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HOOKED ON COCALAND

st. mj's guide to paradise for lost gringos

 

 book one:

La Cartagena Terrible:[1]


finding dealers who deal paradise

 

Avianca jet airline sitting on
              tarmac 

Colombia’s Avianca airline flew Dr. Lorenzo and Robbie Rivera

from New York to Cartagena, Colombia and back

three times in the 1990s

 
...my native country was a torment to me, and my father’s house a strange unhappiness...

Augustine, Confessions[2]

 

 monday, 10/3/94.

 

1.  ARRIVE CALM AND BIGHEARTED AS A SAINT, IN THE LAND WHOSE DRUG HELPED BRING DOWN YOUR SON AND YOUR NATION – AND YOU, YOU FOOL, DID YOU FORGET AGAIN?

 

early morning.

 

you traipse in shock across a stretch of airport tarmac which is melting in the swelter and smells like tar. you're heat-stricken, mind you, shaking off cool civilized air-conditioned plane cabin comfort. you step from the smelly tar into a hot, mobbed, rackety, sweaty, confused passenger processing room, its baked side walls of brick carved with open arabesque air vents to let in as much extra stifling heat as possible.

 

a far wall of nothing but hot iron bars, floor to high ceiling. it’s a hot jail, basically. but who's locked up? us? or the two hundred on the other side, poking their thin, golden-rosy-brown faces between bars, staring hungrily at international travelers?

 

they are, sammy. because they are the coastal Colombians, locked by poverty into hot Cocaland life forever, searching for a family member lucky enough to have escaped to Jackson Heights, Queens, years ago; hoping that their family member is back from Nueva Your, finally, with lotsa U.S. dollar for chickens and icy beers. for licorice-flavored aguardiente to lubricate international relations! tropical-music vallenato to make you a real human being FINALLY! a fun, hot, two-week little party. ¡ojalá![3]

 

beyond the bars and faces there’s an even higher level of pandemonium, a peskily noisy, hot, traffic-jammed street, lined with palm trees. there’s the suggestive smell of engines burning gasoline and of my escape, sammy. because down the road there’s a breezy deserted beach, two leaning palms and a hammock strung between them, just right for two weeks reading on my favorite subject, the end of the world as we know it. my idea of a perfect little two-week party with nobody but me.


Robbie's two huge bags clear first. then i open mine for a uniformed banana republic guard, who slits the linings looking for laundered dollars. coca money from the states. guerrilla gun money. a hundred hundreds.

 

meanwhile, Robbie saunters with his huge cashless bags to a random spot in the jail bars, and presses his big rosy-brown face through to the other side.

 

no one looks like family. no one shouts his name.

 

and that irritates me. the kid slaved thirteen years in the states, two jobs every day, sammy, wiring dollars to family when he could, less often at first, granted – but back then he was struggling. later, after he matured and settled down a little, he sent huge chunks of every paycheck, money Robbie needed for clothes and a car. and nobody’s at the airport to cheer?

 

i’m for canning the world entire.

 

not Robbie. he lingers at the jail bars, looks, sees nothing, says nothing. no worry; no disappointment. he's not a complainer like yours truly, you see.

 

and besides, he’s not twenty any more, as he was when they last saw him. he's doubled in size in thirteen years, grown up and out. so they might not recognize him.

 

and his mother has shortened and widened, no doubt, on a third world diet of rice and tubers. she could be in front of him and he wouldn't know her.

 

my uniformed guard takes forever. he leafs ever so carefully through the twenty, yes twenty books i've brought with me, about or by flesh-denying, celibate St. Augustine, my latest obsession, as you know, sammy. dozens of single hundreds might be hidden between those pages, right? but finally the Colombian guard gives up on world-denying Augustine.

 

i'm repacking the saint with fifteen clean pairs of tight-fitting jockeys, when above the hellish din a piping female screech like you might hear in a poor Latino neighborhood anywhere, a mother shrieking at a stray kid finally returned, comes from the back of the crowd beyond the bars.

 

"Raw-BEAN-sawn!"

 

then it’s a deep bass "R a w B E A N s a w n !” and several more piping feminine voices. "RawBEANsawn! RawBEANsawn!"

 

and high-pitched children's voices: "RawBEEeeEEEANsawn-sawn-sawn!!"

 

a short grey-haired, somewhat fattened and squashed brownish lady pushes her way past a writhing knot of equally brown coastal Cocalanders to the bars. that hugely tall guy, that slightly faded, rosy-brown golden one with the well-fed boyish face, that thirtyish young man twice as big as any other coastal Colombian in sight, the smiling one i call Robbie, is her kid.

 

we wheedle our bags out through the bars somehow, to the cluster of folks around her. and before we know it, sammy, – and we have barely joined the family, i haven't even been introduced, and – already a pack of nondescripts in mussed pants and sweaty shirts descends from nowhere. are they family? family friends? believe it or not, they are strangers, sticking their collective nose into the family business of greeting, crying, and haggling with taxi-driving taxistas.[4]  they’re manhandling my sacrosanct suitcases without my permission, throwing them roughly on the roof of a taxi in the helter skelter welter, a taxi we haven’t hailed or bargained a price for. two-dozen strangers! 

 

unlike me, the family welcomes these crowds of pushy, opportunistic third-world volunteer baggage men in a friendly way, maybe because they look as mussed up and foreign as themselves.

 

we're about to climb in and pull off to a palm-tree swaying vacation, when 59 unwanted strangers ask for tips. “Don't fuck me!” they all say. one found a rope in a small mud puddle, he claims. some tied our bags to two tiny car rooves and to opened trunk lids in seconds, some dirtied their shirts and pants further; others risked their lives climbing atop wobbly little cars we never asked them to climb on top of.

