-mannered and had enough disposable income to drive new cars and patronize stylish downtown shops. In fact, La Paz had the highest per capita income in Mexico. Wherever I went, Paceños greeted me with a smile.
We soon reached the main terminal. Our bus would leave at ten-thirty. How long was the ride? Three hours. Hmm… That meant if everything went well, we’d arrive at the airport around one-thirty, ninety minutes before my flight. Well, little could be done, except take a deep breath and wait.
After sitting restlessly for five minutes, I slung my pack over one shoulder and went out to the loading area. A driver stepped down from a shiny new bus. I asked him in Spanish if this was the bus to San Jose. He nodded and invited me to board. My ticket indicated seat number twenty-three, halfway down. I asked if I could sit up front. He smiled. No problem, sit anywhere. I chose the seat by the door, which offered the best view.
Five minutes later, like a king on his throne, I watched the thirty or forty passengers stream past. None challenged my right to the premium seat. The two Americans seemed envious of my perch as they trooped to the back. Finally the door closed with a whoosh. I relaxed.
There were two routes from La Paz to Los Cabos, larga and corta—long and short. The “short” crossed to the Pacific coast, passed through Todos Santos, Cabo San Lucas and ended at San Jose Del Cabo. But the airport was north of San Jose. So it made sense to take the “long” route through Santiago and get off at the airport entrance. The long route was actually shorter, but narrow and winding, with a number of detours. Both routes took three hours. It all made sense in Mexico.
Ten minutes out of La Paz, the semi-desert was deserted. Ten-foot-tall cardons waved goodbye. The sun poured through the side window, toasting me nicely enough to raise a fine layer of sweat on my forehead. I had been cold more often than warm during my week in La Paz. The first two days had been miserable with heavy rains creating torrents that roared down city’s steep slopes. Those streets still cobblestoned lost so much supporting soil that parked cars slowly sank to spectacular angles.
The remainder of my week had been sunny, but temperatures never rose above 25°C and the sea breeze carried a chill, great for hiking but too cold for swimming. In the evenings, I needed a long-sleeve shirt and my Taiga vest to be comfortable. La Paz was located a smidgen to the north of the Tropic of Cancer.
The driver shifted to a lower gear as we began to climb. Hairpin turns were carved out of granite mountains. Pine trees grew on nearby slopes. For one long hill, we were stuck behind a flatbed truck hauling a bulldozer. It was noon. Down into a valley we cruised; the engine grumbled and backfired, as if complaining at having to fight gravity.
Soon we were climbing again, swinging left and right along switchbacks. When we crested, I could see the waters of the Sea of Cortez in the distance. This gulf extended north-south for a thousand miles between the Mexican mainland and the Baja Peninsula, a Mecca for sport fishers, kayakers, scuba divers, snorkellers and whale watchers. Jacques Cousteau had dubbed it the “world’s aquarium.” The Mexican government invested millions to develop eco-tourism.
Charter flights from Vancouver were available to Los Cabos or Loreto, but not to La Paz. The capital of Baja California Sur remained undiscovered, except by sailors, snowbirds and Mexican tourists. As a result, this city of two hundred thousand retained a traditional atmosphere. Its bay was not lined with international hotels but with locally owned low-rise buildings. Thatched-roof shelters on all downtown beaches were available free of charge. No one hassled you to buy trinkets or time-shares. You could watch the famous La Paz sunsets from the malecon, while sitting on wrought-iron benches bearing the country’s crest, an eagle on a cactus holding a rattlesnake in its beak and claws.
On Friday evenings, locals gathered in the town square to play a variety of bingo, using image-filled cards. “El condor,” the announcer cried over the loudspeaker, and hundreds of brown faces leaned forward to find the raptor on their card and cover it with a kernel of corn. “La bruja,” and the game went on… Many evening a week, free concerts were offered near the seawall. Opening speeches were delivered in Spanish only…
The next valley was divided by an arroyo half a mile wide. A village clung to the side of the mountain. When the bus stopped, the driver announced a ten-minute break and hurried off ahead of the passengers. I followed him to a small open building. A woman stood at a counter ready to serve burritos or tamales. We were first in line.
The driver invited me to join him at the only table. He drove this route seven days a week. After this run to Cabo San Lucas, he would head back to La Paz. He was married, father of two boys, fourteen and five. Both kids had the same birthday. He wink-winked at the nine-year gap between births, adding that they’d both been conceived on the night of the three kings, his favourite holiday.
I told him how much I’d enjoyed La Paz and hoped to return next winter with my wife. No, we had no children. The two Americans came by to ask how much longer it would take to reach the airport. I translated for them. They had a two o’clock flight. The driver checked his watch and made a face that implied their connection was iffy. He gobbled the rest of his meal and herded everyone back on board.
We pulled away. The wide arroyo below us was criss-crossed with tire tracks. Did people drive along the dry river bottom? In fact, it wasn’t quite dry. A shallow brown river snaked down the middle. The road dropped to where the stump of a cement bridge remained. We detoured onto the sand and eased across the river, axle-deep water spraying off to the sides. In the distance, an all-terrain vehicle zipped over the smooth sand; at the controls sat a beer-bellied gringo. I growled my disapproval.
The climb out of this valley was less steep. Soon, we were barrelling down a flat stretch. A sign indicated Tropico de Cancer. As if conscious of the time crunch facing the Americans, the driver increased his speed. He passed many cars. But another mountain had to be breached and the bus was soon grinding through the gears. This time, when we crested, we could see a Gringo-style town spread along the shoreline. Windsurfers were skimming the surface of the bay. An armada of powerboats floated at anchor. Ostentatious houses with swimming pools lined the beach. The bus stopped in front of a store. A dozen Mexicans—probably domestics—got off.
After checking out Belize, Costa Rica, Honduras, a number of Pacific islands and both coasts of mainland Mexico, we had established a list of criteria for our ideal winter home. We wanted a seaside tropical city with hospitals and universities, one easily reached from Vancouver but not overwhelmed by tourists. The best until now had been Port Villa in Vanuatu; it satisfied all but the distance criterion. La Paz was the first perfect match. I wondered if Ros would agree.
The land flattened out. Traffic grew heavier, but the road widened into a freeway. The bus careened down the left lane, passing everything in sight. Our driver was making every effort to get us to the airport on time.
When the airport’s control tower came into view, the driver turned to me and announced that, to save us the twenty-minute walk, he would drive us to the terminal. Imagine a Seattle-to-Vancouver Greyhound Bus driver volunteering to pull off Highway 99 and deliver three tardy tourists to Vancouver airport, a similar distance off his route. As we cruised toward the terminal, I looked back. The Americans shook their heads in amazement. They’d have ten minutes to catch their flight.
I let the Yanks get off first. As they went by, one said he now knew how to get rid of his pesos. He proffered a handful of bills to the driver, who seemed abashed by the gesture. The gringos quickly disappeared inside the terminal. It was my turn. “Muchas gracias, mi amigo,” I said as I shook his hand. “Y buena suerta a usted y su familia.” “Momentito,” the man replied. He pulled out a business card and gestured for a pen. I dug mine out of my fanny pack and handed it to him. He wrote his e-mail address on the card. I promised to write and rushed into the modern airport building.
The two Americans were at the information booth. They sprinted off before I reached the same counter. “Skyservice,” I said. “Charter?” he asked. “Yes.” “Terminal Three. That way.” He pointed in the direction the Yanks had gone. With less than an hour before my departure, I, too, ran.
The only building large enough to be a terminal was a quarter-mile away. The Americans were a few hundred yards ahead. I tightened my pack’s hip belt and settled into a jog along the smooth sidewalk.
Once inside, I paused to catch my breath and scope the terminal. To my right, a hundred travellers were checking in with Delta. On my left a double line snaked along the main floor and up a zigzagging ramp that led to the security gate on the second floor. At least three hundred people! But first things first.
In the farthest corner, beyond the Delta counter, a tiny sign whispered Skyservice. There was no queue. Two uniformed workers were bent over computer terminals. I hurried over. A male employee greeted me with a smile and said I was the very last passenger to check in. As a result, the only seat left was in row 43, at the very back of the plane. I was too grateful to complain. I pointed to the long line-up at security. “There will be time,” the clerk said with a Platonic smile.
When I joined the queue, I recognized faces from my previous week’s flight. I took a deep breath. I’d made it. But what about the Americans? At that moment, I spotted them half-running behind a uniformed female. She led them up the ramp, past the queue, and straight to security. They saw me on the terrazzo floor below them and pumped their fists in triumph.
Thanks to Jose Hernandez Alvarez, our bus driver and my new e-mail pal, we all had a successful, albeit rushed, conclusion to our holiday.
¡Viva La Paz!






















LA PAZ
BAJA, MEXICO
(2004-05)

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

The French call love at first sight, “le coup de foudre.” Well, no love-lightning struck Ros when she first arrived in La Paz. It was nighttime and our taxi went directly from the bus terminal to our hotel. She didn’t see the malecon, its sandy beaches or the aquamarine waters of Bahia de La Paz.
We had booked a room for three nights; enough time, we hoped, to allow us to find a furnished apartment for two months. At the reception desk, the clerk could find no record of our reservation. We showed him a fax stating that room 201 was ours. Our guidebook described it as having “the only balcony with a view of the bay.” The clerk informed us that 201 was occupied, but other rooms were available.
“In fact,” he added, “201 is too noisy. It is over the café next door, where live music is played every evening.”
We were assigned the “quietest” room, with a window that opened onto an unlit inner courtyard. We soon bedded down and slept… until blasted awake by mattress-vibrating music. It was 11pm. A late-night disco across the yard was opening. We shut the windows and inserted earplugs. Even then, we could not escape the pounding bass. The music ended at 3am. I had hoped that Ros might have a better introduction to La Paz.
But, why not read her own impressions from an e-mail to friends back in Canada, written a few weeks after our arrival?

They call this the City of Peace. And, yes, it's tranquil (aside from the mariachi music at full volume and the honking caravans of winning soccer fans). We've moved into an apartment in the heart of the city—just a short roll downhill to the malecon, a wonderful seawall that encircles the harbour for miles.
Our furnished apartment is perfecto. Less than $300 a month, clean and safe, and an easy walk to everywhere central. Our neighbours are mostly Spanish speaking and long term. We have a balcony that gives sun in the morning, another that's sun-filled in the afternoon, and a patio from which you can see sunsets. True, it took us a couple of days to figure out the trick to get "hot" water—let it run forever. And you have to allow the toilet fifteen minutes between flushes.
La Paz does seem special for a city. There aren't a lot of gringos—not many tourists at all. Residents seem to be fairly wealthy. That means eating out is a bit pricy, but it also means there are few panhandlers and the streets and beaches are pristine. Folks here seem genuinely friendly toward tourists. My Spanish is getting a good workout since English isn't used much (or maybe people in La Paz just have an inordinate amount of patience for listening to tortured Spanish).
We took a bus to a beach that is beautifully undeveloped—a 30-minute trip for just $2.50. Few people go swimming in winter. The air temperature is about 20°C or so during the day, with a lovely cool breeze, great for hiking. This is cactus country, sunshiny and dry. The countryside is so open it's easy to pick our way between cactus stands without getting lost. I must admit my old knees took a beating as I made my way downhill, intent on not wiping out on loose pebbles. I went swimming, but even with my shortie wetsuit, the water was too cold for comfort. Still, I walk around town in shorts and T-shirts. The locals are bundled in jackets, long pants and their version of toques.
Nights here are cold, too. We have been wrapping ourselves in t-shirt, long pants, socks, nightcaps, and covering the bed with layers of whatever's available (like towels). But today we learned the Spanish word for blanket and were rewarded with a second manta from our apartment manager. I'm going shopping for men's flannel jammies today, so I'll be toasty tonight.
Our days haven't yet taken on a rhythm, but we have achieved an all-time high combined score in Scrabble. And as a couple we've survived the transition, a time that accentuates our differences (everything from the speed with which we cross streets to our method of going up and down supermarket aisles).
Yesterday we kayaked to El Mogote. It was tranquil paddling. We explored mangrove-lined deadends where the still water was broken only by flashes of little fish jumping. We picnicked and walked along an unending fine-sand beach. True, there were signs of coming development ("Future Dock" here, "Future Villas" there). And I do wish that, as the developer's sales rep zoomed off in a powerboat with a prospective American buyer couple aboard, that George hadn't shouted "Save the Mangroves." But, otherwise, all was calmness and delight.
News is everywhere, of course, even in La Paz. The first thing we saw when we arrived was a Greenpeace ship smackdab in the centre of the city's harbour. The environmentalists are campaigning to protect El Mogote from massive condo development. All those aging norteamericano gringos have made La Paz the number one destination for retirement.
In fact, we owe our luck in finding our apartment to Greenpeace. A grizzled eco-warrior and long-term resident who calls himself "Rainbow Hawk" gave us the address. That night, we went to a Greenpeace-sponsored public meeting. All in Spanish, so we didn't last long. But it was interesting to see the number of Mexicans supporting Greenpeace—seemed a sign of the city's pride in protecting its natural treasures. Rainbow Hawk, by the way, bristled when George told him Greenpeace had started in Vancouver. No way, he said, it was born in Oregon. Says he should know because he was on the Rainbow Warrior's maiden voyage.
There seems to be a lively cultural scene here. Saturday night we went to a concert to hear a Mexican torch singer backed by a skilled guitarist. We sat front-row centre in what turned out to be a tiny audience. A bit too close. She emoted so much I feared my shirt would get drenched with her tears. I didn't understand most of the lyrics (although "corazon" featured prominently) and her between-song patter was incomprehensible, but we clapped with everyone else. And no translation was needed when in one too-dramatic gesture she knocked over the microphone stand. It's weird and a wee bit frustrating to be in a place with so many mysteries. But most of the time it's fun, if challenging because of the lack of language, to be immersed in a different culture.
Mexicans take Christmas shopping pretty seriously. Side streets are closed and dedicated to booths with kids' toys, Santa hats, giftwrapped boxes and stuff, stuff, stuff. It does seem to be a culture where children are cherished, and that's got to be a good thing. But I am delighted to be free from Christmas preps. As an outsider (#1 Jewish, #2 foreigner) with a spouse who spells it Xmas, I'm spared.
George and I mostly entertain each other, except spaghetti-Wednesdays. That's when we join a crowd of Canadian and U.S. couples who are docked in La Paz harbour or living in here -- (first question is usually, "what's the name of your boat?"). There's a houseband at the restaurant that invites people to jam with them. Looks as if every cruiser in La Paz harbour comes to dinner. George brought his harps and joined right in the first week. I hung back (I'm contorted with mixed feelings about performing and would prefer to stick to closet playing). Well, when we returned the next week, George persuaded me to get up instead of him and, in fact, I did have a good time for my two-blues-songs moment of fame. We split one spaghetti dinner and two glasses of wine and met people we wouldn't necessarily choose as friends but who pack around interesting stories.
We're having fun exploring our neighbourhood. I discovered today that La Paz's biggest language school is three blocks from our home. I plan to indulge in some Spanish classes. I had a long chat (in English) with the Swiss owner, Marc, about how quickly La Paz is growing, and not in a way he likes. Seems there's lots of commercial development in the suburbs—Home Depot and other monster US stores are moving in. He thinks it will eventually destroy the solid middle-class downtown merchants. And new jobs, of course, will be minimum wage.
We also talked about the fact that there's no English-language newspaper in La Paz. I have this fantasy of enlisting the local university's English majors as reporters for a modest monthly paper—the audience would be gringo tourists and residents. And the students, of course, would improve their English.
I am smitten with the place and can't help but fantasize about starting a little English-language newspaper in La Paz. I suppose "Foreign Bodies" is too tacky a name, "La Paz Amigo" is too sucky, "Here in La Paz" too mundane. That's the beauty of fantasy. All is possible, with no consequences. Still it's a persistent daydream. There are more than 2,000 English-speaking residents (snowbirds and full-timers) and the only English publication is an anti-Mexican all-American real-estate moneymaker from Los Cabos.
Not this year, but maybe next…

RAINBOW HAWK

He calls himself Rainbow Hawk. He sits at an outdoor café on the Callejon de La Paz, a block-long pedestrian mall leading away from the water. Below a sweat-stained straw hat, his white hair cascades along either side of a fine-featured face and merges with a wispy beard. His cheeks are vein-thatched, his pale eyes watery. A Greenpeace T-shirt peeks from the unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt and fleece vest he wears against the winter northerlies. On his table, time-yellowed newspapers, pamphlets and assorted literature decry the uncontrolled development of pristine lands near La Paz.
Lying open at the table’s edge, a three-ring notebook displays ink drawings signed R. Hawk. Most are of animals: cougars, jaguars, crows and alligators. A few are of native women in traditional dress, reminiscent of Gauguin. One depicts an Escher-like hand holding a fine-tip pen, whose brand name is Hope. All are drawn in pointillist style. When asked if he counts Seurat as an influence, Rainbow brandishes a high-tech pen and replies with a nicotine-stained smile that Seurat could never have made such fine dots with his brushes.
Rainbow spends every day on the callejon, either at his table or talking with friends in one of the two cafés. After living in La Paz on and off for forty years, he has become an expatriate icon. Being so accessible, he has accumulated a motley coterie, mostly gringos, mostly males, mostly poor, all happy to pass the time of day with him.

The first morning in our La Paz apartment, I heard dogs snarling and yelping outside. I stepped out on the balcony to check the commotion. Rainbow Hawk was shuffling down the middle of Calle Juarez. He ignored his two dogs as they repulsed a black brute that had challenged them. I called down, “Can’t beat American dogs, eh?” He looked up, smiled, waved and continued his steady descent toward the bay.
Later, we stopped at his “desk” to thank him for the tip that had led to our rented apartment. He shrugged. I mentioned how that morning’s black dog had charged at us a few times.
“I threw rocks like the Mexicans do,” I added. “Until it backed off.” Rainbow shook his head. “That young dog’s had a tough life… been savaged by bigger dogs. For a while, he walked around with a deep gash in his belly. Another time, his jaw was so damaged that the bone stuck out from the flesh. Someone must have taken him to a vet. He’s better now, but he’s still traumatized. You might try befriending him. Give him a few kibbles now and then. I bet he won’t attack you any more.”
Every few days, on our way to the Internet café, we passed Rainbow’s table. He greeted us with a smile whenever we stopped to chat.
One time, Ros told him she was considering publishing a small newspaper. The only English-language publication was the Gringo Gazette, which focused on Los Cabos tourists, not La Paz residents. Rainbow suggested she talk to two women who had worked as La Paz correspondents to the Gringo Gazette. He said that the publisher had radically altered their copy and refused to give credit, even as simple as their names in the byline.
Instead, the Gringo Gazette invented silly pseudonyms: Patty O’dors (for a house-renovation story), Evan Sabove (about small plane traffic), Dee Lishous (restaurant review).
“Why is it printed in the United States?” I asked.
“First, it’s cheaper and more dependable,” Rainbow replied. “Second, the owner broke all kinds of Mexican laws, including stories that mocked the Mexican government. So, they declared her persona non grata. She can’t return to the Baja legally… though I hear she sneaks in once in a while.”
“What’s the gringo population in La Paz?” Ros asked.
“About 2000 in winter. With 200,000 native Paceños, it means gringos make up no more than 1% of the population. That’s why La Paz maintains its Mexican character.”
“What do you think of a newspaper aimed at English-speaking residents and visitors?”
“It’s been tried before. Twice in the past five years…”
Rainbow recounted the history. Ros took notes.