 

one asks ME for a tip, sammy. and i haven't seen him do a thing. what i want is to give him a piece of my mind. i'm not a fool, i'm not stupid. i've been around the miserable dog-eat-dog world. he wants my watch, wallet and U.S. passport. let him pull a knife and get it over with. i can't get this out in Spanish so i grab Robbie and ask him to deal with it. he has less of value to lose.

 

Robbie reacts in a surprising way. he praises me. i have reason, he says in Spanish, to ask him for help: "You' here in Colombia ten minna, you' thinkin' like familia,[5] takin' care of everybody," he says, "not juss you."

 

in other words, sammy, it's right to expose him to danger instead of me. this seems generous, until i remember the family needs me more than they need him. i have the money!

 

i bet you're underlining, sammy, like you do when you read. you're trying to figure me out as usual, and it's not hard. at this point yesterday, i'd been in Cocaland ten minutes. all i wanted was an empty beach, and it shouldn’t have been that hard to come by. the airport was right at the Caribbean coast, but instead i was reeling from equatorial heat, maximal decibel noise, total loss of personal space, disrespect for my property, massive culture shock in general, plus my own resentment for what Cocalanders did to my son Freddie with their herb, coca.

 

i'd lost perspective. i was trying so hard to be considerate of Robbie's family, i'd forgotten my conviction that life is useless. i was trying to act right, but the only thing i'd done right so far, i'd done by accident.

 

in fact, sammy, ALL DAY yesterday i kept doing at times what you shouldn't do in a strange country visiting relatives of a friend. granted, Robbie was the one visiting family, not me. i'd come to visit a hammock, a back room, to hide for two weeks commiserating with sexless St. Augustine and the collapsing world of his day. it's all i'd thought about, as you know, since before i left your place. but first i had to spend a few minutes with family, i figured, and shouldn't be too rude. these people were my hosts, funny looking or not. biting the hand that fed you was foolish in Cocaland. and in fact, judging from tour books i'd read before i left your place, it was close to suicidal. just BEING in Cocaland was something close to suicidal, according to gringo books. i needed Robbie’s people to help me find a safe beach. i couldn’t dismiss them. i had to be decent for a few minutes at least.

 

but i know you, sammy. i know what you're thinking. you're saying to Racer right now, reading this: 'mj lorenzo was no diplomat with us here in San Juan Pueblo, New Mexico, the last two years, as depressed as he was. what makes him think he could be a diplomat in South America?'

 

fact is, sammy, a few times yesterday i did give Robbie's family the cold shoulder, figuring they wouldn't be interested in me, what with their long lost Robbie home at last. it didn't work. it made them more solicitous. so i treated them nicely for a while and it worked better. they've left me alone this morning so i can start a journal like you suggested when you saw me off.  and this afternoon, says Robbie, they might let us go to the beach at Boca Grande without them. think of that.

 

peace and quiet will only be temporary, i’m sure.

 

from the minute we met, i was overwhelmed and it made me rude, sammy. here i was, one of the few reliable, clear-thinking, able-bodied men this clan of women and children was lucky enough to have around at that critical moment; yet, once i’d pawned off the baggage guys on Robbie, i jumped in the cab. me first. even before Robbie's mother got in. right in the middle of the back seat i sat, as far as i could get from bedlam on all sides. i jumped into the choking car heat, more stifling than the suffocating heat of tarmac or customs, and anxious for the family to get in fast. i think i sweated the Old Spice away. something was smelling. and sweated away a pound of flesh when they packed themselves in like sardines around me, five or six deep. in Nueva Your, i'd have jumped out the far door craving cool air, grabbed a New York cab, and made sure it was air conditioned. but in Cocaland, sweating and lacking air, i stayed there relieved. in a second i was walled off by family from everything books had warned about: suitcase-vandalizing police, cocaine-crazed street people, gunrunning guerrilla sympathizers, everything. i was comforted, sammy. the inconsolable complainer whose company we'd all enjoyed so much in San Juan Pueblo for the past two years, had found brief comfort in this world after all.

 

in fact – and you’ll love this more than anything, oh great sex therapist, you and your Racer will laugh for 6 months – as soon as i was squeezed in and comforted by Robbie’s family on all sides, i was blessed with my second damn hard-on in two and a half years, one that would not go down the whole trip in that bouncing toy cab, and it must have been an hour.

 

so underline that. shamanize that, oh Samuel Oké Martinez, weird spirit-healer of the San Juan Pueblo, wanna-be guru of my life-hating heart. relieved, comforted and even turned on within eleven minutes of arriving in a country i disliked on principle. in those few minutes i'd already made myself known as the fifty-year-old misfit and crank i had been with you in San Juan for two years; and, as with you and Racer, i'd already found strange comfort in being surrounded by makeshift family.

 

or maybe i had to go to the bathroom and didn’t know. events of a few minutes later support that excuse for rudeness too.

 

the now-tipped baggage men leaned on eight doors ever so gently until they clicked closed without serrating the sardines, and we were on our way to peace and quiet on a tropical beach, i assumed, in two tiny overpacked ‘cabs’.

 

by 'we' i mean brown shrunken Yazmín, Robbie's mother; one or two of his four rosy-brown sisters; a brother; a lighter brother-in-law; a darker sister-in-law, i think she was; and several small nieces and nephews one tint or another of Cocaland golden-rosy-brown.[6]  ten adults counting two drivers, plus five or six kids, and our four, mind you, four, giant, sixty pound suitcases loaded with Augustine, tour guides and used boxers for Robbie's brother or somebody, all these were crushed inside and on top of two little beat-up cars they had the nerve to call taxi cabs, and were sent off clunking in the mud and dust – yours truly in an aroused state.