We talked of repaying Rainbow, perhaps with dinner, for helping us find our home and answering so many of our queries. His suggestion about feeding the mean dog had worked like a charm. The mutt no longer challenged us as we walked by. In fact, it now slept in front of our building and wagged its tail whenever we appeared.
One day, we found Rainbow alone at his open-air office.
“How’re you doing?” I asked as we sat down.
“Not so good. I’ve got a problem,” he whispered. We leaned forward to catch his faint voice. “A house just came available. The woman who’s renting it teaches at the Montessori school. But she’s quitting to rejoin her family in Vera Cruz. She’s leaving all her furniture. Imagine, a furnished three-bedroom house for $250 a month… But my roommate’s out of town for the holidays and I don’t have the cash for the deposit.” With shaky hands, he pulled a cigarette from the Camel cardboard packet on the table, broke off the filter and lit up. His tar-stained fingers ended in long nails sculpted into ellipses. “I have to come up with a month’s rent before someone else scoops it. I need to get out of my one-room hovel.”
We made a vague offer of help and left. As we walked, we discussed how we might best repay Rainbow. It was Christmas-time… Why not make him a present of $50 (US)?
We returned to the callejon. Ros handed him fifty dollars in cash, saying she hoped it would help. He thanked us in his quiet way.
To fill the silence that followed, I asked if presidential elections were being held. An electoral campaign was in full swing. Banners and posters hung all over town. Walls were painted with the names of candidates and their party’s logo. Most evenings, bands of supporters stopped traffic on the malecon to hand out T-shirts, windshield stickers or party flags. Meanwhile, cars with loudspeakers mounted on the roof roamed the city, blaring out partisan jingles and screechy spiels.
“I’ve seen signs for Presidente,” I said, “Has Fox’s mandate been shortened to four years?”
“No, this is a mid-term election for Senate, state governors and city mayors. In Mexico, mayors are also called presidentes.”
At that moment, a pistol-packing cop ran up. POLICIA was printed in white on the back of his snug-fitting black T-shirt. He was out of breath and in a hurry. He summoned Rainbow to follow him. Curious, we trailed the two men to the far end of the callejon. In the narrow one-way street, a gringa in her twenties stood next to a stopped car that blocked traffic. Rainbow hurried to her. The woman hugged him affectionately and, as they parted, handed him what appeared to be Mexican cash. We continued on our way, discussing whether Rainbow had any income other than the generosity of friends… and how a Vancouver cop would respond in a similar situation.

A few days later, we were basking in morning sunshine after our hour at the Internet café. Rainbow was not at his post. A big man in a black beret stopped to greet us. We had chatted with him a number of times at Rainbow’s table. Shlomo was from San Francisco but now lived in La Paz. He was doing research in philosophy and American politics.
Most of the gringos in Rainbow’s circle would be more comfortable in a pool hall than in a library. But Shlomo loved books, movies, ideas, theories, and impractical topics. Like so many of Rainbow’s friends, he had little money. For a few weeks, he’d been doing his Internet research on the guest computers at the upscale Seven Crowns Hotel. By his own admission, he had blown it by staying glued to one screen for four hours. After ascertaining that he wasn’t a guest, the manager had asked him to leave.
Shlomo was reporting newfound evidence of a Bush-administration conspiracy to assassinate President Chavez of Venezuela when Rainbow arrived with his dogs.
“Did you get the house?” Ros asked.
“Just moved in.” Rainbow smiled. His moist eyes twinkled. “Come visit anytime. I’m half a block from your apartment.”
Shlomo reached forward to pinch the sleeve of Rainbow’s grey and white sweater and said, “Nice threads. New?”
“A friend gave it to me,” the diminutive peacenik said. “Better still, he donated a laptop computer. I can finally do some proper writing. Good timing, too. I’ve been preparing another Concerned Citizens meeting to fight the development of El Mogote. I’ll have a position paper ready. This time, we’ll book a larger venue. I’m also applying for funding from environmental organizations. All I need now is a printer.”
As we were leaving, Rainbow murmured, “Things are looking up.”

CHUCK

“He looks like an escapee from the World Wrestling Federation,” I whispered to Ros as we stepped out onto Juarez Street, heading for the malecon. I was referring to a tough-looking hombre who had recently moved into a second-floor studio in our apartment building. He was standing at his balcony, which was enclosed in chain-link fence, like those cages from which extreme fighters have no possible escape. His head and face were as hairless as an egg. Even the eyebrows were missing. Bulky shoulders and a barrel chest stretched his black singlet. The balcony wall hid the lower part of his body, so I could see only the top of black sweats.
When I repeated to a long-time resident that the new gringo looked like a wrestler, she seemed aghast. I didn’t understand why, until later that day when I finally met the new guy. He was wearing black shorts. He walked with a cane. Omigod, both lower legs were missing! He lumbered from side to side on plastic prostheses, which he dressed in knee-high black socks and cross-training shoes. Recovering from the surprise and swallowing guilt from my earlier judgment, I introduced myself and welcomed him. He identified himself as Chuck. We didn’t talk much—he was on his way out.
The next time our paths crossed, Chuck was chaining a mountain bike to the guardrail at the bottom of the stairwell. Sweat beaded on his bald dome and darkened the back of his Hawaiian shirt. He had visited the segundos—second-hand stores on the edge of town—and bought an almost-new 21-speed bicycle for less than a hundred bucks.
“In fact, I rode it back home. A hairy experience.” His smile turned into a sneer. “Local drivers don’t give a fuck for cyclists.”
I wondered how he managed to ride…
From then on, Ros and I regularly saw Chuck on the malecon, his bike propped against the back of the bench where he sat, sipping a coffee and staring off to sea. One time, Ros asked him if he had met Rainbow Hawk, the colourful activist and a fixture on the Callejon de La Paz. Not only had Chuck met him, he had just given Rainbow a new Dell laptop computer.
“That’s some Christmas present,” I said.
“Well, Rainbow is doing good work and I wanted to help. Anyway, I had to get rid of that piece of shit. I couldn’t work with it any more.”
“Why not?”
“Couldn’t trust it. The fucker froze on me and I lost everything on the hard drive, including a novel I’d just finished. No backup. No hard copy. I was so pissed off; I just had to get rid of it. Crappy Dell hardware. Anyway, it’s no big deal; I’ve got a new IBM.”
“You’re a writer?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve only published a couple of short stories.”
“Got any we could read?”
“One’s at Rainbow’s house. His roommate’s reading it.”
“Well, when he’s done, bring it over. I’d love to read it.”
“Sure will.”

Two days later, we were settling into an evening of Scrabble, when someone knocked on our door. It was Chuck. He handed me a 20-pager bound in clear plastic. He refused my invitation to come in. Instead, he suggested that we go down to his apartment once we had finished reading. He wanted feedback.
The story was of two 18-year-old boys, fresh out of high school. They set out from Columbus, Ohio, to attend a music festival in Michigan. From the moment they hit the road, the boys ingest every drug they come across. In one scene, a small-town cop picks them up outside a bar. The stoned boys figure they’re busted. A search of their packs would reveal enough illegal drugs for long prison terms. But the cop merely informs them they’ll never catch a ride on this secondary road, and drives them to “the best hitchhiking spot” on the outskirts of town. The rock festival is described in vivid details, as is the mind-addling drug consumption, which culminates in “Orange Sunshine,” a type of LSD. The story ends with the writer’s acid-induced communion with Nature, and his decision to become a traveller. The final sentence announces, “The road is my home.”
Downstairs in Chuck’s apartment, we sat on a backless divan. Chuck fetched sugar and whipping cream from the fridge and let himself down on the only kitchen chair next to a small table. Coffee was perking. We both refused a cup. A cardboard tray next to the coffeemaker contained half a dozen vials of prescription drugs. Chuck must need a lot of medication to keep going. On the floor, propped against the wall, was an open bag of dog food. Ros noticed it first.
“Do you feed the black dog?” she asked.
“Yeah. Rainbow told me he’s been badly treated.”
She laughed. “That makes four of us in this building who feed it. Good old Rainbow.”
“So what did you think of my story?” Chuck tapped the plastic-covered pages on the table.
We had liked it; especially details of his journey, and the true-to-life characters, so young, so impetuous, so sixties.
“But how can I get it published?” he asked.
“Well. You end on a drug-induced revelation that determines the life course of the main character,” Ros said. “I can’t imagine many publishers wanting to print a story that advocates acid as a solution to life’s problems. Your story captures the excesses of youth but it doesn’t include a more mature perspective.”
“That came much later,” said Chuck as he stirred sugar and whipping cream into his coffee. “Brent—the guy I call Bud in my story—was my best friend for years. Nine months after the rock concert, I heard he was living on the streets of L.A., so I went looking for him. I found him the very first night I got to Venice Beach. Amazing!
“Later, we both got into religion and lived in a born-again-Christian house. After that, we shared a place in Florida. Then we moved to West Virginia. We were together for a long time. Then, we drifted apart. I hadn’t seen Brent for a few years. Last month I learned he’d died of an overdose.”
“Wow! Sorry to hear that,” I said, shaking my head. “You know, your story sounds like a novel, where the rock concert is a single chapter.”
“That’s the novel I lost when my hard drive crashed. God! I was so pissed off. All that work gone…"
“I know how you feel,” I said. “I lost a novel, too. Mind you, I had a hard copy. But I had to retype the whole thing. Actually, the second version turned out much better than the first.”
“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do. I need to add Brent’s death.”
“Yes, that’s important.”
“But it’s fuckin’ frustrating…”
After a brief silence, Ros asked, “Do you have other stories?”
“A few were published in a racing magazine. You see, I raced motorbikes and cars for a while. One story describes my apprenticeship with a top NASCAR driver. I was also a pro wrestler… I should go back to Columbus and get copies of those stories.”
I decided to ask. “So how did you lose your legs?”
“Booze.” He paused to light a cigarette. “Twenty years ago, before I took off on a trip through Mexico, Brent and some friends threw a going-away bash for me. I left that party drunk as a skunk. Good thing I was alone: I slammed my Chevy van into the back of a parked semi at forty miles an hour. My hands bent the steering wheel like it was putty. I suppose that prevented upper body injuries, but my legs were crushed. So far, I’ve had thirty operations. I lost my left leg a month after the accident and the other a year later. That’s why I want to publish the story of my life, to make it worth something…”
“What a morality tale,” I added to break the tense silence.
“Whatever. Right now, I need to make some dough. I hear lots of movies are being shot in Canada. I was thinking of going to Vancouver or Toronto. I can play a bad guy. Might as well make my scary looks pay. You know, my buddies and me were hulking bruisers in high school. We could have won college football scholarships. But we were too wasted on drugs.”
Ros and I glanced at each other and stood up as a couple.
“I want to tell you guys how much I appreciate your support. I’ve never had anyone to talk to about my writing. It’s great to get your ideas.”
As we left, we encouraged Chuck to keep writing. I offered him the advice I had received when writing my first novel, “Bash on, regardless.”

Rainbow Hawk, the recipient of Chuck’s accursed computer, had recently moved into a three-bedroom house half a block from our apartment building. Rather than sit all day at a table on the Callejon de La Paz, he now stayed home, working to build his Concerned Citizens’ Group into a major force for the ecological health of Southern Baja. Rainbow’s rag-tag coterie now trickled in and out of his rented home.
One morning, as I stood on my balcony, I saw Shlomo and Dan walking up the street toward Rainbow’s house. Ros and I had books for Shlomo, the only gringo intellectual we had met. With little money, he panned second-hand shops for literary gold, but found few nuggets. We had set aside a pile of pocketbooks for him: Michener’s The Source, Reading Lolita in Tehran, My Year of Meats, Elle and The Polished Hoe.
Dan, the man with Shlomo, was a Dutch-American world-drifter who had been surviving in La Paz for some years. He had been engaged to the daughter of the local police chief, but the family pressed the girl to find a man with a regular income. Dan was now living with a woman who operated a nail salon.
I greeted them from above. Dan looked up and said he had a special gift for me at Rainbow’s house: a PT cap to complete my collection. State elections were about to be held. The major political parties decorated every public surface with ads for their candidate. The Partido del Trabajo—Mexico’s Marxist party—was best organized, had the most volunteers and was a clear winner in the poster war. I had visited their headquarters and had scored two red shirts embroidered with bright-yellow PT logo (one for Ros), a plastic PT poster for my balcony and a beautifully bound book of socialist essays, all in Spanish. The first tract was by Carlos Marx.
I had worn the shirt and flown the banner until Rainbow explained that such behaviour would offend Mexicans. In fact, Mexico had passed a law banning foreigners from getting involved in their politics. Fair enough. I stashed my PT gear to wear back in Vancouver.
Now, Dan had managed to obtain a PT cap for me. I gathered the books intended for Shlomo and headed to Rainbow’s house.
Property lots in La Paz are very deep, so it’s common for two houses to be built on the same property. Rainbow’s new home was tucked behind one that abutted the street. To reach him, I had to walk down a driveway, slither between prickly bushes and a rusty pick-up truck with four flat tires to a tiled entry at his front door. There, Ricky and Bruja rushed up to sniff and lick friends, or threaten strangers. I was a friend.
The front door opened onto a long living room. At the far end, two tables had been placed end to end to create a room-wide desk for Rainbow. Papers were piled on either side of his computer and printer. Hunched over the keyboard, Rainbow hardly noticed my arrival. Ricky and Bruja returned to their spot at his feet.
Three men were sitting on stuffed armchairs at the near end of the room, Shlomo, Chuck and a longhaired twenty-something. Dan had already left. Chuck pushed himself up from his upholstered seat and swung a plastic patio chair to the middle of the room where he sat down, leaving the padded chair for me. From a side table, he picked up a ceramic bowl containing spiral seashells. He selected one whose pointy end had been broken off. From the bottom of the bowl, he took a pinch of marijuana and stuffed it into the opening in the shell where the animal used to come out. Sucking through the narrow end, he lit it.
“This is Guillermo,” Shlomo says pointing to the young man. “He’s a student at UABCS.”
I crossed the room to give Shlomo the books and shake Guillermo’s hand. On my return, Chuck handed me the smoking shell. I filled my lungs and passed it to the student.
“Reading Lolita in Tehran?” Shlomo questioned.
“It’s by a woman who taught Western Literature at a university in Tehran after the fall of the Shah. She’s now a prof at Georgetown in Washington, DC.”
“Hmmm,” Shlomo turned the book over in his hands. “Sounds like American propaganda.”
“Absolutely. It describes the Islamic revolution from the point of view of a westernized Iranian woman educated in Britain and America.”
“Why did the U.S. support the Shah for so long?” asked Guillermo.
“Because he allowed them to do whatever they wanted in the Middle East in return for money,” Shlomo explained. “It’s the same today with Egypt and Saudi Arabia.”
“What do you mean?”
“Egypt receives 1.8 billion dollars a year in so-called foreign aid from the States. Most of it is used to buy American weapons and instruments of repression. The Egyptian secret police is among the most vicious and coercive in the world. And yet we don’t hear about their human-rights violations because the U.S. government finds it handy to keep Mubarak in power. In exchange for all that foreign aid, he supports the existence of Israel. The regimes in Egypt and Saudi Arabia are just as corrupt and repressive as the Shah’s. Each has a wealthy western-educated elite and deplorably poor masses. No wonder fifteen of the nineteen Al Quaeda members involved in the 9/11 attacks were Saudis. The ruling family even allows the U.S. to keep a military base in their country. One of Osama bin Laden’s three demands after 9/11 was that Americans soldiers leave Islam’s holiest country.”
“Have you seen the movie called Osama?” the student asked. “It’s about a girl who pretends she’s a boy and joins the terrorists.”
We all shook our heads. The spiral shell circulated. The whitewashed plaster walls were decorated with conservation posters showing deserted palm-lined beaches and frolicking marine mammals.
“Where do you watch movies?” Shlomo asked Guillermo.
“At UABCS every Wednesday afternoon. They’re free.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there,” Shlomo said. “They project the movie from behind glass, so a lot of light is lost. The sound is even worse. I prefer to see my movies for two-and-a-half-pesos on Tuesdays at Soriana.”
A first-run Hollywood movie at the city’s modern new cinema cost less than 25 cents on Tuesdays!
“I think La Paz should hold a film festival,” Chuck said. “With all the empty theatres downtown, you could rent a bunch of venues real cheap.”
“No interest,” the student countered. “Last year, Mazatlan tried a film festival. Only twenty people showed up.”
“Depends on the choice of movies,” Chuck said. “These days, good Mexican movies are pouring out of Hollywood: Cuatro Gramos, Los Perritos, Motorcycle Diaries, Frieda…”
“Motorcycle Diaries is Argentinean,” the student corrected. “Anyway, I think you’d do better with a Clint Eastwood festival.”
“Or Arnold flicks,” Shlomo added with a grin. “Hasta la vista, baby!”
“I dunno,” Chuck mumbled. “A film festival could do well here.”
Rainbow, who was sitting with his back to us and who seemed unaware of our conversation, piped in, “Doesn’t Motorcycle Diaries tell the story of Che Guevara?”
“Yes,” the student answered. “But only about his trip around South America after his graduation. We never get to see him as a revolutionary.”
“What kind of motorcycle?” Chuck asked.
“I think it was a Norton.”
“British crap. I’ve got a Harley at home. I’m thinking of flying to Columbus and riding back on it.”
“You can ride a motorcycle?” Shlomo asked, wide-eyed.
“Well, I had to make a few adjustments. I removed the gearshift pedal and welded a rod that rises up to my thigh. It fits right here behind my left knee. I can move it back and forth. That’s how I shift gears. Another rod controls the foot brake. So yeah, I can ride fine.”
“What if the bike falls over?” Shlomo asked.
“Well, it weighs 1100 pounds—500 kilos for you, Guillermo—but I’m not lifting it, just tilting it back up. I wasn’t a pro wrestler for nothing.” Chuck laughed. “Anyway, you need the weight if you’re travelling long distances—better stability and smoother ride.”
“You’re amazing, Chuck,” I said, shaking my head.
“One advantage of my system is that nobody else can ride my Harley. My nephews are totally frustrated. They’d love to use it while I’m away, but they can’t operate the levers. Heheheh”
We continued to chat for a while. Then, I put on the Commie cap that Dan had left for me and headed home.

The next morning, Chuck knocked on our door. We had just cleared the breakfast dishes. I invited him in. We sat at the table, facing each other. Ros left to call her mother from the payphone outside the front door. Chuck lit up a spiral seashell.
“Mother Nature’s Prozac,” he whispered as he offered it to me.
I waved it off.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’m rewriting the short story to include Brent’s death. I wanted you to see it before you go.”
He handed me a sheet of paper with two printed paragraphs. The story now began with the news of his friend’s demise.
“Great idea. It makes me want to know what led to Bud’s death. The rock concert story can become chapter one of the novel.”
“That’s what I was hoping.” He took back the page. “By the way, I’ll be moving on soon. Up to Ensenada so I can be closer to the V. A. Hospital in San Diego for some surgery. As a Vietnam vet, I get free medical. Mind you, if I could get immigrant status here, all my medical and drug bills would be covered for only 200 bucks a year.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Man, socialism at work. What a difference from the States. My accident cost me a fortune, tens of thousands of dollars.”
“How long were you hospitalized?”
“Just a few weeks. Couldn’t afford to stay longer. For two years, my Mom had to nurse, feed, wash and dress me. She mothered me twice, first when I was a baby and then after my accident. I owe her so much. She’s 83 now and lives alone in Columbus. I’m thinking of bringing her down here. Maybe when I go back for my motorcycle.”
“You’ll bring her back on your Harley?” I asked, incredulous.
Chuck laughed. “Naw, she’s too old for that. I’d arrange for her to fly. But my finances are in bad shape. In fact, I wrote to Mom this week and asked her to send me 2000 dollars. And just this morning, I mailed her another letter that just said, ‘Really. Two thousand dollars! No joke.’”
We both laughed. Ros returned from her phone call and sat next to me. Chuck looked around and saw our wetsuits hanging on the wall.
“You guys are into snorkelling?” he asked.
“Love it,” Ros said. “In fact, we’re about to spend a week in Cabo Pulmo, the only hard-coral reef on the west coast of Mexico.”
“I want to get into snorkelling,” he said. “It’d be good exercise for me—buoyancy reduces the weight and that lessens the pain… I have a kind of garter belt that holds my plastic legs in place. I could adapt it to attach fins onto my stumps… But I hear jellyfish are a problem.”
“Definitely,” I said. “We snorkelled at Balandra Bay a few weeks ago and both got stung. The jellyfish around here are a type called String of Pearls, long and skinny with nodes at regular intervals. But their sting is more annoying than painful.”
Ros added, “A woman, whose shop is two blocks from here, makes Lycra skins to measure for thirty bucks. That’d protect you from jellyfish.”
“But a wetsuit also keeps you warm,” I said. “At this time of year, the waters around here are below 70° Fahrenheit.”
I recalled how Chuck had given a computer and a digital camera to Rainbow. One more random act of generosity seemed appropriate.
“When we get back from Cabo Pulmo, you can have this suit, if you want. It’s too loose on me.”
“Really?” Chuck blushed and his eyes moistened. He cleared his throat before adding, “It’d be perfect: long sleeves and short legs.”
I got up and removed it from its hanger. “Try it on,” I said and undid the zipper than ran down the front all the way to the bottom of the left leg.
Chuck pushed himself up and unstrapped the prosthesis from his right leg and stood it next to the chair. Maintaining his balance on the left leg, he slipped the suit over the stump. I helped him slide his arms into the sleeves. He managed to get his shoulders into the suit but could not zip it over his abundant belly.
“It’ll fit after my next surgery,” he said as he struggled out of it. “They’ll remove part of my stomach and small intestine. My brother had this done two years ago and he’s slimmed right down. At my current weight, I put too much pressure on my stumps, not to mention the stress on my heart. By next fall, this suit’ll fit me perfectly.”
“Good. You can have it once we get back from our trip.”
“Awesome! Thanks. You know, I’m so glad I met the two of you. You’ve been a great inspiration to me.”
“Happy to help,” I said.
“By the way,” Ros asked as Chuck re-attached his artificial leg. “Have you seen the black dog lately?”
“Not for a few days. Seems to have disappeared. Too bad, it was getting real mellow, though still a tad nervous with strangers.”
“Do you think it’s dead?”
“Naw, it was getting so sweet that someone probably adopted it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Bye, Chuck.”
“Bye, my friends,” Chuck said as he hobbled out the door.


CRUISERS

We met them at the ballet. In the two weeks since our arrival, Ros and I had seen innumerable posters for Ventana a Paraiso (Window on Paradise) by the Anna Pavlova Dance Company, surely the best advertised cultural event in La Paz. In spite of my working-class ignorance of ballet, I nevertheless recognized the name, Anna Pavlova. I even knew she was Russian. OK, so Pavlova is a dead giveaway. In fact, I thought she was dead.
Ros and I are “pre-punctual.” We must arrive at an event long before it starts. Perhaps we suffer from what the French call “une déformation professionelle.” As a teacher, I was conditioned for 38 years to report to my classroom before the bell. For Ros, success as a journalist meant making deadlines. Whatever the reasons, we both find it stressful to rush. Once there, we can relax, secure in the knowledge that no traffic jam, flat tire, or unforeseen calamity will prevent us from being on time. Often, we dine close to our destination. That’s what we did that evening.
Our Moon Baja guidebook recommended only one restaurant near the Teatro de la Ciudad, Super Pollo, a Mexican chain famous for its Sinaloa-style grilled chicken. Moon was reverent. We arrived at the restaurant at six, two hours before the ballet. The decor was typical of fast-food eateries anywhere: fluorescent lighting, moulded plastic tables and benches, and vivid thematic colours, which for Super Pollo were canary yellow and cardinal red. Assorted souvenirs were displayed on the end wall: T-shirt, baseball cap, coffee mug, insulating sleeve for beer and change apron like those worn by staff. Each bore the Super Pollo logo: a Tweetybird look-alike wearing a red cap. Ros, who adores bright colours, stood wistful before this eye-numbing wall, like a disabled kid facing the canes and crutches at l’Oratoire Saint Joseph.
Our meal ended shortly after seven. Before leaving, Ros bought a Super Pollo cap for her brother, the former U.S. vice-consul in Guadalajara, and a change apron for herself, planning to modify the pockets to hold a dozen harmonicas.
With an hour to kill, we strolled back to the theatre, bought our tickets, and chose a cement bench in a quiet area to read our books in fading light. The evening air was cool enough that we wore long-sleeve shirts.
“Are you here for the ballet?”
We looked up, surprised to hear English spoken. A gringo couple stood before us. Both were tanned and lean, almost gaunt, with long greying hair. They wore brand-name outdoor clothing: Columbia shirt, Ex-Officio shorts and Salomon sandals.
“Yes,” I replied. “And you?”
“Same,” the man said in a bass voice.
“From seeing the posters?” Ros asked.
The woman shook her head. “Saturday mornings, we’ve been going to the Gorilla Grill to practice our Spanish. Last week, we met a woman who teaches at the Pavlova ballet school. She invited us.”
“So, we’ll be watching kids dance?” I asked, disappointed that the Russians weren’t coming.
“I expect so,” the woman replied.
“Where are you folks from?” Ros asked.
The two people standing before us looked at each other and smiled.
“Hard to say,” the woman answered. “Colorado originally. Two years ago, we moved to Bellingham in Washington State, where we bought a thirty-four-foot twin-masted Chinese junk. Bellingham is between Seattle and Vancouver.”
“Yes, we know,” I said. “We’re from Vancouver.”
“Really? How did you get here?”
“We flew to Los Cabos and took a bus to La Paz.”
“We sailed,” the man announced.
“From Bellingham?”
“Look,” the woman cut in. “The line is moving. Let’s go in.”
The elegant Teatro de la Ciudad could seat a thousand people. The few hundred ballet fans ahead of us gathered in the lower section. We chose the first row of the empty balcony. The women took the middle seats.
“By the way, I’m Ros and this is George.”
“I’m Helen and this is Greg.”
“Where else have you folks sailed?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” Greg replied. “After we bought the boat, we toured the San Juan Islands for practice before committing to become cruisers.”
“Cruisers?”
“People who live on their boat and move from port to port whenever the urge strikes them.”
Below us, the small crowd was growing restive. Some began rhythmic clapping. I checked my watch: exactly 8pm, the scheduled time. One would be hard put to identify this group as Mexican. Everyone was well dressed. Many families were in attendance, as well as clutches of teenaged boys and girls, dressed like kids in L.A. or Toronto.
The clapping grew louder. Ear-piercing whistles and foot stomps were added. At last, the lights dimmed and the bedlam diminished. The curtains opened onto an unlit stage. Wisps of artificial fog drifted from the faintly lit wings. After ten seconds in total darkness, the crowd resumed its insistent clapping. Shouts were hurled at the emptiness. Then, a single spotlight was switched on, illuminating from above a twenty-foot-tall tower painted in Aztec motifs. Fog flowed about its base. The music began.
Six ballerinas, none older than eight years old, pranced onto the stage. Each wore a white taffeta tutu, feathery wristbands and a halo. Each girl held a stuffed doll that she transferred from hand to hand, supposedly in time with the music, but this proved impossibly difficult. Dolls were dropped. Beats were missed. The girls executed simple movements, more freestyle than ballet, rarely in unison.
The sweet angels tripped off to the wings and a new set of dancers, apparently the next age group, leapt onto the stage. Their black body stockings were decorated with flames, like those painted on souped-up cars. From each head sprouted two scarlet horns. Their left hands clutched arrow-tipped red tails. The little devils executed slightly more complex steps than the angels, but again, synchronization proved problematic.
Soon, the angels returned. After a few twirls, they lay their dolls on the floor and tiptoed back, the signal for the lurking devils to swoop in. Each grabbed a doll. The angels stomped their feet in uncoordinated dismay. One particularly wicked devil danced a solo, during which she wrapped a rope around one doll’s neck and held it up. We were about to witness a hanging!
By the grace of the choreographer, an older group appeared to chase away the devils and return the dolls to the grateful cherubs. By now, I was resigned to an hour or two of bad dancing. Well, the costumes were magnificent. To be fair, as each group grew older, the skill level improved. In fact, the last cohort could actually stand on their toes, perform pirouettes and partial split jumps, and stay in step.
At last, every group returned to the stage for the finale. So many video cameras were turned on that the hall’s back wall glowed blue. On stage, the dancers parted and the director of the ballet school appeared from behind the Aztec pyramid. Pointedly walking like a ballerina, she was greeted with a standing ovation.
We quickly left.

“So what was it like sailing around the Baja?” I asked as we strode four abreast down the middle of a deserted side street.
“Keeps you on your toes,” Greg replied, perhaps influenced by the ballet. “But we minimized our risks. When the forecast was for bad weather, we stayed at anchor in a sheltered bay. But under sail, we had to take turns keeping watch—two-hour shifts twenty-four-seven.”
“Mind you, we were in constant contact with our buddy boat,” Helen added. “It’d be suicide to sail fifty miles offshore with no help nearby. I got my biggest scare when we were rounding the southern tip of the peninsula, near Cabo San Lucas. It was about 3am on a moonless night. I was on watch. All of a sudden the lights of a monster ship came bearing down on us. I radioed our buddy boat, but the captain of the cruise ship overheard my call and assured me that he had seen us and would avoid us. For a few moments, my heart was pounding and I was near panic.”
It was only nine-thirty, but the streets were quiet. We walked briskly side-by-side in cool night air. By avoiding sidewalks, we also avoided mean dogs that lurked behind fences. A raging canine unexpectedly charging within arm’s length can trigger acute heart palpitations, even if the fence is secure. And what if a gate was left ajar?
As we neared our apartment, Ros showed the red apron she had bought from Super Pollo and explained how she planned to modify it for harmonicas. Greg said he’d always wanted to learn to play. He offered an exchange: a meal on their boat, Cat’s Paw, for a harp lesson. Sure, why not? We set the time and place. Greg would row us out. He advised us to come prepared to walk in knee-deep water. Oh, joy.

We were to meet Greg at the seawall’s most whimsical sculpture, that of an old barefoot sailor wearing shorts and a middy blouse. With hand to brow, he looked out to the sailboats anchored in the bay. A folded-paper boat encircled him at hip level.
Greg was sitting on a nearby bench, reading The DaVinci Code. He pointed to Pussyfoot, Cat’s Paw’s dinghy, saying he could row one person out at a time. Ros suggested I go first.
I followed Greg. My flip-flops slipped on algae-covered rocks. The water was cold enough to remind me of Québec lakes I had swum in as a kid. Greg rowed powerfully and we soon reached the sailboat. Designed as a Chinese junk, Cat’s Paw was brown-hulled with its foremast leaning forward at a rakish angle. Greg held the wooden dinghy against the hull. He warned me to not grab the metal rail that ran along the edge of the boat and provided the only handhold. Bottle of wine in one hand, I stepped up to a rope ladder no more than six inches wide, all the while rocking up and down in gentle swells. The rope buckled my flip-flops and dug painfully into my arches. My feet were cramping by the time I managed to scramble onto the deck. On all fours, like a kowtowing coolie, I greeted a waiting Helen.
Greg shoved off to fetch Ros. Helen led me through a Lilliputian doorway, down three vertical steps to the main living area. On my left, a breakfast nook; on the right, a pilot’s chair facing the wheel and a jumble of electronic equipment. The room was no more than six feet in any direction. Moments later, we stepped out to watch Ros slide prostrate onto the deck, flailing like a landed flounder. I helped her to her feet.
We toured the rest of the boat. In the bow, two narrow beds were separated by an aisle barely the width of a human thigh. A tiny bathroom was stuck off to one side. End of tour.
We returned to the “living room” and squeezed onto one of the benches. It was too short to accommodate my male shoulders and Ros’ female hips. I had to sling my arm over the back and twist sideways so that four cheeks could find support. How could two people live in such cramped quarters?
The harmonica lesson was a success. Both Helen and Greg had studied music as kids and easily took to the harp. Meanwhile, Ros and I managed to share our ideas without tripping over each other’s advice.
Since the boat had no refrigeration, Greg and Helen were by necessity vegetarians. We were served meatless burritos and a salad of iceberg lettuce with shaved carrots.
“Ever catch fish to eat?” I asked.
“Naw. Most are too big for one meal,” Greg explained. “And we don’t like to waste nature’s bounty. It’s all part of simplifying our lives. Anyway, beans and rice offer all eight amino acids that the body cannot manufacture.”
“Besides, we hate to kill fish, let alone clean them,” Helen added. “We gutted one on deck once and the smell lingered for a week.”
The blare of “RO–DY! RO–DY! RO–DY!” halted our conversation. The jingle for Rody, a candidate for mayor in the upcoming election, reverberated in the boat’s cabin. Cars with roof-mounted speakers drove around La Paz trumpeting recorded messages at maximum volume.
“Sound travels well over water,” I remarked.
“This is not the worst,” Helen said, shaking her head. “A disco pounds out music from eleven to three in the morning.”
“Yes, yes,” Ros replied. “My first night here, our hotel room was right next to that disco. I couldn’t believe the volume. And yet, no one complains. It’s as if Mexicans have a greater tolerance for noise than we do.”
We listed noises that irritated us but failed to raise a Mexican eyebrow. Street dogs barking all night. Car stereos cranked to wall-shaking volume. Exploding firecrackers. Mufflerless cars that rumbled by and left a wake of jabbering car alarms.
“That’s not all,” Ros said. “Day and night, people shout or blast car horns to call a friend from an apartment. Mind you, with no doorbells or intercoms, you have to make noise to get someone to open.”
“Do you guys hear the roosters?” Greg asked.
“No,” I said. “But on my way to market, I pass a yard crammed with hundreds of cages, each with a bird in it. Right in the middle of town.”
“Well, we hear them loud and clear,” Helen said. “If only they crowed at dawn, but they start at three-thirty.”
“Thank goodness for earplugs,” Ros said, “For me, noise has been the hardest cultural difference to accept.”
We all agreed.
With a new moon, tide was extra low. Throughout dinner, the keel scraped the sandy bottom and the boat lurched. As soon as dishes were cleared, Greg went on deck. He raised the anchor while, in the captain’s chair, Helen started the engine and powered out to deeper waters. In spite of prior planning, their communication broke down. Greg urgently yelled, “Turn this way! THIS WAY!” But in diminishing light Helen could not see his pointing finger and, in frustration, fired back, “Port or starboard?” I wondered how they’d behave under life-and-death conditions.
After the boat was repositioned, we sipped the last of the wine. Greg asked if we had read The DaVinci Code. I pointed to Ros. She had read it, not me. But we had both examined Internet pictures of the Last Supper—a Passover Seder, as Ros pointed out—to see if the image of John was really that of a woman.
To Greg, this fictionalized story revealed a sinister conspiracy by Catholic Church leaders to “kill the goddess” and keep women from power. Perhaps because of my science background, I am skeptical of unproven theories. I kept my objections to myself and let Greg rant about conspiracies. He switched willy-nilly from Catholics to multi-national corporations, even to Republicans, who had “stolen” the last two presidential elections.
We were rowed back to shore without mishap and walked the four blocks to our apartment with cold, wet feet, both agreeing that we’d never become cruisers, even if a sailboat were given to us.

Ros planned to visit the university to discuss her newspaper project, for which students in the English Department would write articles. Meanwhile, I was looking for a tripod for my camera. A number of settings on my digital wonder required more stability than my senior hands could provide. I had been told that I might find one—or anything else I wanted—at the segundos (second-hand stores) beyond the university.
Helen and Greg wanted to learn about peseros, mini-buses that transported people to every corner of La Paz for 5 pesos. Each pesero had its itinerary scrawled in white paint on the passenger-side windshield. Locals seem to know the variants, but newcomers like us found it impossible to decipher the idiosyncratic routes, especially when the words on the windshield were meaningless. For a new destination Ros and I would go to the market area, the hub of every pesero route, and ask a local where to catch that bus. Helen and Greg accompanied us that day.
We had almost circumnavigated the market area when I spotted a bus with UABCS on its back window. “See, there’s one,” I said. The bus was pulling away from the curb. We were on the far side of the street.
“Stop!” Greg shouted as he sprinted across the street, dodging cars. People turned to watch. The bus paused at the corner until a traffic cop waved it on. Greg reached it as the bus began a right turn. He pounded on the back, then, running alongside, banged his fist against the side. The driver ignored him and sped up. When Greg returned to where we were standing, he breathlessly muttered, “Asshole!” I suggested that pummeling the bus might be a tad aggressive, but he wasn’t listening.
The ride through town took more than half an hour. Our bus stopped to pick up passengers, mostly women and children. We reached the outskirts, where more businesses and fewer homes could be seen. Most of the passengers got off at the Soriana complex with its grocery and department store, restaurants, shops and a ten-screen cinema. On the giant notice board, I read a few of the American movies currently showing: Los Increibles, Super Engorda Me, El Hijo de Chucky.
“Isn’t that horrible?” he said, turning around to address us.
“What? Son of Chucky?” I asked with a smirk.
“No, all the people getting off. Look at all these big-boxes: Soriana, Office Depot and City Club.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “They’re killing the city centre. Small businesses can’t compete, except perhaps in customer service. But most people would rather come all the way here to save a few pesos.”
“They don’t save any money,” he said with surprising vigour. “These stores actually charge more. They make it seem that their prices are lower by advertising a few loss-leaders; otherwise everything costs more.”
“Hmm. I’m not so sure,” I replied. “With bulk purchasing power and vertical integration, I believe they actually do offer lower prices.”
“No, they don’t,” he said adamantly. “People are brainwashed into believing they’re saving money. And look at all the cars in that huge parking lot. No one calculates the cost of driving to and fro. It’s all a big lie.”
“Hmm…”
Our bus continued along divided Avenida Forjadores into new territory. We passed a variety of garages—brake and muffler, paint and trim, windshield replacement, collision repair. Every few blocks, young men with buckets and rags were washing cars. With a semi-desert climate and many unpaved streets, cars in La Paz grew dusty in a day.
Ros spotted a sign for the university and called to the driver, “Baja.” The bus pulled over. We paused on the dusty sidewalk to determine our course of action. Greg and I would check out the segundos while Ros visited the university’s English Department. Helen said she’d accompany Ros. Fine, but where to meet up after our explorations? We agreed to meet for lunch at one o’clock back at our apartment. That would allow us two hours to complete our separate tasks.
Greg asked Helen if he had “carte blanche” for purchases. Money was a source of tension between them, understandably so, given their lack of income. Helen asked how much cash he had. Two hundred pesos—a bit more than twenty Canadian dollars. She smiled and said, “You can’t get into much trouble with that.”
Greg and I left to find the segundos. It was now late morning and the temperature was rising. Far from the sea breeze, we were both sweating.
“Look at how chain-link fence encloses the whole campus,” Greg said as we walked along the edge of the dusty boulevard. “Everybody knows that revolutions start on university campuses. The people in power send intellectuals off to the town limits and fence them in so they can control them more easily.”
“Greg, Greg,” I sighed. “You’re seeing conspiracies everywhere. Our university campuses in Vancouver are also outside the city and separated from the general populace. That’s because no large tracts of land are available downtown.”
Greg shrugged. “Maybe.”
Six segundos stood along one side of Avenida Forjadores. In front of each were strewn bicycles, furniture, appliances, stacks of dishes and books. Inside, dinginess reigned. The low ceilings extended back forever over ill-lit tables displaying cutlery, glasses, dishes, dolls, stuffed toys, cooking utensils, electrical connectors and used cassette tapes—all dusty, all chaotic. More disparate junk lay in boxes under the tables.
Greg enjoyed browsing in second-hand stores. My shopping style was more goal-oriented: I looked for one item, preferably in one store, found it and bought it. We walked up and down narrow aisles among piles of eclectic junk, looking for a tripod. Actually, there was some order in this chaos. Small appliances were in one corner, furniture at the back, and so on. Finding no tripod, I suggested we move next door. He motioned for me to follow. Among old golf clubs and ten-gallon plastic containers lay one aluminum tripod that I hadn’t noticed. It was long and bulky and lacked the screw that connected to the camera.
“I wish I had brought my Olympus,” I muttered. “If I find a tripod I like, I’ll need to check if the screw fits.”
“They’re all the same size,” Greg explained. “I was a professional photographer before I became a cruiser. Anyway, this tripod is not for a camera, it’s for lights. But you could adapt it.”
“Naw. It wouldn’t fit in a daypack.”
By the sixth and last store, my eyes had glazed over and my hands grown grimy from handling cast-offs. I decided to shop for tripods in Vancouver. As I waited for Greg outside the entrance, I rubbed my fingertips against each other, rolling up tiny sausages of black grunge, like eraser tailings.
We arrived at the apartment before Ros and Helen. As we enjoyed a cold drink, Greg talked of his plans. They would sail across the Sea of Cortez to Puerto Vallarta, a 260-mile crossing. For the first time, they’d be hundreds of miles from land. But before weighing anchor, he needed to replace the pipes in the head, to alleviate a nasty smell that filled the cabin when windows were closed.
Yet another reason to never own a sailboat.