 

i know you, sammy. you're already thinking, well, why did mj choose that part of South America, Colombia of all places, when there were so many calmer, more respectable places that could have served for a 'palm tree swaying vacation’? why not the south of France? or Spain? why pick the country whose people worked day and night to make the drug that ruined his son AND HIM? he's bound to be over-stimulated, overwhelmed, and over-everythinged.

 

i know you're thinking that, sammy. and i have an explanation, but you're not going to like it. i have several explanations, in fact, why i chose Robbie’s Cocaland to find a quiet beach, and i'll get to each one shortly. the big explanation, the one you'll dislike most, i may be a while getting to. i have to work up to it.

 

read my confessions, sammy. i brought twenty books with me about a saint who wrote the most revealing Confessions in history up until his day, unless you count the psalms of King David of the house of Judah; not to go back to the churchly ways of my childhood, or anything; forget that; but to study Augustine in peace and quiet so i can think about the implications. there’s important stuff in Augustine. i want to compare our Western civilized world with the Roman Empire when it collapsed in Augustine’s day. how close are we to our collapse? will it be tomorrow? next week? how did he keep his chin up – and his you-know-what down – as the highly civilized Roman world collapsed around him? it was over the span of his lifetime, sammy, a little under a century, that the incredible Roman empire and its peace cracked, gradually weakened, and finally, just collapsed into crumbs and dust like a detonated Grand Hotel. i find that fascinating. the civilized world of Augustine’s time. what could it have felt like? did he feel the way i do, as i watch the same thing happening now? did he survive it emotionally? how did he stomach the rape of Rome by barbarian Goths, the city where he had taught rhetoric? or the sack of his province in North Africa by barbarian Vandals, and its capital, Carthage, where he’d partied with school friends; and the Vandals’ sack of the monastery in Hippo Regius where he was living the last half of his life? why didn’t he offer himself to the Vandals’ swords that day? we know that years before the invasion he had forsworn sex for the rest of his life. that was one of his reactions to the slow, progressive fall of civilization, as it’s been one of mine. but was he a depressed, world-weary, people-hater like me? that's what interests me, sammy, not his Christian saintliness, i’m not into that, but his psychological method of survival, even to giving up sex forever. celibacy is a little extreme, as you know. how did he pull it off? (no pun intended.) i have to find a beach, read his Confessions and write you mine – about how i intend to deal with the collapse of our civilization (yours and mine, the destruction of New York City and San Juan Pueblo) without the help of Augustine's kind of Christian saintliness.

read my Confessions, sammy. practice my imitatio.[7]

 

copy st. mj lorenzo!

 

st. mj's religion of rudeness.

 

i'll write you from here in Cocaland, composing a rude guidebook for gringos struggling to find paradise, lost attempting to deal with the rise of Cocaland, and the fall of American civilization.

 

do what you want with this confessional travel manual, sammy. read it. use it as bathroom tissue. it's not going to stop civilization from falling anyway.

 

a Baedeker ought to have chapters and titles, but i don't think this one will, because so far i haven't known what i'd write about, one minute to the next.

 

but since you’re always so interested in what i write, you can make up chapters and titles if you want.

 

a tour-guide chapter title for what i've written so far might be, for example:

 

1.  ARRIVE CALM AND BIGHEARTED AS A SAINT, IN THE LAND WHOSE DRUG HELPED BRING DOWN YOUR SON AND YOUR NATION – AND YOU, YOU FOOL, DID YOU FORGET AGAIN?[8]

 

 

 

 

 

2.  IT’S BEST TO HAVE PREVIOUSLY SELECTED A HOST FAMILY, WELL IN ADVANCE, YEARS, PREFERABLY.  THEN WARN THEM VIA A FRIENDLY FAMILY MEMBER ABOUT YOUR STRANGE WAYS.  GIVE THEM TIME TO ADAPT, THEY NEED ALL THE TIME THEY CAN GET, GOD KNOWS, YOUR WAYS ARE SO STRANGE.[9]

 

 Robbie in 1981; alongside
              1950s black and white of 2 men of the Colombian
              Emberá tribe

Robbie Rivera in 1981

“the hair and skin shouted JUNGLE, SOUTH AMERICAN TYPE!”[10]


(flanked by a 1950s photo of two Emberá tribesmen

who lived near Robbie’s coastal Colombian hometown
around the time he was born) [11]

 

i met Robbie in Miami Beach, thirteen years ago. i don’t think i told you this, sammy. he was walking through Collins Park, a short, skinny, featherweight teen. his blue jeans and t-shirt seemed urbane enough, but the hair and skin shouted JUNGLE, SOUTH AMERICAN TYPE! straight hair, shiny black, shooting up and out like a new floor mop, all of it cropped at the ears without subtlety or layering, like a floor mop trimmed by a rotary weed-chopper. his hair was cut like one of the Amazon natives you saw in LIFE Magazine back in the fifties, full-page brown aborigines wearing loin cloths, shrunken heads dangling like medallions at their throats, that killed U.S. missionaries from nice Evangelical Christian colleges in the Chicago suburbs and wore the nice missionaries’ shrunken heads on their chests. after we had talked, though, he wasn't head-shrinking scary, of course. he was a tonic, a fun-loving kid from way down south on the American landmass.

 

looking for someone to help him stay in the states, he casually mentioned.

 

and his name threw me too. without even thinking about Robinson Crusoe at first, or the very clever Swiss Family Robinson, i just expected a kid with the name ‘Robinson’ to be self-confident, calm and worry-free in new situations, and Robbie was all that. but then i remembered that anyone with that name should think things through scientifically, too, and when he didn't, it annoyed me. he lived in the moment and seemed to analyze nothing. i must have been thinking that this Robinson, like Crusoe, ought to be English or American, North American, or from one of the other lands the English had peopled, in their big baby-boom days centuries back. he should think like me, in short. but based on his appearance at least, there couldn't have been a drop of Anglo blood in him. so i gave up with this and tried to see him more as Crusoe's ‘Man Friday’.[12]

 

that worked better. for an hour he helped me with chores and errands. and after two hours, sammy, he was a well fed Boy Friday.