Later, when Ros and I were alone, she brought up Greg’s bus chase. “I felt uneasy with him yelling in English and punching the bus.”
“I don’t think he’s ever lived in a different culture,” I said. “When we walked into the first segundo, he asked the clerk in English for tripods. The guy smiled and said he didn’t understand. So Greg repeated his question more loudly. He needs to learn. It takes time. I made faux pas in every new culture I’ve lived in. But what I find tiresome are his conspiracy theories.”
“Helen’s more aware and sensitive. I really like her.”
“Me, too. Maybe we should only visit them as a couple.”
“If we get together again; they’re leaving soon.”
Like the tides, cruisers sail into one world, temporarily become part of it, only to cast off and navigate to new havens.

One morning on the malecón, Ros and I were boarding a bus to Bahia de Magdalena for a day of whale watching. I noticed a twin-masted boat with billowing square sails scudding out of the bay. Its foremast tilted forward, like Don Quixote’s lance. I dug my camera from my pack and ran across the street. There, at the water’s edge, with lens on full magnification, I snapped Cat’s Paw in full sail—a beautiful sight.
With the Sea of Cortez lapping at my feet, I stood in morning light imagining Helen and Greg’s surprise when they opened their e-mail and saw this action shot of the only home they owned.
The sound of the bus’ horn brought me back to the present.

I HAVE A FAVOUR TO ASK

A dusty black Ford Taurus was parked in front of the Rimay Apartments in La Paz, Baja California Sur. The blue-on-white licence plate offered a familiar invitation, “Yours to Discover.” Well, I had long ago discovered Ontario, having spent the first thirty-three years of my life there. What intrigued me now was the possibility that a fellow Canadian might be my new neighbour. The three-storey Rimay offered furnished apartments for rent. Ros and I had been in number 8 for three weeks, and planned to stay another two months.
When I reached the top floor, I noticed that, at the far end of the hallway, the door to number 11 was open. I walked over. Two men stood in the kitchen area, unpacking cardboard boxes. Their backs were to me.
The taller and older of the two wore a short-sleeve dress shirt, black Bermuda shorts and black socks in brown leather brogues—a businessman on holiday. The other was brown-skinned, lean as a whippet and dressed in a loose tank top, jeans and flip-flops.
In lieu of greeting, I belted out O Canada. I can’t resist needling Anglos, so after the bilingual title line, I sang the original French lyrics. The businessman introduced himself as Walter. His friend, Enrique, announced that he was going out to shop. He lovingly kissed Walter on the mouth and hurried off.
Walter sat down on a pillowed garden armchair set outside his door in the open-air hallway and motioned for me to sit facing him. He lit a cigarette. His hair was cut short, like a boy at First Communion. Watery blue eyes peered at me over bruise-coloured pouches. His long face reminded me of Peter O’Toole. I guessed him to be fifty years old. Walter said he suffered from sciatica. The long drive from Toronto had exacerbated his condition.
“I have some muscle relaxants,” I offered.
“No. My problem… isn’t muscular.” He spoke haltingly, as if searching for the right word, or the thread of conversation. A glass half full of a colourless liquid stood on a side table. “The discs between… my vertebrae are inflamed and that puts pressure on… the sciatic nerve… horribly painful.”
“I have a wonky back, so I know how debilitating that pain can be.”
“And discouraging, too.”
“For sure. So, how long do you plan to stay?”
“It depends on many… whether we can earn enough to survive.”
“You have a work permit?”
“Ah, no… In fact, I’ll be going to immigration tomorrow to get my resident visa. But the stupid thing has to be renewed each year.”
“Well,” I said as I stood up. “It’ll be good to have a fellow Canadian as neighbour.”
“Before you go, I have a favour to ask of you.” He paused to light another cigarette. “Can you suggest a good inexpensive restaurant nearby?”
“Sure, let’s see. If you like beef, the best place in La Paz is Rancho Viejo. It’s only three blocks from here, at the corner of Belisario Dominguez and Marquez de Leon.”
“How would I get there?”
“Well, if you’re walking, head south for two blocks and west for one.”
“And what is it called again?”
“Rancho Viejo.”
“What about good… Mexican fare?”
“Ah, for that you’ll want La Fonda. It’s in the other direction. Just walk up Madero to Bravo, turn right and go one more block. Can’t miss it.”
“La Concha?”
“No, La Fonda. Want me to write the names and directions down?”
“I think I have it now. Thanks.”
“Good luck with your visa,” I offered as I walked down the open hallway to my apartment.
I reported to Ros that our new Canadian neighbour seemed friendly and intelligent. I looked forward to more conversations with him. There is an automatic connection between compatriots in a foreign land, drawn together by shared culture and history. Only a fellow Canadian will understand references to the Grey Cup, the Gomery Commission, the Junos, the Geminis or the G-G’s. A stranger who might never be a friend in Canada can still provide a home-culture fix abroad.

The following afternoon, as Ros and I returned from shopping, Walter greeted me from his chair. I walked over.
“How’s the back?” I asked.
“Much better. I’m taking a combination of pain-killers and… anti-inflammatories.”
“Good. By the way, did you find a restaurant last night?”
“Yes. We went to Rancho Viejo. I must say I was mightily unimpressed. Terrible service. We waited forty minutes for our food. Mexicans who came after us were served first. The staff must hate gringos.”
“Didn’t you like the food?”
“It was OK but I felt… most unwelcome.”
“We always take out, so I had no idea about the table service. But I can’t imagine they hate gringos. The sailing community is their main clientèle. Most of the marinas are a few blocks from Rancho Viejo.”
“I like your T-shirt.”
“Eh?” It took me a moment to understand that we had changed topic.
I was wearing a bright-red shirt, a gift from the Partido de Trabajo, Mexico’s socialist party. On the front was printed Comprometidos de corazon librado, commitments of a free heart.
“I scored it at the local Communist Party headquarters.”
“Well, I was a fundraiser for the NDP,” Walter said. “Raised more than two million dollars during the last federal campaign.”
“Hmm, I used to support the NDP,” I replied. “But I don’t like their current leader, Jack Layton.”
“Really?” His eyes widened. “Jack’s a personal friend of mine. And, believe me, he’s a tireless worker… for the poor and the working class.”
“Yeah, I know his record as city councillor in Toronto, but his behaviour during the televised debates turned me off. He interrupted other speakers as if he’d been coached to monopolize the microphone in order to prevent them from having their say. In fact, Paul Martin accused him of doing just that. I thought Layton sounded like a yapping chihuahua.”
“It was all planned. His performance helped him in the polls.”
“The end never justifies the means,” I argued. “The NDP used to respect principles, not polls.”
“Maybe so, but at least Canada has a strong political left. We’re not limited to two major parties like the United States. In Canada, we get both wings and the breast, left, right and centre.”
“Takes more than three parts to make a chicken,” I shot back. “What of Le Bloc québécois, the Green Party, the Christian Heritage Party, Canadian Action, Libertarians, the Marijuana Party, even the Rhinoceros.”
“Yes, yes. But there are only three major parties.”
“What’s your definition of major?” I pressed. “The Bloc has fifty-four seats in the new Parliament.”
“But they have no candidates outside Quebec.”
“How about the Greens, then? They ran a candidate in every riding.”
“True, but they’re insignificant. There are only three traditional parties in Canada: Liberals, Conservatives and the NDP.”
“But the Bloc has more seats that the NDP!”
“Like I said, a party from a single province can’t be a national party.”
“I’m French-Canadian,” I blustered. “And you’re dismissing my people’s choice of politicians by claiming that the party that represents my culture doesn’t count, even though it holds more than twice as many seats as your beloved NDP.”
“I didn’t realize,” Walter mumbled. “You don’t have an accent.”
“That’s because I grew up in Ottawa and learned to speak like an Anglo to avoid being called a frog, a pea-souper or a Pepsi.”
“Still, it doesn’t change the fact that the Bloc exists only in Quebec.”
“You know, I think that what you’re talking about—three parties that cover the ideological spectrum, left, right and centre—is an ideal. That may be a good thing. But Canadian federal politics cannot be accounted for with only three parties. I agree that the American system would be better off if they had a leftist party to balance the Democrats and Republicans.”
“Glad you finally agree with me,” he said with a lopsided grin. “So I guess I can accept that my three-party state is more theoretical than actual.”
“Good,” I replied as I stood up.
At this point, Enrique came out of the apartment and invited me to look at his paintings. While he fetched his artwork, I went to tell Ros.
Enrique set his paintings on the cement floor of the outdoor patio. Each one had been spray-painted to create a moiré pattern in earthy Mexican colours, on which colourful shapes had been painted. Ros pointed to one: inside a pale rough-edged circle that seemed to rise from the brick-red background, stylized images of archeological artifacts had been drawn in a seemingly haphazard pattern.
“Oh, wow! See the face?” Ros exclaimed.
As I studied the design, a gust of wind lifted one of the paintings. Enrique quickly found objects to weigh down each work. He exuded a boyish energy that belied his age. At first glance he had appeared to be in his twenties, much younger than Walter, but close-up his brown face showed lines that required many decades to form. When each painting was anchored, he squatted on his haunches and explained how he planned to sell them. The manager of La Perla, a major department store, had agreed to exhibit his works. Each would sell for twenty dollars. Enrique spoke English fluently, but he graciously allowed us to practise our Spanish with him. He was from Guadalajara and had lived in Toronto with Walter for eight years.
Walter left his chair and joined us. Mug in hand, he hovered as we examined the paintings. He quizzed Ros about her journalism background. Enrique talked about his art. I struggled to follow both conversations. The two men were behaving like siblings who compete for attention. Walter won this round when he asked me yet again for directions to La Fonda. Ros announced that she needed to prepare dinner and left. I gave Walter the directions, helped Enrique gather his paintings and returned to our flat.
“Why would Walter engage us in conversation while Enrique was showing his paintings?” Ros asked from the kitchen counter.
“I don’t know, but he brings out my argumentative side.”
“I think he was quite drunk,” she said.
“It began when he bragged about raising two million dollars for the NDP. By the time that conversation ended, I was speedy and jangly, like I’d had too much coffee.”
“You’re like that, now.”

Walter took to sitting outside his door. Every time we went out he would hail us. He smoked compulsively, often lighting one cigarette while another smoldered in the ashtray. And he was never without a drink. But was it alcoholic? We couldn’t tell, although the purplish bags under his eyes, the shaky hands and slurred speech all hinted at an addiction problem.
One day at lunch, we heard shouts in the hallway. We recognized Walter’s tortured Spanish. On the frosted glass in our front door, the outline of two men lugging a rectangular container glided by, like shadow puppets. We opened the door and looked out. The old caretaker and a younger man were struggling to haul a refrigerator down the narrow stairs. Walter stood muttering in his doorway.
We were washing dishes when someone knocked at our door. It was Enrique. He seemed distraught.
“We went to a night club last night. While I was dancing, I stupidly left my leather jacket with my passport, money and keys on the back of my chair. Of course, someone stole it. ”
“Oh, no!” Ros and I exclaimed in unison.
“Not to worry,” the slight man said. “It was my Mexican passport. I can replace everything, except the key to the front door downstairs. We just had a fight with the owner, so I can’t ask for a copy. And Walter is in such a snit that he won’t talk to me. In fact, he won’t come downstairs to let me in. I wonder if I could borrow your outside-door key for ten minutes so I can get a new one made.”
This was a strange request. But Enrique was likeable and forthright. I retrieved the fob from my fanny pack, removed the key and handed it to the slender man.
“Oh, thank you,” he said, bowing in gratitude. “I can go out tonight and not have to sleep on the sidewalk.”
Enrique soon returned with my key, along with his paintings.
“To thank you for your help, I wish to give you one,” he said with a sparkling smile. “Please choose.”
We picked the red square with the stylized face composed of Aztec artifacts. Enrique signed the back: “To Jorge y Rosa, with all my respects and gratitude.”
“Can we buy it from you?” I offered.
“Absolutely not!”
“Well then, thank you. So, what was the fight with the owner about?”
Enrique shook his head. “When we moved in, the fridge wasn’t working. While it was getting fixed, the owner loaned us a bigger fridge from an empty two-bedroom suite on the second floor. Today, he brought back the original, but Walter wanted to keep the bigger one. They wound up in a shouting match. Of course, the owner won. That left Walter so upset that he won’t even talk to me. Maybe it’s his sore back… Anyway, I thank you for saving me from trouble.”
“Thank you for the lovely painting.”

That evening, Ros and I sat in the furthest corner of the patio, sipping wine and watching Old Sol disappear behind the Baja peninsular ridge. Sunset was our ritual, a time of peace, joy and intimacy. We had positioned our folding canvas chairs so that the patio’s brick barbecue blocked our view of Walter, who, as usual, sat outside his door. But he had spotted us and approached, glass in hand.
“I have a question for you, Ros,” he said. His free hand clutched the metal railing. “You’re teaching English, right?”
“No, Walter,” Ros replied. “I’m studying Spanish at CICC, just down the street. But they do offer English classes.”
“Oh, I see.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m looking for a job teaching English. Today, I went to the university but their bureaucracy is Kafkaesque. I was thinking that a private school might be saner. You might put in a good word for me.”
“Uh… I thought your visa didn’t allow you to work.”
“Don’t talk to me about my visa!” Walter growled. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been to the local immigration office three times already. I suffered through the entire process in Toronto and came down here with all the necessary documents. But do you think they’d just give me the FM3? No! They always find another hoop for me to jump through. Beware of menial Mexican bureaucrats.”
“I expect that any government will make similar demands,” I replied. “Five years ago, Ros took a job as assistant editor to the Garden Island newspaper in Kauai and I applied for residency in the States. That was before 9/11. Even back then, the process was impossibly complicated. I can’t imagine that a Mexican visa would be any harder to obtain.”
“At least Americans are logical.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Anyway,” Ros intervened. “I suggest you just go to the school and talk to the owner. His name is Marc. He’s usually there in the morning.”
The conversation had distracted us from sunset. Only a faint purple glow remained in the western sky. I checked my watch: 6:40. Well, it was deepest winter. In Vancouver at this time of year, darkness fell at 4pm. I stood up, folded my chair, picked up my empty glass of wine and announced it was my turn to cook.
Ros stayed outside for another ten minutes. When she re-entered our apartment, I congratulated her.
“You deftly deflected Walter’s request for a letter of reference.”
“How can I vouch for someone I’ve known less than a week?” She shook her head. “And guess what? He’s written a form he plans to distribute to Mexican businesses in La Paz, offering to improve their advertising. He asked me to translate it.”
“Into Spanish?”
“He doesn’t get it. He thinks I teach Spanish at the language school.”
“What a strange critter.”
“He told me he’s depressed because Enrique is leaving tomorrow morning, to return to his family in Guadalajara. When I asked how long Enrique will be away, he said he didn’t know, maybe forever.”
“Well, I can’t blame Enrique. But I expect it’ll be hard on Walter.”

After his partner’s departure, Walter seemed lonely and fragile. Feeling sorry for him, I found reasons to engage him. One morning, I brought him a copy of L’actualité, Québec’s equivalent of MacLean’s Magazine. He spoke some French, so I thought he might be able to read political stories from La belle province, in particular one that compared Québec’s current Liberal policies to those of its separatist predecessor. He seemed pleased.
An hour later, Walter appeared at our door.
“I have a favour to ask of you. I found two interesting articles but can’t quite decipher the French. Seems to me, the magazine must post English translations of its stories on its website.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “You can check it out online.”
“Computers baffle me. Next time you use the Internet, couldn’t you just print out the English versions?”
I felt trapped by his request. But I’d offered the magazine. I agreed.
The next morning on my return from the Internet café, I told Walter that L’Actualité’s articles were archived on a website named Eureka.
“It requires membership and charges for downloads,” I explained.
“Too bad,” he said. “Those articles seemed very interesting. So what’s with the camera?”
“I want to show you a photo from our hike yesterday. We took a public bus to the western outskirts of town and hiked through open land with giant cacti. On our way back, we passed through a new housing development. Here’s the picture Ros took.”
It showed a long deserted street lined with uninhabited houses, each painted a different pastel shade—a surreal image worthy of National Geographic.
“Nice. Can I see others?”
“Sure, just press on the left arrow.”
“Oh, I like this one; the two doves that form a whale’s tail. I saw it when we drove into town. And the old sailor in the paper boat. Could I have prints made of these?”
“Sure, I’ll lend you the back-up disk.”
“Oh… But I won’t know what to do.”
“Just take it to a photo lab.”
“Oh, I’d never manage to get what I wanted. Not in Spanish.”
“OK, then. I’ll look into it.”
As I returned to number 8, I berated myself for showing the photo. I should’ve known I was setting myself up for yet another request. Later, when Ros and I returned from shopping at the local market, a note had been slipped under our door.

Roz & George:
1. Thanks for the offer to access 6 to 12 of your photos. Technologically I have no clue as to how that happens—but I gather George does.
2. I’d like to offer you a day trip by car (Balandra, Tecolote and/or any place you suggest.)
3. Roz: Despite my “rentista” status here, I have a small project I would like to discuss with you.
Walter

Any trip with Walter at the wheel would be too risky. We exchanged mournful looks. We felt ensnared in Walter’s web. Whenever we heard his distinctive footsteps in the hall, we’d hold our breath and hope his lurching, arrhythmic clip-clops would not stop at our door.
Nevertheless, I persevered with Walter. In fact, I had a favour to ask of him. Ros and I had been attending a Wednesday open-stage at a local restaurant. We joined in with our harmonicas on different tunes. One member of the house band, a grizzled gringo with a voice like Willie Nelson, had asked me to accompany him on a few songs the following Wednesday. He had recorded them on cassette tape so I could practise on my own.
We had no cassette player. But Walter did. I borrowed his that Tuesday evening. Walter had spent the day in bed. His sciatica had flared up, but he perked up at the mention of my performance.

The next afternoon, when I returned his tape player, he asked what time we’d be playing.
“Six o’clock.”
“Yes, but what’s the real time?”
“Six. The music starts on time. And my songs are slated early.”
“Where is it again?”
I repeated the directions and finally wrote them down for him. I urged him to stay home, but he insisted he’d attend, claiming his back felt better.
Ros and I arrived at the restaurant shortly before six. The musicians were playing their opening song, a Jimmy Buffett sailing ditty. The restaurant was across the street from the Marina de La Paz and drew most of its clientèle from cruisers who had sailed down the Pacific coast of the Baja Peninsula and around Los Cabos to the Sea of Cortez. For landlubbers like Ros and me, the age of these international sailors had been a surprise: most were gray-haired. At sixty-five, I fit right in.
We found a free table and saved a seat for Walter. The remaining places were soon taken. My musical partner waved to signal it was our turn. We played two oldies, Unchained Melody and Bob Dylan’s I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight. Practice paid off; I got through both breaks without mistakes. We were warmly applauded. My partner gave me a thumb’s up. I returned to my table feeling good. Walter had yet to arrive.
We were sharing the Wednesday-night special, an enormous plate of spaghetti and meatballs, served with a full loaf of garlic bread, when he walked in. I told him he’d missed my performance, but Ros and I would jam with the band later. He examined the moulded plastic chair we had saved for him and shook his head. His back needed better support. He looked around and spotted a straight-back chair nearby. I stood to fetch it for him. But he waved me off and went to sit at the other table. Cruisers are a welcoming lot. They introduced themselves. The music resumed. His head bobbed to the beat. Between tunes, he chatted with his neighbours. I relaxed and enjoyed my meal.
As the evening progressed, first Ros, then I, joined the band to wail on some blues tunes. Walter loudly applauded our performances. We were both sitting out one song when he hobbled over to the musicians for a request.
Walter’s choice was The Eagles’ Hotel California. He caught my attention and pointed to the band. He wanted me to play! But the song was unsuited to harmonica and I’d never attempted it. I shook my head. He pointed to Ros. She quickly refused. With pleading hands, Walter again tried to persuade me to play. I was adamant.
At this point, he quaffed the remainder of his wine, pocketed his smokes and struggled to his feet. Without so much as a look in our direction, he lurched past us and out the door. Ros went after him, but soon returned.
“I called his name. I know he heard me. But he just kept on walking.”
“Aw, he’s pissed off that we didn’t jam to his request,” I replied. “Whatever. I’m glad he’s gone.”
The music ended at nine o’clock, also known as “cruiser midnight.” We walked home discussing our performances, and Walter’s behaviour. When we reached the third floor, I noticed that the hall was in darkness. Since our front door was at the head of the stairs, it didn’t affect us. I thought no more of it.

The next morning, after Ros had left for her Spanish class, there was a knock at our door. It was Susanna, the neighbour from number 10. We had never spoken. In fact, she rarely left the apartment that she and Tom had occupied for fourteen years. I had seen her walking slowly about the patio but she never looked up. I guessed her to be in her late forties, but her dyed-black hair might hide a few seasons. She asked to talk to me, in her home.
Her apartment was a copy of ours, albeit with the accumulated clutter of fourteen years. She carefully let herself down in an armchair then waved for me to sit facing her.
“Did you remove the light bulb from the hallway ceiling?” she asked.
Surprised by the question and her accusatory tone, it took me a moment to process.
“Uh, no. I noticed that the hallway was dark when we came in last night. But I had no idea the bulb was missing.”
“Then, it was Walter again. That bastard!” Her clenched fist hovered above the chair’s arm as if ready to pound it. She took a deep breath, relaxed the fingers and let the hand drop. “We’ve already told him I need that light at night. You see, fifteen months ago I was in a motorcycle accident, a real bad one. I’m learning to walk again. That’s why I never greet you on the patio. I have to focus on my steps to avoid falling. Anyway, I know that the hall light shines through your glass door at night and thought you might have wanted to get rid of it.”
“As a matter of fact, I did turn it off once when we moved in. But the Mexican engineer, who lived in number eleven before Walter, told me that it should be left on for safety.”
“Good for him,” Susannah said. “My rehab’s been real tough. I need to build my leg strength by walking up stairs but I can’t do that during the day. I’d be too ashamed to meet people and too afraid to fall. So I do my workout at five every morning. That’s why I need that light. I can’t just walk out in the dark, fumble to find the switch and risk tumbling down the stairs. I’ve been hurt enough.”
Her voice broke. She bent her head and wept silently. I waited. Poor woman. When I’d seen her on the patio, I had thought she might be mentally deficient, but this was clearly not the case. Finally, she sniffed twice and looked up.
“It scares me to think what would happen in an emergency, like a fire or an earthquake. I’d never be able to get out in the dark.”
“Well, I assure you I’ll never turn off the hallway light.”
“It’s not just a case of leaving the light on, this is the second time the bulb has been stolen. That fucker’s been fighting with the owner about everything. Stealing light bulbs is his twisted way of getting revenge. He puts everyone at risk by leaving the hall in total darkness. We told him that last time. But he doesn’t give a shit. He’s a drunken drama diva and a pain in the ass.”
“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open, and leave the light on.”
“Thank you.”

When Ros returned from Spanish class, I reported my conversation with Susannah. Ros recalled how Walter bad-mouthed the owner for being a money-grubbing thief. He also claimed that Teresa, the caretaker, spied for him when she cleaned our rooms. Ros and I considered her a fine person.
“He even mocks the Mexican woman in number one because she feeds friends at her patio table. He calls her ‘The lady who lunches.’”
“Sounds like we’re case-making,” Ros said.
“You’re right. I’m thoroughly pissed off with him. But maybe like Lao Tseu wrote, I need to look inside myself to fully understand my anger.”
“Seeing in Walter a part of yourself you dislike?”
“Yeah. I’ve always had a tendency to brag and show off. Maybe when he bragged of raising millions for the NDP, I got angry because it reminded me of my own pomposity.”
“I don’t think it’s so much about self-aggrandizement as a lack of sensitivity to others. To me, he’s a narcissist, totally self-centered.”
“Hmm…” I considered her comment. “You may be right. But what I find most frustrating are his constant demands for favours.”
Ros laughed and nodded. “So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”

Later, I mulled this conundrum while walking down Madero Street to the market. My first thought was to confront Walter about the theft of the light bulbs. But that incident was the microgramme that tipped the scales. Anyway, I doubted that confrontation would lead to positive results.
I could pretend that nothing untoward had happened and continue the neighbourliness I had shown him. But that wouldn’t feel right unless I cleared this up first. Yeah, and we’d wind up in another circular argument.
No, the best strategy was to stop engaging him, find reasons to remain at my end of the hallway. If he came to me for an explanation, I’d tell him that he brought up unsettling issues and I needed to keep my distance. After all, the problem was—
“¡Jorge!” The shout wrenched me back to the street. Skipping across the street with a grin on his face was Enrique! I didn’t know he had returned. He hugged me affectionately, and then explained.
“I came back last night. I had to. Walter supported me when I first arrived in Toronto. Now I must repay him when he is so needy. Besides, he called me so often in Guadalajara that if I hadn’t come back, he‘d have spent all his savings on long-distance calls.”
I told Enrique about the stolen light bulbs.
He smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”
Every living being, from amoeba to hominid, will move away from a negative stimulus. I decided to follow Nature and, like a simple organism, avoid unpleasant contact. For the rest of our time in La Paz, I distanced myself from Walter. I bought a cheap cassette deck so I wouldn’t have to borrow his. Whenever he greeted me, I waved and moved on. He had Enrique to his bidding. My life was happier and more peaceful without this fellow Canadian.



















LA PAZ
BAJA, MEXICO
(2005-06)

PANCHÓN

A pop song we hear every time we go to the air-conditioned Quinta Avenida Internet Café has become our mantra—Green Day’s latest hit, Wake Me Up When September Ends. Would that we could sleep through this September in La Paz. Ever since our arrival, daytime temperatures have not dropped below 100°F. And they have reached as high as 108! This might be bearable at a beachside resort, but we’re living in the heart of La Paz, next to the cathedral and the town plaza.
We are the only foreigners on the block, so neighbours—including the taxi drivers and cops at the corner—now recognize us and chat with us. One cabbie, who speaks reasonable English, seems to have taken us on as a project. His name is Francisco, but everyone calls him Panchón. His father is Pancho, and his son Panchito. He corrects our Spanish. We help him with English, which he uses Saturdays as a volunteer at the local museum.
Panchón is a big man, with barrel chest and massive shoulders. In his youth, he was a professional boxer. He shows us the scarred knuckles on his right fist and flattens his nose as if it were rubber. He was a cruiserweight, the same category as Mike Tyson. No, he never met him. In fact, Panchón never fought outside Mexico.
Now in his late forties, he has been driving hack so long that his twenty-year-old Ford station wagon bears the fleet’s number one painted on its side. Like all Mexican taxi drivers, he spends a great deal of time washing and polishing his moneymaker. Next to the cement bench, where cabbies play checkers while awaiting business, a trough with a faucet provides water for car cleaning. Cabs line up from the corner; first in line gets the next fare. When we ask Panchón to drive us across town, he must obtain permission from those ahead of him in the queue.
This evening, we chat with him in our mix of English and Spanish. From the corner opposite the taxi stand, the on-duty policeman joins us. I refer to Ros and me as a pareja, a couple. Panchón explains that this term can apply to any two people. It is more correct to say we are esposos, a married couple. In fact, the word in the feminine form, esposa, means wife; however, the plural, esposas, means handcuffs. The cop illustrates by pulling a pair from his belt.
When we head home, the lawman steps into the street, blows his whistle to stop an oncoming car, and waves us across.
I call out to Panchón, “Buenos sueños.” Good dreams.
He shakes his leonine head. “Better to say, Felices sueños, mi amigo.”

THE OLD WOMAN

There are few beggars in La Paz, fewer than in my hometown of Vancouver. But across the street from the town square, an old blind woman sits all day on the sidewalk. Her stringy hair hangs in a semblance of a pageboy, with raggedy bangs stuck to her forehead. Her eyelids remain shut over hollows. Her florid nose is bumpy, like a baby’s fist. Her mouth is sunken and long wispy whiskers sprout from her lantern jaw. Stains darken the front of her print dress. Her brown stockings sag into leather shoes so tattered that they barely qualify as slippers. A guitar, a tin cup and a display-window manikin surround her. The doll, the size of a five-year-old child, wears a ruffled dress. At times it stands next to her; other times it lies on a ratty pink blanket.
Since our apartment is a block away, Ros and I often walk past the old woman. When she hears our voices, she bangs her cup on the cement. We drop a peso or two. Her gnarled fingers quickly examine the coins. At times, she grumbles—it may not be enough. When the offering is satisfactory, she plays her guitar and sings. Her voice is haunting and people stop to listen.
The neighbourhood seems to accept her. When the air gets too hot or the cement too hard, she leaves her possessions unattended to stand inside a nearby air-conditioned store. When hungry, she shuffles to the corner taco stand, where she eats with the doll propped up in the chair facing her. People help her across the street. The same taxi takes her away every evening. The driver might be a relative...
One afternoon as we stroll by, I am singing to myself. She grunts angrily, removes a shoe and hurls it at me. It misses and lands in the gutter.
“No, no. Soy amigo,” I say in a comforting voice.
I pick up the shoe and place it in her hand. She murmurs something. Apology or criticism? I can’t tell. My singing must have upset her. After all, in the neighbourhood of Jardín Velazco, she is the street singer.
I add some coins to her cup and we walk on.

THE GREAT INTERSPECIES WAR

No apartment was available in La Paz’s Vista Hermosa. But Kety, the manager-owner, assured us that one would come vacant within a month. In the meantime, she offered us a suite above her grandmother’s house, next to the cathedral.
Kety explained that the people about to leave were less than dependable. They had failed to pay rent on time or clean the place. As a result, it would need thorough scrubbing and repainting before we could move in… the following Saturday.
Well, the family did not decamp on the appointed day, so our move was put off until Tuesday.
Tuesday came but the family stayed. Maybe Wednesday…
Finally, on Thursday, we were able to view the liberated suite. A painter, an electrician and two cleaning women were hard at work. The living room, dining room and kitchen shared a single long expanse that ended at sliding doors and a balcony above the back parking lot. We had wanted a front apartment for its water views. Still, from this top-floor perch, we faced treetops of various types, mostly palms and acacias. Dozens of birds chittered in the greenery. Furthermore, we were closer to the rooftop patio with its vista of the entire bay.
Back inside, archways at either end of the main room led to a hall with built-in closets and clothes drawers. Following Mexican tradition, there were no closets in either of the two bedrooms, just plain white walls, a bed and side tables.
“I’ll be able to dress without disturbing you,” my early-bird wife said.
Sliding glass doors in the main bedroom opened onto a second balcony. A cool breeze poured in. This was a wonderful suite. The only negative, as in all suites here, was the exiguous kitchen, with postage-stamp counter space, two-burner gas stove and no oven. But we could eat with that.
The next afternoon, we lugged our bags up five flights of terrazzo stairs. Potted plants decorated each landing. Above us, the cloudless sky grew larger as we ascended the open-air stairwell.
The cleaners were cleaning, the electrician connecting. Only the painter had finished. Sunlight poured through the sliding doors and danced on the immaculate white walls. We stored our bags in the bedroom and left to buy necessities. By the time we returned, all was in order and we could finally settle in.
The following morning after a breakfast facing the treetops, Ros scoured every surface in the kitchen and lined all cupboards with shelf paper—her way to make this nest her home. Meanwhile, I washed every dish, pan and utensil, then arranged the lot in the ultra-clean cupboards.
The drawer that held the cutlery was wobbly and sticky. Hoping to improve the tracking mechanism, I removed it and peered into the opening. To my surprise, three cockroaches as big as Ros’ thumbs scurried from the light. Our cleaning had not gone deep enough. Ros was dismayed.
Shopping list in pocket, we rode a local five-peso bus to a commercial centre on the edge of town, where we bought a variety of household items. We particularly wanted a sponge mop. So common north of the border, sponge mops could not be found in La Paz. Every corner shop and every hardware store in La Paz carried string or rag mops, but no sponge mops.
We returned home mopless, but armed ¬with a super-sized can of Baygon spray. Our strategy was simple. After emptying the three kitchen cupboards, I would spray the poison in each, and Ros would hunt down any escaping roach. I expected a few cowards to flee rather than stand their ground. The first cupboard was mounted high on the wall. I sprayed it thoroughly and then shut the doors tight. We waited, but nothing happened.
My next target was the cabinet with two drawers, where I had seen the cockroaches. I removed both drawers, pointed my weapon, held my breath and fired. The resulting tumult was of biblical proportions. Families of cockroaches, ranging in length from three inches to half an inch, decamped from behind the cabinet, jumped to the floor and scurried along the wall. Ros hopped from one side to the other, smashing the poison-addled beasts with her rubber sandal.
At first, she tapped with squeamish reticence, but that only wounded them. Some limped off, while other lay on their back, all six legs flailing as if pleading for mercy. In order to dispatch them humanely, a single hit rather than three or four taps was required. She resorted to mighty smashes, accompanied by guttural screams worthy of a female tennis pro. With the increased force of her blows, exoskeletons exploded, spewing dark wet circles of cockroach innards on the white tile.
Meanwhile, my old stickhandling skills asserted themselves. With a sweep of the broom, I knocked one cockroach after another from cupboard doors and walls, setting Ros up for easy slapshots. “And Potvin gets another assist!” I finally reinserted the two drawers and ran out the door, as desperate for a breath as an ascending free diver.
One last theatre of war remained: the space under the sink. Lungs refilled with fresh air, I marched to the front. Meanwhile, Ros was “mopping up,” dispatching survivors with any pretension to life. As I sprayed under the sink, a new enemy squadron poured out from a half-inch crack between cupboard and wall.
Ros returned to battle mode, her cries louder and more indignant. This was her territory, her home! A fundamentally peaceful woman who avoids confrontation and violence, she was now cast as the Butcher of La Paz. Conversation was limited to me breathlessly pointing out sneaky deserters. I emptied the rest of the can in the narrow crevice along the wall. A few more critters wobbled out, antennae raised in surrender, only to meet the fate of their comrades. The Butcher took no prisoners.
After a few mighty breaths in the hallway, I returned to the kitchen. Fifty or more cockroach carcasses lay on the killing floor, scattered in a rough circle no more than six feet across. Bent over, gory sandal in hand, Ros was whapping the last of the enemy, her grunts reduced to “Yecch.” Satisfied that no further suffering was likely, she looked up. Her face was florid and dripped sweat.
“The horror, the horror,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Would you rather share the kitchen with them?”
“Of course not! I thought I’d cleaned thoroughly. I had no idea…”
“Me, neither. I expected three or four.”
With our new straw broom, I swept roach remains into a tighter group.
“Wait!” she ordered as she hurried from the room.
She returned with her digital camera. I placed the broom within the frame to add perspective. Photo taken, we stood cheek to cheek, comparing the image to the real battlefield.
“I never experienced anything like this, ever,” she said. “I hope we never have to do this again. I hated it.”
“You were great. Few escaped your death-dealing sandal.”
“Ha. Ha.”
I scooped up the cadavers and sealed them in a plastic bag. Ros took them downstairs to the garbage and returned with the communal string mop. I had filled a bucket with water and a strong concentration of cleaning agent. I swished the stains. Once the floor was clean, we left the apartment for the rest of the day to allow the poisonous gases to dissipate.
The next morning, we once again washed shelves and drawers before refilling them with clean ware. The smell of poison clung to the cupboards. A few besotted roaches, possibly visiting relatives, straggled into view. They met their kin in the garbage bin.
By evening, we had added a new three-tiered shelf near the sink. Six bottles of Chilean wine rested on the bottom level. The entire kitchen gleamed, showing no signs of the recent slaughter. Ros snapped a picture. It was bathed in warm interior light and could have come from an issue of Better Mexican Homes and Gardens.
We finally had a clean nest… maybe.



The War Zone:
CRUCIFYING CRUZEROS
Or: An Old Man Grows Grumpy

Beyond the gated entry to the Marina de La Paz, the pavement widens to a parking lot surrounded by shops and facilities. One can arrange a scuba-diving expedition, do laundry, take a shower, buy boat parts, eat at a quayside restaurant, rent a slip from the marina manager, exchange books, post notices, even call any boat in Bahia de La Paz from a wall-mounted VHF radio. In other words, most boaters’ needs can be met without leaving the property. The Cruzero clubhouse is located within this complex.
The word Cruzero translates as Cruiser, the name adopted by those who sail the world and live on their boats. Mexicans extend the meaning to include cruise-ship passengers. But the clubhouse at the marina is intended for the small-craft variety of cruzeros. Its members tend to be English-speaking, white, upper-middle-class males in the final quarter of their lives. Many are accompanied by a woman. Few women sail in on their own.
Cruisers sail for days, even weeks, without going ashore. And their lives depend on each other at sea. Over long distances or dangerous stretches, many remain within hailing distance of “buddy” boats in case of emergencies. Once on land, they become highly social. They congregate at the same stores, restaurants and bars to freely share local information, travel stories and boat-maintenance advice.
The La Paz Cruiser Radio Network is used by everyone, from new arrivals to landlubbing expatriates. Every morning at eight, volunteers broadcast news and weather over the local VHF channel. The next half hour is dedicated to announcements, queries and suggestions. “Where can I get a blood test?” “The Sea of Cortez Writers’ Circle will meet Thursday; for details call Sea Breeze after the Net.” “How do I get a Mexican driver’s license?” There is no better way to keep abreast of gringo happenings in La Paz than through the cruisers’ morning show—at least, until Ros publishes her newspaper.
Every Wednesday evening, an Italian restaurant located across the street from the marina offers a spaghetti-and-meatball special, along with a music jam session. The house band consists of former cruisers now living “on the hard” in La Paz. Each week, one of them announces the gig over the Net. People are invited to bring their instruments or just sing along. Songs come mainly from the American fifties, sixties and seventies. It may take thirty years before Smells Like Teen Spirit is played here. The restaurant fills by 6pm, when the music begins. It empties by 9pm, Cruiser Midnight.
Each December, the marina hosts an auction to raise funds for poor Mexican families. The event is extensively advertised over the Net. Posters for the Subasta (auction) appear throughout downtown La Paz. A casuarina pine next to the waterfront tourist office is decorated every yuletide season. A plaque in Spanish and English explains that this is the poor children’s tree. In the days leading to Xmas, gifts appear around its base: dolls, balls, tricycles, all new, all in their original packages. On the eve of the holiday, the Chamber of Commerce buses poor families to the waterfront park. Kids get to choose from thousands of toys, until each has one. Then they get to pick another… Cruisers are caring, generous people.