 

the cross-cultural misunderstanding wasn’t over though. Robbie bragged about what good schooling he had enjoyed growing up – in the backwater Colombian jungle of all places.

 

“Iss not ’jungla’, iss sabana!” he said, as if ‘savannah’ meant good education and ‘jungle’ did not, in Colombia.[13]

 

so he should have heard of Robinson Crusoe of the famous novel, right, who was shipwrecked and marooned on an island not far from the Colombian coast? but you guessed it. Robbie’d never heard of Crusoe, or his Man Friday, the golden rosy-brown native who’d popped out of nowhere to help Anglo-white Calvinist Englishman Crusoe survive in uncivilized tropical paradise.

 

but Robbie had heard about the fabulously rich and super-civilized island called United States, he would mention from time to time; and he wished he could get marooned there, somehow.

 

he actually thought his name was a Spanish name! 'Raw-BEAN-sawn', he said it, sitting across the table from me in a Cuban restaurant, putting away black bean soup and Sangria, lounging in the fresh salt breeze blowing across Collins Avenue. he acted surprisingly at home already. ‘Son of Raw Bean’. or sawed raw beans. i could see how he'd thought his name was Spanish. it seemed Latinate, in a way. it had several syllables and a romantic twang.

 

this was in January of 1981, or thereabouts, if i remember correctly. we had both flown to Miami, he from Colombia and i from Denver, to see Joey’s guru, Guru Garland, who was getting together with his followers in Miami Beach. that’s how we met. Robbie and i were both followers of the same international Indian guru.

 

i don't remember if i told you this, sammy, but i was the one who taught Raw Bean’s Son to call himself ‘Robbie’, so people might think he was born in the states. that was the next morning at our bacon and egg breakfast, when i'd known my little third world escapee less than twenty-four hours. and by the time of his Cuban steak dinner the second evening, sammy, still less than twenty-four hours after our meeting, Robbie had pressured and cajoled me – all day long that second day like he thought i was his long lost papá – until he'd gotten me to say 'okay'. alright already! MAYBE he could stay in the states with me, illegally. just for a little while! just until i got over the loneliness i was feeling from losing kids and wife, lovely family home and all that, six months before. i said i would let him know after thinking about it overnight, one more night!

 

well, what was i supposed to say, get a haircut and take your flight back, you and your family can keep on starving?

 

go back to the land of crack cocaine, where mothers give babies away like yours gave you, they’ve got so many they can’t handle them?

 

that was in 1981, when i still loved the world a little bit, stupidly, sammy, and still wanted to save it. like a fool, i believed a person did his small part to save the world by starting with whatever lay unexpectedly right in front of him: be it a friend; a baby son; a baby daughter; or a person that came out of nowhere and was hopelessly crazy and desperately needed sanity, like my psychiatric patients. and here Robbie was: in front of me, asking for help. it was Robinson Crusoe Rivera's one opportunity to help his family, it seemed, so i helped. after i took him to Disney World and he made me laugh all day, i took him to Denver. and anyway: i was lonely and a little depressed back then, just like now, and Robbie was such a kick, he made me forget i was sad.


plus: he said he'd help with the housework.
 

and now look what's happened, sammy. here's a story for you. my adopted son, Robbie, tries to lighten me up by taking me to meet his natural family in Colombia; while my natural son, Freddie, tries to depress me further by smoking crack, selling it in California, getting busted and winning thirteen to twenty years in the slammer. but you don't want that story, and i don't want to think about it.

 

so here's one reason why i chose an upsetting and unsafe place to find a lovely peaceful beach, sammy: it was to spend a couple minutes seeing where Robbie came from, and meet his family i'd heard about for years.

 

though a couple of bigger reasons carry more weight, as you'll see.

 

another reason was to maybe forget the tragedies of Freddie and his dad for a few minutes. but that may be tough, since we're smack dab in the land of coca which caused our problem.

 

a third reason, at least during the planning stages, was: (a) to see what kind of people would cultivate plants to purposely destroy a good man's son; (b) to pay them back with rudeness and a cold shoulder; (c) to study them when they weren't looking; and (d) to write about them in a way to shame them before the world.

 

that’s just a joke, sammy. of course the thought of revenge occurs to one, at times; but i wouldn't want to hurt Robbie's people. how could it be their fault? they didn’t invent coke or the desire for it.

 

i met Robbie just six months after the divorce and Dlune’s taking the kids to a far away and undiscoverable place in northwestern Canada.

 

you don't need that story, either, i'm sure.

 

i'm just trying to put everything in perspective as i write, sammy, sitting in a Cocaland bed, every pore of my body sweating: how did i jump from the frying pan into the fire? i didn't come to Cartagena to cause Colombians trouble. i said that to work off steam. i came for a break from collapsing empire. but why did i think i'd find a peaceful spot to hang a hammock and read, in a country of drug trafficking and civil war? am i crazy? am i still psychotic? after two years of all your effort to get me better?

 

i think i've told you pieces of it all.

 

i'm just trying to track it to its roots so i can understand what in the world i’m doing here. who knows why things happen? my rational explanations might be off base. there are forces at work sometimes, i’m convinced, that average rational humans know little or nothing about.

 

but this whole thing with Robbie and his family SEEMS to have started, you could say, when Dlune took Freddie and Nico and hid them in far off northern CanadaJune of 1980 that was. fourteen years ago. i missed them. after all, they were my kids too, not just hers. they were five and three, no more, and they needed me as much as i needed them. i loved them. and i met Robbie just six months later, right about when i was getting really tired of feeling down about losing everybody and everything.