Last week, Ros, and I went to the Marina de La Paz to check out the book exchange, and search for seahorses reputed to hang out near the main dock. Outside the unstaffed Cruzero shed, hung a noticeboard: boats and marine equipment for sale, offers of crewing from boatless travellers, apartments for rent in town, Spanish courses, and even pets for adoption. Inside, two walls were lined with books, most mildewed bestsellers by the likes of Stephen King, Mary Higgins Clark and Sidney Sheldon. Now and then, we’d unearth a literary gem like Toni Morrison’s Beloved or Wallace Stegner’s Crossing to Safety. A hand-printed sign said: “Take one, leave one.” True Canucks, we had brought a Margaret Atwood and a Mordecai Richler. We studied the shelves, each at our own pace.
Three gringos entered the shack. Each wore deck shoes, no socks, shorts and tank top. High-tech sunglasses rode over caps fringed by longish grey hair. Their male voices resounded in the tiny room. As one opened the mail locker, the other two intoned what sounded like a well-learned ritual. “Who could possibly want to write to you?” “Betchya he’s getting secret love letters.” “How much will he pay for our silence?” The target of the teasing responded in a whiny singsong, with variations on the theme of “Oh, I see. It’s pick on Jim day.” I took a deep breath and walked out.
An SUV with Oregon license plate and a Support Our Troops ribbon pulled up to the laundromat. A man stepped out lugging a bundle of laundry. He was interchangeable with the three I had left behind, except that, instead of a tank top, he sported a Hawaiian shirt.
I was puzzled. How could a cruiser have a car here? He couldn’t tow one like RVers do. Well, some cruisers leave their yachts to fly home for a reverse holiday. They might drive back down. Others move into La Paz, buy a car and relegate their boat to pleasure sailings. Still others, not wanting to struggle back up the Pacific, pay for a specialized container ship to transport their floating home to a northern port. The ship might bring cars down...
Ros joined me outside.
“No worthy titles today,” she said.
“Have you noticed how we’re dressed for winter, like Mexicans?” I asked. “And yet, every other gringo here is either in tank top or Hawaiian shirt.”
“Long sleeves, long pants, it doesn’t matter. We’ll always be identified as foreigners.”
“Doomed to be a visible minority.” I leaned closer and whispered, “But, please, please, never buy me a Hawaiian shirt.”
Ros’ chuckle was drowned out by shouts of “Turtle Dance! Turtle Dance!” A man stood at the VHF wall phone hailing a boat owner. Cruisers identify their boat, not themselves. We once stood perplexed in front of a grinning stranger who had just asked us, “Aren’t you Serendipity?” In fact, we have adapted. We call ourselves “Vista Hermosa,” the name of our La Paz apartment building.
As we crossed the parking lot, heading for the seahorses, a middle-aged Mexican woman in nondescript dress and cardigan came toward us. She carried a plastic pail loaded with cleaning agents. Her kerchiefed head was bent forward. As she came close, I greeted her with “Buenas tardes, señora.” The woman looked up, her eyes widened as they caught mine. She hesitated, then broke into a smile and returned a buenas tardes of her own. We walked on.
In The Labyrinth of Solitude, Nobel-prize-winner Octavio Paz wrote of once hearing a noise in the room next to his. He had asked loudly, “Who is in there?” A servant, who had recently come from her village to work for his family, answered: “No one, señor. I am.” The woman walking past us had seemed equally “transparent and phantasmal.”
“Did you see the smile she gave me?” I asked Ros. “I’d bet the loudmouths in the clubhouse would never even acknowledge her presence, unless they needed her to clean their mess.”
“You don’t know what the woman was really thinking—maybe her smile is a protective response, a mask she offers to all gringos.” she replied in her angel’s advocate role. “Besides, not all cruisers fit your ugly-American stereotype.”
“Nor are they all good,” I grumbled. “Every group has bad elements.”
We stepped onto the patio of The Dock Restaurant. Half a dozen gringos were sitting at outdoor tables. All conversations were in English. A Mexican waiter approached and asked in English whether we preferred inside or out. Neither, we were just heading to the nearest dock, the only one not locked or protected by razor wire. My sense of dislocation grew. I might have been in San Diego or Victoria.
“Look at these boats,” I said. “All lined up cheek by jowl. A marina is no more than an aquatic RV park.”
“Aw, come on. Cruisers have to know about navigation, tides, knots, how to use sails. Nautical charts are a lot harder to read than road maps.”
“Maybe. But members of both groups come or go as they please. They chat with buddies by special radio and steer their own fully equipped home down a road or a channel. The main difference I see between the two groups relates to social class. RVers are mainly blue-collar types, while the majority of cruisers are businessmen. That may explain why marinas don’t carry the stigma of trailer parks.”
“RVers don’t all stay in trailer parks.”
“No, and some boats anchor out in the bay.”
“Whatever,” Ros said.

My spirits rose when I spotted my first-ever seahorse, camouflaged in the shallows above algae-covered rocks. The incongruous animal was larger than I had expected, at least eight inches long. Its head looked like an elongated chess piece. We watched it for a long while. It hardly moved. How could it escape predators with only two tiny fins and a curlicued tail more prehensile than motile? Did it have predators? Maybe its flesh was poisonous. We had no idea. We’d search the Internet for seahorse facts.
As we returned to the parking lot, I said to Ros, “The only Mexicans we’ve seen are service providers. And we haven’t heard a single foreigner speak Spanish. May we never live in such a ghetto.”
“That’s not fair,” she replied. “Many are just passing through.”
“Maybe. But if we decide to live in La Paz, let’s integrate, learn to speak Spanish fluently, make Mexican friends and learn their ways. Sure, we’ll also have expatriate friends. Everyone needs a regular home-culture fix. But let’s never slide down the slope of convenience and isolate ourselves in a micro-culture.”
“I agree,” she said as we walked away from the marina. Then, with a smile, she turned to me, “Hawaiian shirts, bad cruisers, expatriate ghettos. I believe you’ve become a judgin’ curmudgeon.”
“At last!”

THE MYSTERY MACHINE

At first, I sat on a wrought-iron bench of a type common in public parks of Baja California Sur. Soon my aged butt grew sore and I switched to a molded plastic chair. We had spent the night at the Guluarte Motel in Todos Santos, just around the corner from the Hotel California of apocryphal Eagles’ fame. After breakfast, Ros went off to talk with the publishers of a local newspaper. I chose to remain behind and read under the motel’s palapa next to an empty swimming pool, fenced off by yellow plastic tape.
Two Mexican men appeared. The elder walked with a cane, as I did. An injury three months earlier had hobbled me. Since then, I had discovered an unspoken kinship with other users of walking aids. We acknowledged our joint difficulties whenever our paths crossed. The old man nodded as he eased himself onto the metal bench.
His cream-coloured caballero hat, bushy white eyebrows, droopy white moustache and chin stubble contrasted with his sun-burnished face. Using both hands, he lifted his right leg onto a stool, and massaged the calf with wooden rollers held in a frame. I returned to my reading. A wafting Pacific breeze kept us comfortable.
Ros came back from her meeting and informed me that she was going up to the room to shower and finish packing before the noon-hour checkout. She handed me that day’s copy of El Sudcaliforniano. I can read Spanish quite well, perhaps because my mother tongue is French. After a while, the younger of the two men stood up and walked over. He greeted me in Spanish. After a few standard questions, he asked why I used a cane. I explained that I had fallen down an unfinished stairwell while helping a friend build his house.
The man’s round face lit up. His wife was a therapist who specialized in trauma injuries like mine. She used no drugs, no surgery nor any invasive procedure. She helped people like the old man. I hadn’t noticed the old guy get up, but he was gone. The medicine man pointed to a ground-floor room. That old man, he said, had been unable to walk before beginning therapy a week ago. His wife’s simple healing method would surely benefit me.
“¿Necessita cuanto tiempo?”
“Veinte minutos, mas o menos.”
“¿Cuánto cuesta la terapia?”
“Cincuenta pesos.”
Well, Ros would be packing for another half hour and I had wasted five bucks on less. Why not try?
As we waited, the man told me that he and his wife were from Sinaloa State. They toured western Mexico treating injured people. He vaunted the virtues of her technique but never explained it. I didn’t have the Spanish words to describe my injury. The man hurried into the room and returned with a book of anatomy. I was thus able to point to the medial head of the quadriceps. Soon, the old man limped out, smiling broadly. It was my turn.
The room was much like ours: white cement walls, bed on built-in cement riser, TV on cement shelf and one non-cement stool. A slim strawberry-blonde woman in red blouse, white pedal pushers and backless spiked heels shook my hand and directed me to the stool. I sat. Her make-up failed to hide smallpox scars across her cheeks. In the centre of the bed lay a small black equipment bag, like the ones doctors used to carry when they made house calls.
I repeated the story of my accident, miming how, after freefalling ten feet in the dark, my right arm had hooked onto electrical wires strung between studs and spun me so that the inside of my left thigh had smashed into the stairs. After the fall, my upper leg had turned purple. Three months later, the now-atrophied muscles continued to cause me pain.
As her husband looked on, the woman palpated my quadriceps. I pointed to the three collision points. A depression remained in the muscle, where the middle stair had caused the worst damage. The woman nodded and reached into the mystery bag. I leaned forward to peek into the opening: a black metal box with knobs, like power supplies in science labs. She pulled out two cables. One ended in a two-inch-wide grey adapter, similar to those once used to connect computer printers. A row of copper electrodes protruded from its free end, like the teeth of a comb. The second wire was connected to a serrated brass blade about an inch long. The man reached into the bag and twisted a dial. I asked whether the treatment used electrical or magnetic pulses. Neither. What else could it be? My question was ignored.
Instead, the woman pulled down the back of my shorts. The two electrodes—at least that’s what I figured them to be—pressed into my lower back to the point of discomfort. But before the spot grew truly sore, the woman shifted one electrode, then the other, all the while maintaining them a few inches apart. I suggested that my back was not the problem. She countered that the trauma in my thigh and the subsequent limp had inevitably stressed the back muscles. I let her poke me without further argument. After each repositioning, she asked if I sensed a tingle or some heat. I felt little other than metal prodding into my flesh.
To be polite, I replied “Um poco.”
“Poquito,” she said, perhaps correcting my Spanish.
After five minutes, she moved to my thigh. I could now watch the sharp metal fold my skin inward. Whenever she shifted the instrument, it left a purple dent on my pale parchment-like skin. She continued to ask what I felt. I repeated, “Poquito.” The man reached into the black bag and adjusted the knobs. Still nothing. He handed his wife a spritzer bottle half-filled with orange-brown liquid. She sprayed my thigh, presumably to improve conductivity. Slowly, she worked her way downward.
When she reached the most severely damaged part, I finally felt a sudden tingle, like a low-level electrical current, and the area grew quite hot. I told her so. The man smiled enough to reveal two gold molars. The woman proudly claimed to have located the nucleus of my problem, precisely where I had earlier showed her. She hovered about this area a while, then continued her erratic journey down my leg. I experienced no other sharp sensations.
At last, the woman dropped her instruments onto the bed and lit a cigarette. She ordered me to stand, raise my left knee, rest my foot on the bed and bend forward to stretch the hip joint. It felt somewhat less stiff. Perhaps my wellbeing was relief from her poking. Both husband and wife seemed satisfied.
I paid them and walked out into late-morning sunshine. A wizened woman was sitting on the patio bench, aluminum walker by her side. The man helped her to stand and led her into the motel room.
I returned to my plastic chair. When Ros joined me, I related my experience.
“Did it help?” she asked.
“Hard to tell. It’s no worse than before. But I got to practice my Spanish and experience a mystery machine.”


CABO PULMO

Once upon a time, on the Sea of Cortez side of Baja California Sur, slept an isolated fishing village with one hundred human souls. Its bay harboured the only hard coral reef on the entire west coast of Mexico. This village was very old. Cabo meant cape in Spanish, but the word Pulmo predated the conquistadores.
Today, its population has tripled. A few hundred foreigners have moved in. Bahia Cabo Pulmo has been declared a national marine park. Motorized activities in the bay are restricted to local dive and fishing boats. Most foreign residents hope this will limit development. As yet, no wires connect the village to the rest of the peninsula. There are no land phones, no cellulars, nor any electricity other than that provided by solar panels and generators. Streets are packed sand, with speed bumps added in front of some properties to slow demon drivers.
Most gringo residents own two or three vehicles, keeping the “good” one for trips on the paved road that begins sixteen miles to the north. They wheel about the village in jalopies, on bicycles, motorcycles or all-terrain vehicles. One man in his sixties rides an ATV equipped with a metal frame, similar to roll bars. This cage is not for safety; it holds his long board when he drives south of the village, where he surfs year-round, with no crowds.
Many foreigners bought land for a few thousand bucks and, using local labour and materials, built their retirement homes. One such house is currently for sale at $485,000 U.S. Trickle-down economics seem to apply here. Reinhart’s cleaning woman, a Cabo Pulmo native in her twenties and mother of two, can afford braces for her teeth.
Reinhart has lived in Cabo Pulmo for seventeen years. The first house he built on his property stands two storeys high. At ground level, he installed a workshop. The upstairs living quarters are open design, with a view of the bay. Inside walls and beams are stained wood, unusual in this treeless semi-desert. Sunlight reflects off surfaces to create a warm golden glow. A verandah wraps around three sides.
I wrote the first draft of Old Friends at a patio table on the verandah of Reinhart’s first house. A pot of strong coffee stood among my notes and reference books. A pillow softened my plastic chair. Most days, a cool northerly chilled me, even though I was bundled in long sleeves, fleece vest and a toque.
Around 2pm, I would put away my papers and prepare lunch. The village's only grocery store is located in the front room of a Mexican house near the beach. Mexicans drive half an hour on the washboard road to La Ribera for their weekly shopping. Gringos prefer mega-stores like Costco in San Jose, two hours away. With no car, I ate what I could buy locally.
I had originally planned to hike or snorkle in the afternoons. Coral reefs extend from shore and host nurse sharks, manta rays, sea lions, galaxies of colourful reef fish, as well as pelagic predators of breathtaking size. But at this time of year, the water was usually too rough. Of my twenty-one days here, only three were calm enough for swimming. And in spite of wearing a full Lycra skin under my Farmer-John wetsuit, I’d come out of the chilly water with blue fingernails.
I tried long meditative walks. But my injured thigh grew sore and prevented further rambles. And so, I spent many afternoons lounging on the verandah in the striped shade of its bamboo roof. I read and pondered until the sun slid behind the peaks of Sierra de la Laguna.
Idleness can be an opportunity for self-knowledge, growth and healing, as long as one pays attention. After all, inertia is momentum without movement. Or as Pascal wrote, “The whole misfortune of men comes from a simple thing, and that is their inability to remain at rest...”
I missed Ros. But long-distance calls could only be made by satellite phone at Pepe’s. He had to start up a sun-faded red truck, drive it forward until its hood almost touched his trailer-office, shift to neutral, place a rock on the accelerator to keep the engine revving, get out, pull two starter cables from the trailer’s bike rack and clip them onto the truck battery. That provided the twelve volts needed to operate the satellite phone. Small wonder he charged $5 for three minutes.
Two restaurants were available for dinner. El Caballero offered Mexican food at economical prices. The other, Nancy’s, was located in the only stone building with the only fireplace in town. Owned and operated by an American woman in her seventies, it served nueva cocina, priced in American dollars. The Lonely Planet guide recommended Nancy’s as the best in all of Baja California Sur.
Except for special occasions, I ate at El Caballero. Three or four regulars hung out at the bar, watching soccer or Mexican soaps. I became known among the staff as El Señor. Oscár, the server, persuaded me to save pesos by buying a bottle of wine rather than paying by the glass. He stored it in the fridge. Each day, he brought me a full goblet from my private reserve.
Walking back in total darkness, I often stopped on the sandy road and turned off my flashlight. With little light pollution, the night sky was a spangled black dome. Orion, Gemini and brilliant Sirius in Canis Major were easily identified. But true stargazing requires time, charts and a good place to recline. Lounging on the beach proved uncomfortable; the bully wind blew sand in my face, and the fresh night coated all surfaces with sea dew. January is not a good month to visit Cabo Pulmo.
Most evenings I was in my casita by seven o’clock and in bed by eight. But I never fell asleep before eleven. As I lay in total darkness, I listened to the wind in the palm trees and the surf in the distance. Every few minutes, I would turn on the bedside lamp, prop myself on one elbow, scribble a thought on a folded sheet of paper, turn off the light, readjust my blankets against the cold, and resume my flight of mind.
The human brain is a fascinating organ, at least to us humans. I always isolate myself in a quiet natural setting to write first drafts. The ambient beauty draws my attention and unfetters my soul. As I lay alone in bed, my brain morphs into an antenna tuned to inner space. Ideas percolate from my subconscious about that day’s writing or the next. The joyful transcendence I experience in writing is addictive, but it costs little and hurts no one, not even me. In fact, I learn about myself. Obsessed with my writing, I reach a point where one part of me observes another part sail to the brink of my known inner world…
I talk to myself, or rather, to my selves. Each self speaks in a different voice, which allows for excellent solitary discussions. Each self has a different mind with its own views. If I can be of two minds, shouldn’t each mind be free to speak in its own voice? Usually my minds are in agreement and I’m of one mind. But not always. A stern voice may give me a piece of its mind and I’ll blurt out, “You must be out of your mind!” By the way, where do people go when they go out of their mind? Or no longer in their right mind? I may change my mind. Buddhists become mindless by being mindful. Mind you, I have half a mind to... aw, never mind.
Time to leave dreamy Cabo Pulmo and return to reality. I won’t mind.

INTERSTELLAR MAGIC

The word for retirement in Spanish is jubilación. Jubilation sums up the first six years of my freedom from the need to earn a living. Not that my job was a torment; in fact, I can hardly conceive of a “funner” way to make money than to teach science to young minds. But there were many mornings—more so as I grew older—when the alarm clock shattered my sleep and a mighty act of will was needed to pry me from my warm bed. Now, I awaken naturally and get up when I feel like it. Such jubilation!
Life has become a succession of seven-day weekends. Never again do I want to be as busy as when I taught school. I strive to reduce unnecessary stress to zero. Each page in the book of my life is kept as blank as possible until it turns up. Only then do I decide what feels good that day—activity or sloth—whatever. My goal is to live eternally in the present.
When I describe this simplified lifestyle, some people ask if I ever get bored. My pat reply is a quote from Baba Ram Dass, the former Richard Alpert, associate of Tim Leary at Harvard, and later disciple of the Buddha: “Boredom can be as interesting as anything else.”
If pressed for more, I describe my epiphany as a 38-year-old CUSO volunteer teaching at a village school in northern Nigeria. My best friend was an Ibo teacher, named Adams Samuel Adams. One evening, as we sat on six-inch-high stools in a mud-walled compound sipping calabashes of borokutu—fermented guinea corn—Adams talked about his father. The man had worked in a primary school for forty years, first as teacher, then principal. Now retired, Papa Adams spent every day sitting under a tree in front of his home. My first question had been typically Western.
“What does he do all day?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t he get bored?”
Adams frowned. “He has a comfortable chair. The mango tree provides shade. A breeze keeps him cool. Mamma brings him food and drink. He listens to the radio or reads the daily news, as well as any book that interests him. Friends passing by stop to chat. How could he be bored?”
That was my first inkling that doing nothing might be pleasurable. I continue to peel off the unquestioned reality imprinted by my culture, one that admonishes, “To live fully, you must always be active.” I prefer Albert Camus’ idea that “any activity is a waste of time inasmuch as we lose ourselves in it.” Simplify, simplify.
Ros and I have been in La Paz for six weeks. Each day is sunny and warm, essentially the same as all others. The next rains will come in ten months. All this to say that I find it hard to tell one day from the next.