 

but i won't bother you with that tragic interlude. you should remember it. two years ago when you took me to New Mexico,... after i'd been with you a while there in San Juan, you asked me to list the times in my life i'd felt ‘down’, ‘depressed’, or 'world-weary', as you called it then, prior to this last 'killer bout'. that ‘kidnapping’ was one of the depressed episodes on that long list, sammy, an entire eight and a half by eleven sheet of yellow tablet paper, both sides, which you probably still have, if i know you. and i brought a copy of it with me. it's folded in the back of Augustine's Confessions, and i expect the list to grow with each week and month i survive in the world. who in their right mind could be anything but down, living in this God-forsaken world?

 

 

 

 

 

3.  ONCE IN COCALAND, NEVER SHOW SINCERE SHOCK OR SURPRISE.  EVEN WHEN YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING BEING SAID, JUST KEEP RESPONDING, CONSTANTLY, BY SHOUTING 'CLARO!'[14]

 

the two rattling wrecks they called taxis made their way very slowly along an aqua Caribbeanit resembled the kind of beach i was looking for, maybe, but of course we didn’t stop. we kept on going through alleys of packed mud they called calles, or streets, bouncing slowly through deep ass-thumping potholes past wrecked shanties they called casas, or ‘houses’.

 

a ragtag press of pedestrians swarmed among the slowly moving rocking vehicles, people of every shade of black and very dark brown, a population clearly descended, at least in part, from African slaves.

 

by now i was up on the edge of the back seat, sammy, where i found a bit less body contact, less heat, more air from the windows and a better view, though no less arousal, of course. arousal is arousal is arousal. a sardine is a sardine. hoping to lessen stimulation, i tried to distract myself. if you kept your head low, sitting in the middle of the car, at least you could see out in all directions at once.

 

two files of swaying, gaudily colored, sawed-off school buses, and swaying beat up autos mounted atop with broken taxi lights, tried to thread the thick noisy pedestrian throng in opposite directions. packed into the tiny folds between tied-up knots of shouting pedestrians and tied-up knots of rattling vehicles were creaking horse carts, braying donkeys, squealing pigs, cackling chickens, barking dogs and yelling vendors pushing watermelon or banana carts, all within arm’s length of me where i huddled inside the cab, if i hadn’t been too crushed to stretch an arm out the window.

 

i never could have imagined such a scene with me in it, sitting in san juan or anywhere.

 

yet the taxi drivers and Robbie's family, even Robbie who had managed to escape ‘third-world’ mayhem for thirteen years by living in a ‘first-world’ country, acted like this was normal. just a pleasant, relaxing Sunday afternoon out. the driver turned up the vallenato to multiply their fun. my palm-tree swaying vacation had not yet begun, but Robbie's vacation was in freaking full swing. his family loved the hot jam-packed cacophany peppered with coastal Colombian music, it was their music, their turn-on. they were happy as school kids on break, the fools. they were in seventh heaven. the party had started. the whole city was partying with them, and no one in the street, sammy, not man nor beast, suffered injury, death or apparent psycho-sexual trauma from the thunderous noise and mind-fucking confusion. i was the only one unpleasantly sexually stimulated, apparently.

 

who knows, maybe everybody was turned on, they sort of acted that way, but i was definitely the only one traumatized by it. they were sexually stimulating me against my will, is what i’m trying to say, i think. where i come from it would be illegal, sammy. unconstitutional, in fact. ‘life and LIMB’ is the legal term, if i’m not mistaken.

 

then we came into what i thought was downtown Cartagena, since i saw the Plaza de Toros, the bullfight arena. i couldn't get the driver's sloppy coastal Spanish when he said something about this bull ring, yet i said "¡Claro!" as if i understood everything and was perfectly content and happy.

 

now things changed. streets grew wider but no less congested. things moved faster, and it all seemed more dangerously anarchic than the slow, thronged narrow highway by the aqua Caribbeaneverywhere speeding by, there were bouncing blurs of dayglo pink and red, or bright blue and chartreuse, that were actually sawed-off decommissioned ancient U.S. school buses used for public transportation. there were as many fast-moving, jerking taxis of every description, even a few private cars, and not a few racing bicycles and motorcycles. and also there were leaning, careening small trucks and vans from which, out the windows and doors, anywhere from ten to twenty happily yelling and bouncing teens hung by a hand while standing up. a tour book i'd read before leaving the states had said such ‘colectivos’ were hired by partying groups or big extended families wanting to get away for a few hours together. the books said that every Colombian family was forever ‘big’ and ‘extended’, sammy, and that Colombians along the coast, in particular, believed that ‘life was nothing if not a party’. so apparently, that's why there were as many colectivos as buses and taxis.

 

"¡Claro!"

 

if we’d had a colectivo, i’d have STOOD UP and gotten my life, LIMB, liberty and dignity – and property, meaning a beach – back. maybe.

 

but meanwhile, celibacy and all it represented was out the window if i couldn’t get free from that damn cab.

 

"¡Claro!" 

 

 

 

 

 

4.  DON’T COMPARE COCALAND TOILETS WITH MEXICAN.

 

we'd been on packed muddy brown coastal cocaland soil an hour now, and i was ready to abandon hope. for a final vacation in this infernal vale of tears, i had picked a wound-up banana republic, when what i really needed was two weeks of rest and retirement from the world on a quiet tropical strand. a little law and order, a little higher civilization in even the barely tolerable level of comfort i'd enjoyed in Mexico three years ago might have been acceptable. on that trip with Jaime to his hometown, a cheap room across from the bus station had come with a toilet. no toilet seat, granted, but a toilet at least. but in Colombia, judging from the pothole-y streets and the run-down nondescript structures flying by in a blur, i'd be lucky if i got a pot to piss in, or a moment to do it in.