As we wash up after dinner, I ask what she’d like to do this evening.
“I’m brain dead after four hours of Spanish lessons. I’d rather stay home, even if it is Friday night.”
Friday…
“Oh, damn! I forgot to send in my football picks!” I cry. “How about a quick trip to the Internet café?”
“You go,” is her terse reply. After all, she just said she was pooped.
“Naw. It’s not important. I’d rather spend the evening with you.”
Ros transfers the last item to the dish rack and leaves the room. I finish drying.
She returns hugging her Toshiba laptop, nicknamed Sheba, and heads out the front door. Curious, I follow. Rather than go downstairs, she ascends the Seven Steps to Heaven, our rooftop patio. As usual, it’s deserted.
Below, like a connect-the-dots puzzle, lights outline the checkerboard of city streets. Cars edge along the malecón, their horns celebrating a marriage or a soccer victory. In the harbour, sailboats wag lighted masts. The western horizon hints at amber. Orion hunts overhead. Our rooftop is a most comfortable place on a warm La Paz evening. Above the trees, we catch the slightest puff of air.
Ros sits on a plastic chair in the middle of the building-wide patio and waits for the computer on her lap to start up. The blue screen illuminates her face and shoulders, strangely darkening her deep tan. I watch from behind as she clicks on the wireless function.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“I’m curious. I wonder if we’re within range of a WiFi hub.”
A dialogue box appears: five possible connections, all weak. Only one rates two stars, from a maximum of four. Undaunted, Ros opens the web browser and selects the Vancouver Sun from her Favourites.
In the nighttime darkness of La Paz, thousands of miles from Vancouver, the Sun’s online front page appears in full colour: Teachers Escalating Strike. Friday, October 14, 2005. Today. Wow!
Like Gunsmoke’s Chester, I hobble downstairs as fast as my injured leg allows and retrieve my NFL pool sheets.
Back in Heaven, I log on to Westcoast Pools and this week’s selection page. It’s 9pm here, which means eight o’clock in Vancouver, well before the midnight deadline.
My picks disappear into the balmy night. Will this really work? It all seems like some kind of magic. How can a tiny laptop, without so much as a power cord, communicate with the world?
“Omigod!” I exclaim as an automated reply confirms that my picks have been received.
“We can watch the CBC News.” Ros says as she turns off her magic.
Back when I was a kid in Ottawa, radio provided the only live coverage of distant events. Every Saturday night, my family gathered around the radio in the kitchen. First, we’d kneel on the linoleum floor to recite the rosary with Paul-Émile Léger, Cardinal de Montréal. As soon as prayers ended, it was time for hockey. René Lecavalier did the play-by-play from the Forum.
I vividly remember the final game of the 1953 season. In the second period, Boston’s Leo Labine knocked Maurice Richard out cold with a vicious crosscheck to the face. But the Rocket returned to the ice in the third, still bleeding, to score a goal and lead the Habs to the Stanley Cup.
Fifty-two years later, from our perch above La Paz, I can watch a Canuck goal scored moments earlier by Markus Naslund, replayed in slow motion from three different angles.
Ros and I hold hands in cool darkness. A swollen moon rises from behind the ridge east of La Paz and glazes the palm leaves that shimmer below us. In our private heaven, all is jubilation.
And we have found our winter home.





















PRECIOUS
DARLINGS












TANZANIA
(1979)

FIT FOR A KING

“Then they began to climb and they were going to the East it seemed, and then it darkened and they were in a storm, the rain so thick it seemed like flying through a waterfall, and then they were out and Compie turned his head and grinned and pointed and there, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.”
Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1938)

The Ethiopian Airways plane from Addis Ababa to Dar es Salaam had barely crossed the equator when the pilot announced that we could observe Mount Kilimanjaro, 19,340 feet, from the right side of the plane. I unbuckled my safety belt and hurried across the aisle, as did most passengers sitting in the left-hand seats, so much so that I imagined the pilot struggling against the sudden weight shift. I leaned over a seatback and peered through a porthole partly blocked by a frizzy head. A gigantic white trapezoid surged through the quilt of clouds below to rise almost as high as our plane. Its snow-covered crater so immense it could hold a city. I smiled. In a few days, I’d be standing on its summit… I hoped.
Mount Kilimanjaro. The mountain of Hemingway. The highest peak on the African continent. In fact, it is the tallest free-standing mountain on Earth. It is also reputed to be the largest birthday present in history, from Queen Victoria to her German grandson, Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albert, who two years later would become Kaiser Wilhelm II. Old Vic is quoted as saying, “Wilhelm likes everything that is high and big. The British Empire already has Africa’s greatest falls and second highest peak so it is only fair that the German Empire get the highest peak.” Accordingly, in 1886, the border between British East Africa (now Kenya) and German East Africa (now Tanzania) was shifted about 200 miles northeast. Today, Kilima Njaro, “Mountain of Snow” in Kiswahili, is Tanzania’s best-known attraction.
After two years as a CUSO volunteer in Nigeria, I was leaving Africa. My last act on the primordial continent would be to climb the mountain of my dreams. However, I couldn’t afford posh hotels, European cuisine or private transport. My West African salary had been a few hundred naira a month, and I was heading home with no job prospects. Conquering Kili would have to be accomplished on the cheap.
The morning after landing in Dar, I rode a local bus to the northern edge of the capital. A few metres from the narrow strip of asphalt that was the country’s main highway, I leaned my backpack against a flat-top acacia and sat in mottled shade. When a car appeared, I sprang up, moved a few steps closer to the scalloped roadway and raised my thumb. I had just finished reading Tom Robbins’ latest novel, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, and wished I were as well endowed as Sissy, thumb-wise.
Hitchhiking turned out to be as chimerical as oversized appendages. The few private vehicles that passed didn’t even slow down to check me out. I was invisible, except to people walking by, many with water jars or firewood balanced on head. They unfailingly greeted me with dazzling smiles and Jambo!
The tropical sun burned its way across a cloudless sky. For lunch, I nibbled a greasy pastry stuffed with chunks of goat gristle, bought that morning at the bus terminal. From shuffling back and forth between shade and road’s edge, my hiking boots now blushed blood red with laterite dust.
My water bottle was almost empty, and my shadow as long as an El Greco figure. In the distance, stood compounds of round huts with conical roofs, but no hotels. I was facing a night by the side of the road. Would human or animal predators visit after dark? My unease grew. Before Sol disappeared, reason overcame optimism. I crossed the road and flagged down a local bus returning to the city.
At the main terminal, I bought the last ticket on the last bus for Moshi. The overnight express ride, with reserved seating, would have been quite comfortable had it not been for a blowout of the front left tire just as our bus passed a slow-moving lorry. Our driver valiantly battled the steering wheel, but the loaded bus inexorably veered across the asphalt, skidded along the opposite shoulder and squished to a stop in a mud-filled ditch. No one was hurt. People scrambled out of the severely inclined vehicle and milled about in the dark, some to ponder the situation, others to void their bladder.
Except for the glare of the bus’ headlights, our world was in darkness. No buildings, no traffic. Clearly, we were stuck here for the night. A mighty tow truck would be required to drag this wounded beast back onto the road. Rather than sleep on a slant with my head against the window and my knees compressed by the seat in front of me, I climbed onto the roof of the bus, where the baggage was tied down, and stretched out on jute bags filled with grains, like beanbag chairs. This way, I could also guard my backpack against nocturnal scavengers. The air was cool. No biting insects visited. I slept surprisingly well, once I grew accustomed to the night sounds.
At dawn, a replacement bus arrived and we resumed our journey with no further incident.
Like most African towns, Moshi was built around its market, a city block of stalls and tables offering fruits, veggies, meats, plastic containers and some hardware items. Corrugated tin provided shade. These roofs were held up by unskinned tree trunks. There was no refrigeration. Smells—sweet, sharp and septic—wafted about the area. Festering liquid oozed in open ditches.
I found a hotel nearby and rented a $3 room that opened onto a bare courtyard criss-crossed by clotheslines. From them hung colourful laundry that added a festive air. In fact, like many African hotels, this establishment catered to the sex trade. But sheets were clean, if tattered, and the bed comfortable, if lumpy. As the only white guest, I created a stir, until I persuaded the resident females that I was saving my energy to climb Kili, hankered only for sleep and had no extra money.
The next morning, after a breakfast of deep-fried dough and treacle-sweet coffee, I made my way to the YMCA. The age of buildings decreased as I moved away from the urban core. The Y was located in a modern western-style building near the edge of town. There, I learned that they offered only all-inclusive expeditions, with guide, porters and prepared meals, for about $200 (US)—very reasonable for a five-day trek, but beyond my budget. Anyway, I was determined to go up the mountain with as little assistance as possible, carrying everything I would need. The friendly young desk clerk informed me that food and equipment were available at the park gate. He added that I would save serious money by purchasing my groceries in town. We shook hands and I walked back to the town centre and located the cooperative grocery store.
Since its independence in 1961, Tanzania had had only one leader, Julius Nyerere, known affectionately as Mwalimu, or Teacher. Nyerere implemented a socialist economic program, which included ujamaa, the collectivization of the country's agricultural system. He believed that life should be structured around the extended family found in traditional Africa, before the arrival of white imperialists. To him, Africans had always been socialists and they needed only return to their traditional mode of life to recapture their former glory. For many reasons, ujamaa failed to boost the economy. The collectivization program was cancelled in 1976. Now, three years later, things had yet to improve.
The government grocery store was the size of a Seven-Eleven but its shelves were mostly bare. I managed to buy rice, unrefrigerated eggs, local bread and a gallon jug of drinking water, as well as tins of sardines, instant coffee and baked beans, all products of Tanzania. This limited fare would have to sustain me for five days and four nights. I spent the rest of the day exploring Moshi and reading in the shade of a flame tree near my hotel.
Early the following morning, I joined a dozen locals in the back of a ramshackle lorry cum bus, which plied the route between market and mountainside villages. A bumpy hour later, I emerged from under the canvas tarp and waved goodbye to my fellow travellers, a friendly group. A black finger pointed to a sign: Park entrance, 3 kms. I swung my pack onto my shoulders, its weight a belated reminder that I should have stored books and extra clothes at the hotel. The narrow pavement zigzagged upward past well-maintained African houses and lush tropical vegetation: bright flowers, fruit trees, coffee and sisal plantations. The air was cool and fragrant, the walk comfortable.
A barefoot boy, wearing the white shirt and navy shorts of a primary student, shyly approached. He proffered a glorious bouquet of purple and yellow flowers. He smiled when I thanked him in Kiswahili. The unsolicited gift made me feel welcome. The boy fell into step with me. His giggling school chums followed a safe distance behind. We walked in silence for fifty metres. Suddenly, he stopped, stretched out a pink palm and said in excellent English: “Give me one shilling!” I was obviously not the first bwana to pass through this pretty mountain village. I gave him back his bouquet. I would refuse many more during my ninety-minute uphill walk.
When I reached the alpine-style buildings at the park entrance, I removed my pack, sat in the shade, lit a cigarette and rested. My shoulders ached and my legs felt rubbery. I questioned the wisdom of undertaking such a climb after two years of little physical activity other than riding my 250cc Honda motorcycle along Nigeria’s Sahel plain. But one cannot quit before beginning. Ten minutes later, I felt stronger.
Kili is a walk, not a climb. No mountaineering equipment is needed, only warm clothes, a good sleeping bag and the compulsory guide. In the equipment shack, three other Whites were renting gear. I walked over. Pieter, a Dutch volunteer in Tanzania, was travelling alone. A young English couple, Susan and Michael, had come to East Africa with the express purpose of climbing Kili. Since we’d all be climbing at the same daily rate, we agreed to share the cost of one guide.
By noon, we were on the trail. Our stocky Tanzanian guide wore mountain clothes donated by previous hikers, all except for his footwear—knee-high rubber boots. Our destination was a hut at the 10,000-foot level, only 3,000 feet above the park entrance. The path was well trodden and easy to follow. But it grew muddy after we entered a rainforest redolent of wet earth. An hour into the hike, my endorphins kicked in and I felt euphoric. A dreamy mist enveloped us. We slogged uphill for another three hours of easy walking in gentle rain. My biggest problem was condensation inside my plastic rain cape.
Eventually, we reached a clearing with three wood buildings. Pieter and I waited under an eave for the others to catch up. The young Brits were dawdlers, stopping every few yards to examine this flower or that beetle. I suspected they did this to gain rest time: both were pudgy.
When they finally appeared with our guide, we all entered the largest hut. Gathered around a wood stove were six men: two Swiss, two German and two Japanese, the latter pair dressed like high-tech mountaineers. We hung our gear to dry by the fire and joined the earlier arrivals. The ten of us would move up the mountain at the same rate—3,000 feet per day—necessary for altitude acclimatization. The slower the ascent, the less the risk of mountain sickness, a deadly condition where the lungs, and sometimes the brain cavity, slowly fill with fluid.
Two picnic tables with built-in benches took up most of the dimly lit room. One was covered with a tablecloth and place settings for six. The other would be ours. The Select Six were served a steaming meal of western food prepared by their porters in a nearby hut. The young Brits were actually on their honeymoon and chose to eat tête-à-tête at one end of our table, whispering sweet somethings in each other’s ears. My Dutch companion, Pieter, and I shared our food and cooked on his Primus stove. We ate our bland concoctions with saintly pride as we compared volunteer postings.
When the feast at the next table was finished, the porters removed the dishes. We followed them to the cookhouse and quickly washed our plates in their warm soapy water. The guides and porters all knew each other well. As a result, the atmosphere in the cookhouse was more festive than in the guest hut, more so after I passed around my pack of Nigerian cigarettes.
Although my shoulders were sore, the first day had presented no problem. Pieter and I spent the evening playing chess by the fire before climbing a ladder to the loft. We slept on wood-frame beds with foam mattresses. Very comfortable. Except that it grew cold after the downstairs fire died. Good thing I’d rented long johns, in spite of their mildewed smell.
The next morning, after a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and already stale bread, we left the clearing in bright sunshine and re-entered the damp, gloomy rainforest. The Select Six had left before us, perhaps because of their porters’ efficiency. The walk was much like the previous day: muddy trail peppered with slippery rocks. Streams cascaded down the path. The forest enclosed us, allowing no view of the mountaintop. However, filigreed Spanish moss, exotic birds and bright flowers decorated the sylvan gloom.
The last hour led us across marshy meadows to a much larger group of huts at thirteen thousand feet. No more would we be subjected to rain or forest shade. Clouds floated below us. We stood in full sunshine. The odour of dry grasses replaced that of wet earth. Above, blue sky and a rocky treeless slope. The trapezoidal summit I had seen from the plane remained hidden, blocked by a bluff.
Inside the hut, flames danced in a circular fireplace. This camp was also a stopover for descending trekkers. They would return to the gate the next day. My excitement rose as I listened to tales told around the fire of that morning’s assault of the summit. Those who had succeeded offered advice and assured us that the two remaining stages were no more rigorous than the first two. The only hassle was mountain sickness.
An American currently working in Tehran told me he had climbed all of Iran’s major peaks. I didn’t know Iran had high mountains, but sure enough, I learned that Mount Damavand is only a few hundred metres lower than Kili. His advice to me was to use what he called “the lockstep.” For every stride, I should straighten my leg, lock the knee, take four full breaths and rest a moment. This technique would force me to slow down and ensure proper blood flow to thigh muscles, the biggest in the human body and its greatest energy consumer… I went to bed at 9pm, so excited that I couldn’t sleep. At 13,000 feet, the rarefied air added to my light-headed jitters.
The morning mist below us contrasted with the sun-filled day ahead. It was disorienting to look down at clouds while standing on land. We set off through alpine meadows sprinkled with pretty flowers and rocky outcrops. A sense of vastness replaced the closed-in feeling of the previous two days. After three hours of easy walking, we reached a broad sandy saddle between two peaks.
At last, on my left, loomed the snow-covered tipless cone of Kibo Peak. I wanted to run all the way to the last camp at the base of the glacier. But we were now at 16,000 feet. A snail’s pace was necessary to prevent anoxia. The air was so thin—its oxygen molecules so far apart—that it was impossible to hyperventilate. Pieter and I walked side by side on the near-level terrain, our objective a dark dot below the white spinnaker directly ahead. Walking along the saddle, we could see rectangular fields through openings in the cloud cover below, as if from a plane.
The grandiose views so exhilarated us that the remaining two-hour hike turned into a laughing, heavy-breathing stroll. We reached Kibo hut by mid-afternoon. Since there were no trees at this altitude, no firewood was available. Inside, the stone walls glistened with frost, even in daytime.
I sat alone in warm sunshine and studied the mountain. The well-worn path switchbacked, first through shale, then snow, like laces running up a giant white-spatted boot. Our guide finally appeared with the newlyweds. He told us to eat dinner as soon as possible and then go to bed. He’d wake us at midnight to begin the final ascent. The plan was to summit at sunrise and return to this hut for breakfast. We’d then walk down to the midpoint, where that evening we might have stories to tell trekkers on their way up.
In the windowless unheated bedroom, I failed yet again to find sleep. The bitter cold, the rarefied air, the excitement at being so close to the summit, the attendant fear of failure, all accelerated my mind beyond my control. Besides, it was only 5pm. I tried to relax by focusing on my breathing, to no avail. With every stride up the mountain, my determination had increased, and now, a few thousand steps from the summit, I could do nothing but imagine unknown experiences that awaited me after midnight.
Frigid air seeped in through the seams of my sleeping bag and chilled me to the core. And yet I was layered in long johns, heavy sweater, jeans, wool socks, wool hat and even a rented down jacket. I heard muffled voices in the dining room and raised my head to listen with both ears. The Swiss men were suffering from mountain sickness. Their guide was ordering them to return immediately to the 13,000-foot camp. These very fit young lads from the Alps had succumbed to the altitude, even though porters lugged all their food and gear. Here I was, a forty-year-old smoker, not particularly fit, who, except for a massive case of insomnia, was feeling surprisingly well. I eventually drifted into a frosty fitful dream-state.
The guide jarred me back to the icy room with a robust thump on the door. Groggy and shivering, yet already dressed, I followed him down the dark stairs. As had occurred at every stage, the Select Six—now the Select Four—had left before us. By the light of a candle, I ate a bowl of Pieter’s hot soup, soaking my shingle-hard tack in the liquid to avoid chipping a tooth. We soon left the cabin and all our belongings behind. We would climb the last 3,000 feet unfettered.
The air was icy clear. A gibbous moon spotlit the mountain. Frost crystals on the scree glinted like stars. No flashlight was necessary. We followed a level well-defined trail for half an hour before reaching the switchbacks where the real ascent began. For the next five hours, we would plod uphill in moonlit monochrome, eyes riveted to the path. Remembering the advice I’d received from the descending American hiker, I focused on my breathing. I chuffed three full breaths for each lockstep, like a steam engine on a steep grade. But even this high rate proved insufficient. After fifteen minutes, a dull headache squeezed my temples. I stopped and repeatedly filled my lungs before trudging on. The uphill walk was not difficult. At lower altitude, it would be suitable for a family hike. But at 17,000 feet, every step drained vast stores of energy. The British couple was struggling, each overcome by nausea. I doubted they would succeed. Pieter and I pulled ahead. As usual, our guide remained with the slower pair.
On and up we plodded, rarely stopping to appreciate the black and white grandeur of the moonlit night. Shale gave way to snow. The sound of my footfalls changed from scrunching on scree to squeaking on snow. I was walking on real snow a few hundred miles from the Equator! Somehow this detail seemed profoundly significant. The path was so well beaten that no guide was necessary. We slogged on, hypnotized by the unvarying cadence of steps and breaths. Our stops grew more frequent.
I noticed the gradual disappearance of the stars in the eastern firmament. My watch read 4am. We were more than halfway to the summit, but the switchbacks created the illusion that no progress was being made. Walking in one direction, I could reach up and touch Pieter traversing the slope in the opposite direction a few metres above me. Soon, we passed the two well-equipped Japanese men. One was terribly ill. Their guide was advising them to turn back within reach of the crater rim.
We resumed our slow-motion slog. I now counted four breaths for every step and paused on the extended leg before shuffling upward. The path grew more visible. Turning from the mountain, I watched a roseate glow imbue the entire eastern sky, turning the fleecy cloud comforter below me into a sea of cotton candy. Fairyland!
We trod on, intoxicated by lack of oxygen, eyes fixed on the snowy path as it glistened in shades of sunrise: first pink, then, orange, yellow, and finally eye-squinting white. The sun was up, the summit still a few hundred metres above. We had been too slow to reach the crater rim for sunrise, but I was too addled to feel disappointment. Anyway, the world was unimaginably beautiful from this very spot…
Gilman’s Point is a level area, not much larger than a country kitchen, on the rim of mile-wide Kibo Crater. It took us another forty-five minutes to reach it. The Germans and their guide had preceded us. At the crater’s edge, we dropped to all fours on the snow and took in the jaw-dropping scenery. Unblemished whiteness carpeted the crater floor a thousand feet below. Uneven yellow-rimmed holes in the snow identified sulphur springs, the last gasps of this dying volcano. Thick ice lining the crater walls had been carved by centuries of tropical sunshine into chasms and columns that shimmered in angled light.
The narrow rim rose slightly for a mile to Uhuru Peak, the mountain’s highest point. I asked the Germans if they intended to go on to Uhuru. They wanted only to return to camp. Our guide was somewhere on the mountain. No matter. Pieter and I stood as one. We trudged along the rim’s narrow crest. Exhilaration masked fatigue. The ground was relatively level but abrupt slopes dropped off on either side. After a buoyant half hour walk, we reached an area where footprints bifurcated to either side of a sharp rise. Both paths looked dangerous. The sun was softening the snow. If it gave way, we’d slide and tumble to our deaths. We were within a few hundred yards of our goal, but it wasn’t worth the risk.
Going down did not pose the breathless challenge experienced on the way up. Elated at my accomplishment, I actually ran down the snowy volcano in a straight line, hurdling over the endless switchbacks. I paused when I reached the struggling Brits and our guide, but only long enough to tell them that Pieter and I had reached Gilman’s Point.
When the snow gave out and the shale appeared, I stopped and lay on my back, relishing the heat the flat rocks had absorbed from the sun. Pieter reached me twenty minutes later. He had followed the trail, and grumbled that I had abandoned him. He was right: my excitement had made me so speedy that I’d forgotten I had a partner. I apologized and explained that I usually jogged downhill because constant braking turned my thighs to jelly. As we stood to resume our trek, we shook hands and congratulated each other yet again on our success.
We arrived at the cabin at 11am, as ravenous as wolves in winter. We devoured an enormous stack of sardine sandwiches, the bread softened by oil from the bottom of the tins. For dessert, we shared a can of peaches. Replete, we lay down on the sun-drenched verandah and snoozed. The British couple returned in mid-afternoon. They had reached Gilman’s Point after a twelve-hour struggle. Congratulations all around. All four members of our group had reached the summit, whereas only two of the Select Six had succeeded. We drew various conclusions.
Once the honeymooners had eaten and rested, we shouldered our packs and descended to the 13,000-foot camp. There, we were greeted by the Germans, who celebrated by buying us a round of Tusker beer—for sale at a mere ten dollars a bottle. Hikers on their way up plied us with questions; our turn to hold court.
The next day, our fifth on the mountain, Pieter and I half-jogged all the way to the gate. Without food, our packs weighed a trifle and the air grew progressively more sustaining. After signing out in the warden’s office, we were presented with a printed certificate attesting to our achievement. When the lovebirds arrived with the guide, we exchanged details of this final stage. The Brits were flying to London in a few days. Pieter would head back to his village. CUSO had provided me with an air ticket to Vancouver valid for one year. We shook hands all around and said goodbye, knowing we would never see each other again.

















BRAZIL
(1991)

THE KEY & THE RAIN

Morning. Wake to hiss and splatter of equatorial downpour. Dress. Poke head out door. Glassy slivers of rain slant against sodden backdrop of palm and mango trees. View of ocean two hundred yards away obliterated. Sloping sandy street now raging river. No beach bumming or trekking today.
Breakfast downstairs in restaurant. Savour suco—freshly squeezed juice from unknown but tasty fruit—French bread, cheese and sweet-sweet café com leite. Scamper up to room on outside stairs, shoulders raised in vain attempt to avoid soaking. Spend next hour playing harmonica sitting on edge of bed. No other furniture. Cement floor, whitewashed walls and ceiling create resonance chamber to rival Paul Horn inside Taj Majal.
Hear surf crash. Rain must have stopped. Might yet walk on beaches today—three bays each with sandy crescent. Buildings only along nearest; other two deserted, hemmed by leafy bushes and palms that arch like exploding green fireworks. Love to sit on thirty-foot boulder at north end of beach to watch ocean crash against granite, then explode upward into translucent aquamarine curtain that floats down in slow motion. Such power!
Five days in Morro do Sao Paolo. Magical Island. Smile to self: yesterday hiked path up to island’s ridge. Heard single musical note held forever, slowly building in volume. Soon, cascading tinkles. Got closer. Synthesized trumpet drifted over drone note. Omigod! Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, coming from open door of whitewashed shack. On one side of yard, laundry drying above bare earth. On other, man hoeing vegetable garden while slow-dancing to Shine On You Crazy Diamond…
Nice place, Morro do Sao Paulo. Throwback to slower times; no motorized vehicles. No pavement. Burros carry loads. Footpaths connect all houses on island. Sand-and-palm tropical dream world. Ninety minutes by speedboat from big Brazilian city of Salvador do Bahia.
Back to present. Cross bare hotel room to window high up wall facing ocean. Canadians would demand floor-to-ceiling view of Atlantic. But frosted glass in square opening pivots out and up. Allows only twisted-neck peek of Atlantic and ribbon of grey above horizon. Not enough info. Step out for more sky. Door clicks shut. Above, postage stamp of blue: maybe ten minutes of sun. Otherwise, dark and darker. Oh well! Day to make music, read and later play chess at café. Remember to bring sweater. Canadian summer; Brazilian winter.
Oops, door handle won't turn. Seems stuck. Key inside. Squat down to peer more closely. Bifocals also in room. Squint. Handle unconnected to latch. Doesn’t turn. Serves only to pull door shut. Key needed. Locked out. Damn! Dictionary inside with key and glasses. How to explain in Portuguese? Let's see… Key is chuva… Words for “room” and “inside” come easily. Not so for “locked out” or “went outside to check weather.” Aw, hell, hands can talk.
Down external cement stairs to lower porch. Rain has eased. Street now mini-canyons, shapes of erosion. Restaurant empty, always is—off-season. Sole guest. Enter through partially open sliding metal grating. Action in kitchen. Old man peels veggies. Old woman chops onions. Black shoulder-length hair streaked with white. Mid-forties? Old, indeed! Younger than my half-century. Through serving window, announce, “Chuva esta em meu quarto…” Brown female face crinkles and reshapes into bright smile. Rattles off series of words. Manage to decipher only one: limpa: to wash. Don't want anything cleaned.
Try again. More gestures with chuva. Same answer, “¡Limpa!” Hands make wringing motion. Obviously not getting through. Beckon her to follow. Rubs hands over chopped onion. Walks behind me, mumbling—probably about stupid gringos—or is gringo only Spanish?
At top of stairs, point to freshly painted mustard-yellow door. Brown finger indicates open window. Dry onion bit clings to cuticle. Can’t possibly fit through miniscule opening... Child might… I mime unlocking door. Suddenly, woman’s eyes light up. "Chave!" she calls out. Chave? That's word for... come on, I know that one... oh, yes... key…
Omigod! Been saying chuva, rain, instead of chave, key! Rain in room. Of course! Limpa—wipe it up; hands wringing towel. Abject apology.
Laugh together at linguistic muddle, also at aptness of error. Obvious with any other word. But chuva? Pissing rain, so chuva made sense.
Back downstairs, wife relates story. Old man, plastic bucket wedged between gnarled knees, laughs gently, looks up and shakes head. Woman removes loop of string from hook behind counter: four keys. Riffles through. Selects one. Hands over key string. Head back upstairs alone, chuckling. Should have taken time to prepare little speech. Always so impulsive. Oh well, genuinely funny...
Smile fades. Chosen key won't even enter hole. Try others. Two slide in, but won't turn. Try each again, more carefully. No luck. Go back down.
Old woman understands dangled keys accompanied by pout and headshake. Returns loop to hook. Mutters something. Makes motion to wait. Steps past and heads outside. Must be summoning Luis, guy who rented out room. Even prepared breakfasts, until two old ones returned yesterday.
Lean against half-open grating at front of restaurant. Clutch metal bars like prisoner, forehead wedged between hands. Will street become river again? Doubtful—not raining hard enough. Woman exits facing house, splashes across street to porch. Repeats signal to wait, adds something comforting, and trundles to kitchen.
Whistle tune, happy as lizard on hot rock. Who cares about time wasted by being locked out? Nothing to do anyway. Probably rain all day. Might as well enjoy. Hey, whistling La vie en rose. So pleased and proud to have finally worked out melody on harmonica. Let's see, had harp for one year... no, thirteen months. Probably first attempted La vie en rose nine months ago... and gave birth this morning... harp and player doing fine...
So many friendships in five days. Dreadlocked Darkman for nightly chess. Two French women first met at hostel in Olinda. Two American-speaking Brazilians, recent graduates from University of Chicago. Gil, Vilma, Anna, Romeo, Luis, Christine… And Miria with wild Afro; looks fourteen and carries year-old blond blue-eyed boy...
Luis springs onto porch. Scoops rainwater from barrel under eaves. Washes sand from flip-flops and calloused black feet. Enters, singing my name. Respond: Looo-eees, Looo-eees, trying to match reggae version of Louie, Louie by Toots and The Maytals. Perform complex handshake taught by Luis. End with finger snaps and laughter.
At wall behind counter, selects other loop. Two keys. Steps out into mist. Trudges up cement stairs. Following behind, watch fine rain pearl on wire-brush hair. Turns it silvery—old man of twenty.
Neither key fits. Hurries back downstairs. Leaves key in lock. My turn. Insert part way, then to hilt... Jiggle and fiddle and wiggle. Futile.
Reappears with red plastic chair. Sets it under window. Mentally, measure him then opening: awfully tight. Stands barefoot on chair. I hold down seat. Raises one leg. Toes curl around top of chair's wobbly back. Slides right arm and shoulder through tiny opening, then head. Then left side. Window’s metal rim must hurt ribs. Still, slithers in. Hollers and shakes free foot, asking for firm base. Pushes against my hands. Worms in deeper. Hips stuck. Legs stick out from whitewashed wall. Thrash air.
Click. Door swings open. Reached latch without dropping into room. Squirms back out. Brushes soiled T-shirt and shorts. Says three Portuguese words. Might mean “Real hard work.” Or, “Never do again.” I repeat, as much in appeasement as for practice. Does he expect money? Naw, he's already heading off. No one tips here. Call out, “Obligado.”
Re-enter room, whistling La vie en rose.
















KENYA
(2004)

THE LONGEST DAY

(To end this compilation of tropical stories I offer you the true ending to the trip, on which I based the novel, Old Friends)

Len and Rick are awakened at dawn by Ali, their guide, for a pre-breakfast “game drive” through Tsavo East National Park in Kenya. Quick cups of coffee and off they go in a Toyota Landcruiser with a pop-top that allows them to stand. Len and his gear take up the van’s second row. Rick positions himself behind. This order has remained the same for all their safaris to allow Len to take photographs.
The sun, still puffy-faced so soon after rising, casts an orange tint on the mist that blankets the undulating countryside. The air is cool. The two friends have already seen plenty of animals and birds. Just yesterday, Len checked off two new species in his handbook of East African mammals: oryx and topi. During that three-hour outing, they also saw fifty elephants, one hundred water buffalo, impalas, baboons, zebras, waterbucks, kongoni hartebeests, Grant’s gazelles, and even miniature dik-dik antelopes. So far, they’ve identified forty different mammals and one hundred and fifty species of birds larger than doves.
The animal they now seek is the elusive kudu, one of the largest species of African antelopes. In fact, this is why they chose a safari to Tsavo East. Twice, they’ve glimpsed one, but each time the strangely striped animal disappeared into the brush before Len could shoot it… with his camera, of course.
At eight-thirty, they return to their tent camp. Breakfast is waiting, prepared by their cook, Harrison: scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, mango, papaya and watermelon. The highlight of this early-morning drive has been two cheetahs hunkering on a nearby mound. But no kudu, not even kudu doodoo. They’ll have one final chance during an abbreviated drive on their way out of the park.
After breakfast, Harrison leads them from the public site, where they spent the night, to a luxury camp nearby. The men haven’t bathed in four days. They need to clean up before taking the bus to Nairobi. Otherwise, as Ali puts it, “You’ll return home smelling like elephants.”
The manager of the luxury camp has agreed to let them use the showers, for a fee. He leads them to separate vacated tents with rumpled sheets on the beds and used towels on canvas floors. The room-sized tents rent for $500US a night and come with private showers and flushable sit-down toilets. The two Canadians have had to squat over a pit at the edge of their plebeian campground. Meanwhile, these guests sleep on real beds, store their clothes in commodes and can still claim to have tented in Africa’s game parks. It’s now 9:30am and the air temperature is already above 25°C. The unheated water provides more relief than shivers.
Back at their campsite, the men help pack the gear. They drive off in the Toyota, past a dozen baboons waiting for leftovers. Ali promises to travel through kudu territory on the way out. They have to be at the Voi bus terminal by 11:30 to catch the bus to Nairobi. Ali cruises slowly along the northern edge of the park. Mountains loom on the left, the plains of Tsavo stretch out to the right. It’s past ten o’clock. The earlier mist has lifted and the air shimmers with heat. The land is covered in gradients of green: jade grass with tawny stalks, olive bushes and emerald acacias, whose flat tops symbolize the African Savannah. A family of elephants plods in the distance. But the men only have eyes for kudu.
At eleven o’clock, Ali stops. He is sorry, but they must leave. The Landcruiser turns around and accelerates toward the park gate. Rick tries to comfort Len by reminding him that they did catch glimpses of two kudus the previous day. Len harrumphs. Suddenly, Harrison hisses, “There!” Ali switches off the engine and coasts to a halt.
Twenty metres away, stands a magnificent male kudu! The animal is broadside, revealing its milk-chocolate coat with seven or eight vertical white stripes that seem painted by an unsteady hand. As Len aims his camera, the kudu obligingly faces him. Its two corkscrew horns are nearly a metre long and curve back from its head in an elegant sweep. Kudus are shy and skittish, but this big male seems unfazed. Len manages a dozen shots before the prize disappears into the bush. As Ali speeds toward the town of Voi, the two friends hug and cheer the successful end of their three-week tour of East Africa.

The terminal is a hive of activity that pulsates to the arrival of buses. Dozens of sellers hawk whatever a traveller might need: water, pop, fruit, loaves of bread, hard-boiled eggs, cookies, candy, cashews, cheezies, popcorn, gum, handkerchiefs, watches, leather belts, hats (one seller wears half a dozen piled on his head), combs, pillows, purses, flashlights, key holders, clothes pins, notebooks, wallets, photo albums, bar soap, toothbrushes and four brands of toothpaste.
Ali and Harrison insist on staying until their guests leave. They move about, greeting a surprising number of acquaintances. Rick sits on a bench in the shade and reads a novel. Not one to waste time, Len saunters off to check the craft stalls.
Just before noon, a modern Scania bus pulls up, raising a cloud of reddish dust and a flurry of activity. Their reserved seats are front row, above the entry well. The men will travel to Nairobi surrounded by glass, a wonderful vantage from which to watch Kenya scroll by. The driver instructs them to secure their seat belts. The two guides stand in torrid sunshine until the bus pulls away. They wave goodbye.
Nairobi is 327 kilometres from Voi, which is located at latitude 3°S. Today is March 14th, one week before spring equinox; the noon-hour sun is directly overhead. The bus has an air-conditioning unit on the roof, but it is not used. Nozzles above each seat blow air that might come from a hair dryer. The driver’s side window is open, a good thing since he is smoking.
No other Whites are on this bus. Across the aisle a middle-aged man wears a suit jacket over an ankle-length white caftan. His head is covered with a crocheted skullcap. His wife and child are next to him. The woman seems barely out of her teens. Spiral henna patterns decorate her forearms and swirl down across her hands. Her fingertips are deep burgundy, as if they’ve been dipped to the first knuckle in dye.
Along the way, the men see baboons, monkeys and herds of impalas, each with one mighty male keeping a close eye on his does and offspring. The bus heads west. The sun drenches the two men through the arching windshield. They protect their bare legs with towels. Both are sweating profusely.
Ninety minutes later, the bus stops at a highway rest area. Harrison has packed them a lunch: roast beef and plum jam sandwiches on white bread and two hard-boiled eggs. Knowing that Len is not fond of eggs, Rick eats both, plus a few triangles of jam sandwich, all washed down by an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Len wolfs down all four beef sandwiches. He consumes twice as much food as Rick does, and yet he remains slim and wiry.
From here, the road narrows. The edges are severely scalloped, with half-metre drops to the laterite shoulder. Hundreds of “articulated lorries” (tractor-trailers) ply this main route between the Indian Ocean port of Mombasa and the capital, Nairobi. Most haul ship containers. When these monsters meet, mere inches separate their side mirrors. Branches or stones laid on the highway warn oncoming traffic of breakdowns. At times, the bus will swing to the opposite side of the road to avoid craters that would swallow a car. Oncoming vehicles adjust their speed to allow these maneuvres. Along wider stretches, during uphill climbs, the bus will pass one truck that is passing another. Rick and Len tighten their seatbelts.
Later, the bus detours onto a wildly bumpy dirt road that parallels a new highway currently being paved. They bounce along for more than an hour. Whenever a vehicle passes, the bus fills with red dust. The diversion—a term inherited from the British colonial era—ends at a small village. The bus stops to let passengers buy snacks and drinks from makeshift stands. A school band forms a circle on shiny new tarmac and bangs out complex rhythms that induce bystanders to shuffle in the red dirt. This must be the highway-opening ceremony.
The bus returns to pavement, but not to the new section. The old sun-softened asphalt has been compressed under the weight of sixteen-wheelers into foot-deep grooves each the width of twin tires.
By five o’clock, the bus is still one hundred kilometres from the capital. Nairobi is at an altitude of 5000 feet. As they climb, the air cools. The sun now blinds the two friends.
They reach the outskirts of Nairobi at rush hour. The bus hiccups forward in bumper-to-bumper traffic until night falls. Finally, it drops off the two travellers at the departure terminal. It is seven-thirty. Their KLM flight to Amsterdam is scheduled for 10:45. They’ll have time for dinner. Their African adventure has ended without mishap.
Wrong!
The plane is still climbing when Len becomes violently ill. The first bag he fills must weigh half a kilo. Rick carries it to the back of the plane. Len will fill five more during this nine-hour flight. The crew offers him tea, water, wet towels, much sympathy and extra sick sacks. Meanwhile, Rick disposes of the bulging bags, provides fresh tissues, calls staff when necessary and covers Len with his fleecy vest when he shivers. At last, Len falls asleep, his head on Rick’s shoulder.
Breakfast is served an hour before landing in Holland. Len is feeling somewhat better and able to eat. He is no longer nauseous but now suffers from vertigo. He can’t lean back. So he props his head against the seat in front of him, an uncomfortable position, which he maintains until they land.
After walking around Amsterdam airport to stretch their legs, the men lounge in leather recliners as they wait for their next flight. Len slumbers. The Vancouver leg will last ten hours.
As soon as the plane has taken off, Len is sick again. And again. He shifts to the window seat, where the cabin wall can support his head. Rick does what he can to make his friend comfortable.
Two movies and a meal help Rick pass the first half of the trip. Then, he, too, begins to feel ill. His forehead grows damp and his stomach churns. Soon he bloats a barf bag of his own. Then another. Pale Len now comforts Rick. They check the flight information video on the seatback screen, but the plane icon seems frozen above the Arctic.
With three hours to go, Rick grows dizzy and his limbs tingle, a sure sign he’s about to die, or at least pass out. He calls the attendant and tells her he must lie down. She leads him to the galley between first class and economy. There, he sprawls on the floor next to the exit door. Pillows are propped under his head and he is covered with blankets. Cool air seeps in. He remains like this until the plane begins landing procedures and he must return to his seat. By then, both men are feeling better.
While waiting for their luggage, they discuss what might have caused their distress. The packed lunch? Doubtful; they ate different foods. The hamburger and fries at Nairobi airport? Possibly. But both agree that the main factor was the cumulative effect of a thirty-five-hour day, one that included a four-hour game drive in Tsavo East, seven hours in a broiling bus, nine hours flying to Amsterdam and another ten to Vancouver, all this in addition to the eleven-hour time-zone shift.
They will remember this day as the longest of their lives.