 

as i was reflecting on this, the atmosphere brightened again. some structures looked something like buildings. there were big ones with regular walls and windows. mass housing, maybe. streets were better paved and men walked on actual sidewalks in washed pants, not mud-splashed shorts. they wore shirts even, and practically everyone was a golden rose-brown like Robbie and his family, not sub-Saharan black like they'd been along the Caribbean near the airport. suddenly we lurched into a tiny street between two rows of identical two-story yellow buildings and clunked to a stop. before i could get my bearings, i was caught in a hot press of humanity leaving the cabs, and found myself swept inside all the way to the bathroom, which i entered alone, locking the door behind me.

 

 

 

 

 

5.  HOW TO USE A COCALAND BATHROOM IN FIVE WAYS AT ONCE, SHOWER, SHAVE, SHAMPOO, SHXX, AND, ABOVE ALL, SHY AWAY.

 

i'd washed up on a bathroom, not a beach. i sat down and tried to relax, but my mind wouldn't cooperate. it saw everything and analyzed it with a hyper-critical flare. the toilet had a seat, but the shower had no stall and no curtain. to take a shower you stood in the middle of the bathroom floor, which was put together with big, accident-fractured tile-pieces – hodgepodged charmingly with equal areas of cement, no mortar – and let water spray wherever you aimed it, anywhere in the whole so-called bathroom. if you were rushed, or sick, tired and old like depressed me, it was perfect. you could do everything at once, sitting down on the can naked. the nozzle was on one end of a long rubber hose attached to a hook in such a way it could be aimed anywhere in the bathroom and would stay there for you. if you aimed right, you could accomplish your business on the can while showering and shaving; and the suds, shaving cream and dirty, sweaty water rolled off into the toilet, or disappeared down a big drain in the middle of the floor.

 

i raved at the ingenious timesaving implied by these features, and wondered why no one had thought of them in the materialistic hyper-advanced United States of America, focused forever on posh better living and creature comfort, where every important person’s time was at a premium, and where there were so, so many important persons.

 

calm, quiet waterside oasis reflection had brought non-arousal. there was a knock at the door.

 

 

 

 

 

6.  WHAT TO DO IF:  YOUR HOSTS WON’T STOP PESTERING YOU.

 

time for reverie had expired. i wasn’t allowed to fade away yet. bedlam awaited me, another heavy dose.

 

what i really wanted, sammy, was to go to the bedroom where they’d dumped my bags, and sleep or read. not because i couldn't wait to read about sexless St. Augustine and the depressing fall of Rome, but to get away from the world and everything in it. if they'd offered me that, i wouldn’t have been so grouchy.

 

i could have refused to be sociable, thereby biting the hand that fed me; but i figured they’d get tired of me soon. so i went along with it a little more.

 

i resent having to be diplomatic on vacation, sammy. i don’t want to have to make up for the damage that ignorant ‘Ugly Americans' have done around the world; or, for that matter, for the damage i could cause any second from my own ugly ignorance of a neighbor country – our BIGGEST neighbor after Canada and Mexico, about which i should have known a whole lot more, if only my people had educated me in my U. S. American grade school as to life in very important: neighbor: countries!

 

introductions were repeated. i started to get an idea of who was who. or thought so, anyway.

 

i couldn't follow the frenzied conversation until after quite a while a happy, energetic man in his thirties or forties, it was hard to tell, took to talking to me in better Spanish. he was thin and in good shape, a lighter golden rose-brown than the rest. he seemed well informed about everything and would turn up everywhere, bringing food and drinks, finding toys out of nowhere for the kids, and a place for me to put my Mexican shoulder bag in a back bedroom super-crowded with two twin beds. soon he took me on squarely, with maps and pictures of Cartagena he'd found in a bookcase in that room. he was so upbeat, sammy, if i hadn't been in coastal Colombia where life was an endless party, as the guide books said, i'd have thought he was manic-depressive on an upswing.

 

he had to be Robinson's brother-in-law. i'd heard that such a brother-in-law existed. i couldn't remember the Spanish for brother-in-law, and didn't want to ask point blank if he was married to Robbie's sister. it might have caused a row, and maybe even an international incident.

 

 

 

 

 

7.  WHAT TO DO IF:  YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THE SPANISH FOR BROTHER-IN-LAW, AND DON'T WANT AN INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT.

 

there's a reason i was worried about international incidents, sammy. one summer in college i toured Venezuela with a brass missionary band. it's a long story, how i ended up in such a religious college, on such a wild third-world trip. i may have told you the story once. anyway i was touring with conservative protestant ‘TEAM’ missionaries and knew Spanish less than now. one evening in San Cristóbal, or Mérida or some such place, San Fernando de Apure maybe, i referred to the local host's wife as his 'mujer'i'd learned the word that day, from a book called "See It and Say It in Spanish", and was practicing using the new word. it meant ‘woman’, as you know. it was a faux pas, sammy, innocent, but it caused an international row among a large group of people: the Venezuelan man in whose house we were staying, the Protestant U.S. TEAM missionaries from the United States, and all the members of their brass ensemble from Wrigley College in the Chicago suburbs, all of these people, and me too.

 

 black and old-white newspaper
              photo of 12-member Wrigley College brass ensemble 1962
              with 'Mortimer Lorenzo' holding French horn 

"one summer in college i toured Venezuela with a brass missionary band.
it's a long story, how i ended up in such a religious college, on such a wild third-world trip"

part of the story of how mj lorenzo ended up at Wrigley is told in his first book, The Remaking


'Mortimer' Lorenzo (as he was known pre-Remaking-fame)
with Wrigley College brass ensemble 1962

a photo salvaged digitally from the Wrigley campus rag
(with regrettable scars from the operation)
 

so, i figured yesterday, for all i knew, Robbie's sister and this hyperactive man had lived together, maybe had some children, and never married, and didn't want it mentioned with family and gringo present. after my experience in Venezuela, i wasn't going to go through that again and ask if they were married, or if she was his wife, or rather just his mujer, his woman; and nothing Efrén said to me helped sort it out. so i tried a different approach. i asked if he was the father of the wound up black-haired little four-year-old brown boy, Jesús, who acted like he lived there. i got a 'No' and was left with the impression the poor guy was not Robbie's brother-in-law, or the head of the house we were in either, as he acted. i should have just shut up but later i put the question in a different way, i don’t remember how, and everything stopped.

 

 

 

 

 

8.  RELAX.  MAKE MADHOUSE YOUR PERSONAL HEALING WORKSHOP.

 

it reminded me of your HIV workshops in Abiquiu, sammy. you used to warn, so therapeutically, so shamanistically, that at some magical point after a healing community formed, there would come a moment when all at once, collectively, the members would grasp their ‘collective healing assignment’, whatever it was. every healing group had its ‘unique healing assignment in space and time’, you'd say. and yesterday when i asked who the little kid was, all the people in the packed little room stopped and went silent. fifty radios in the neighborhood blasted fifty different Caribbean songs, mainly vallenato, the coastal folk rap. but the rest was an unusual silence, and in that din which coastal Colombians call quiet, meaning they've gone from talking all at once to unison shocking silence, making you tense, Robbie introduced me again with fanfare, extra carefully this time, to each one in the room. the whole Rivera family grasped the healing assignment, i think: they would be mated for two weeks with a befuddled sourpuss, a paleface gringo, mj lorenzo, for better or worse. i saw it too. our vastly different worlds would crash in the night like Iceberg and Titanic.

 

and the Colombians were not the partying Titanic. they were the partying Iceberg. happily they floated on the ocean, just sitting there, a continent unto themselves, and would be left unscathed by the crash, because they couldn't sink any closer to the earth than they already were. i was the doomed Titanic, too big and important, and too perfect and indestructible for my own good, and would sink until unrecognizable as me. that’s the ‘healing’ plan i saw in their eyes, sammy, and i was dead set against it and still am.

 

that’s one more reason to get out of here and get to a quiet place by myself.

 

Robbie introduced 'Efrén', the energetic one, as his cuñado or brother-in-law, husband of Brenda, Robbie's closest sister. it was their apartment we were in. as for Brenda, she was thirtyish and not bad, considering her face was oddly shaped like every face i'd seen since landing.

 

it was bewildering, sammy. nobody looked like North American Anglo gringos at all, so it was hard to get a fix on what was good looking and not.

 

not that it mattered. somebody else might think a good-looking world would be a better one. i wasn’t fooled.

 

 

 

 

 

9.  WHAT TO DO IF:  YOU MEET A SWEET AND MILD FATHERLESS BOY NAMED JESUS, AS YOU CERTAINLY WILL IF YOU TRAVEL PROPERLY, THERE ARE SO MANY IN COCALAND.

 

as for the feisty little muscular four-year-old, Jesús, his name sounded more holy and respectful in Spanish than in English. it wasn't GEE-zuss. it was Hey-SEUSS! as in Zeus or Dr. Seuss. i still didn’t know who on earth he belonged to, but with a name like that, it had to be somebody special.

 

i had the sense to avoid that question too. i was sure, at one point, that little Hey-Seuss was presented as the son of Efrén and Brenda, yet he never came home with them last night, and has no identifiable bed in the house, unless their two little girls always sleep in one of the two twin beds and he in the other, the one they've given me in this back bedroom where Efrén first put my bags, where i've slept all night. it's the only other bedroom in the apartment besides the parents'. as i said, Hay-Seuss, or Jesús, had been denied as suyo, or his own, when i'd asked Efrén if he was his, but i didn't know whether to believe that either. i was diffident of my Spanish, and might have said something other than what i'd thought, or he might have too.

 

during the forties and fifties when i was growing up, naming a baby for God's firstborn and model son was grounds for a lynching in some parts of the USA. i guess that's why as the afternoon wore on yesterday and i became more tired and irascible, a conviction took hold that little Jesús had been given the name for a special reason. this brown-eyed tyke had a miraculous, ineffable origin, like the original Jesus. he had neither mother nor father in the normal sense. how on earth he had arrived, no one could put into common words. i'm prone to insights like this at times, as you know, sammy, especially after reading parts of Augustine's City of God, and usually i'm right.

 

if you can’t make sense of the world as it is, make up a story, as they say.

 

or: as i say, anyway.

 

Cartagena branch of family
              with markers for Robbie, Yazmín, Brenda,
              Efrén and Hey-Seuss 

“Hey-Seuss was denied as being ‘his’ when i asked Efrén”

 

 

 

 

10.  EVEN SPANISH SEA-CAPTAINS DEAD 250 YEARS CAN TEACH YOU A LESSON.

 

i was dying to get away but they weren’t through with me yet! Efrén, spreading his maps on the scratched dining table, showed me the route we had taken to his house from the airport, past the Plaza de Torosno, he said: we had not gone close to downtown. that would come later. yes, the area around the airport was blacker and poorer than his own.

 

Efrén showed me on his map the neighborhood we were in, ‘Blas de Lezo’, named for a Spanish sea captain whose whole life Efrén saw as important enough to recount in detail. the captain had lost a leg, an eye, and an arm, one in each of three famous frays he had fought in, for the Spanish crown.

 

in other words, like the mj lorenzo you and i used to know, sammy, Blas wanted to save the world. to him this meant saving not all of Western civilization, let alone the whole planet full of humanity, like i used to want to do, but just the Spanish empire, because the Spanish empire WAS his whole world.

 

de Lezo's case, like mine, illustrated how DOWN trying to save the world could get you. years later in 1741 Blas decided to answer one more call, this time to defend Cartagena against the English. he had to know it made no sense, in a way, for he was older and more handicapped by injury than ever. but, if the English took the key city of Cartagena, where the Spanish stored New World silver and gold before shipping it to Spain, then all of South America, not just Cocaland, maybe the whole Spanish American empire might topple to the Anglo gringos. it was a grave situation.

 

Blas, the fool, won the battle against such tremendous odds, that they made him City Father of Cartagena for ever and ever. and guess what? this time Blas had lost not his other leg, arm or eye, but his voice. so, the day they made him city father with great ceremony, he couldn't stand up there and say, "thank you, dear honored sirs and fellow citizens." he was very reserved at the ceremony, sammy, very reserved. he didn't stand up and bow even once. he didn't even motion a thank-you with his peg leg either, poor guy.

 

because he was stiff in a coffin.

 

as i've said for a year now, wanting to save the world from self-destruction can get you DOWN, sammy. you can't get more down than dead.

 

impregnable 18th century San Felipe
              fort in Cartagena, burro cart in foreground 

old San Felipe fort in Cartagena de Indias, built during 16-1700s, now a tourist site

 

Efrén’s hero Blas de Lezo

defended Spain’s sea interests in many naval battles in the Old World and the New

and was seriously injured at least three times then lost his life in 1741 (age 54)

as a result of defending this fort and the rest of Cartagena de Indias against the English[15]

 

 

 

 

 

11.  WHAT TO DO IF:  YOU THINK YOU ARE ON THE WAGON AND THEY HAVE TO GO AND TOAST YOU WITH EXTREMELY SPECIAL, COLD ITALIAN WHITE WINE.

 

after all that excitement about Blas de Lezo, i was ready for a nap, but couldn't walk away from a heated presentation that never stopped. in connection with sea captains and saving the world, Efrén explained he was a sailor in the Colombian Navy and lived in naval housing. that, i figured, explained naming a neighborhood for a famous dead sea captain. it explained the comfort of Efrén's home compared with those of the rest of the family i've seen since. Efrén actually had books! a whole multi-volume Colombian encyclopedia! and a better TV and VCR, i have to admit, than mine in Denver.

 

he told me he worked on a boat docked in the city harbor, sammy, a big replica antique frigate used as floating naval academy and special Colombian embassy all at once. it hoisted real antique frigate sails and got the wind to blow it to ports all over the world. the floating ambassadorial frigate pulled in and unloaded a shipful of golden rose-brown sailors in white uniform to enliven the guest city for a night. Cocaland goodwill and spunk flowed everywhere, and to prove and celebrate this happy truth, Efrén pulled out a cold perspiring bottle of white wine he'd bought in Italy, opened it with a corkscrew like a Bleeker Street bartender, and poured cold glasses for me and him, just for starters.

 

this was a good way to hook me, for soon it was the whole bottle, and it had to be a lot for a poor Cocalander to give away, too, sammy, a whole bottle of real Italian white wine, but i couldn't ask to leave the room to nap. i couldn't say i didn't want any. that would have been a lie and my Mommie taught me not to lie.

 

but i couldn’t tell the truth either. i couldn't say, "Wow. I haven't had a drink in three years. I used to do coke and wine together. Then something went wrong and I got psychotically depressed. And a crazy shaman named Sammy took me into his 500-year-old Indian village and wouldn't let me do wine or coke. Some weird, lethal things had happened when I did them before, I do believe, things still trying to destroy my life."

 

no, sammy, none of that. i was the Colombian navy's guest of honor from the U.S. of A. so i HAD to accept the invitation and keep private woes to myself. it was important for international relations.

 

cover of brochure describing
              Efrén's Colombian Navy training ship with photos of
              sailors aligned atop frigate's sails 

actual cover of brochure describing Efren’s ambassadorial teaching ship reads:

“Training Ship ‘Glory’ 1993”     “25 Years”     “Colombia: The fatherland on the world's seas”


in other words: in 1993, on the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the ship-school’s 1968 commission

the Colombian government put out this brochure celebrating the frigate’s world-wide ambassadorial mission


"he told me he worked on a boat docked in the city harbor...

a big replica antique frigate used as floating naval academy
and special Colombian embassy all at once."

 

 

 

 

 

12.  SEE PAST BEE-ESS TO ULTIMATE TRUTH.  DO THIS EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME.

 

while we drank away, Efrén showed me a faded bilingual picture brochure of his big sailing ship's goodwill trips, cover to cover, written in Spanish and embarrassingly wretched English.[16] last year he'd gone with the frigate to the Mediterraneanthis year the frigate had gone without him to New York City.

 

that fit like a puzzle piece with another twisted puzzle piece, a story Robbie had told me yesterday morning in Kennedy Airport about his ‘brother-in-law’ recently sending him two bottles of real Colombian aguardiente and other gifts with a frigate of some kind, care of Efrén's sailor buddy, Maximo.

 

when young Robbie, excited with innocent anticipation, went to New York harbor to claim his gifts of authentic Colombian booze from a real Colombian ship, Maximo told him the gifts had ‘disappeared’. Robbie didn't blame anyone. he was too good-natured and genetically diplomatic. but i understood at once that the aguardiente had ‘disappeared’ down Maximo's sloven gullet. he had even shared it with his sailor pals, if i had to bet.

 

now tell me, Samuel, what kind of good friend and drinking pal would do that? it's just one more proof. the world isn't worth saving. not Colombia, not mj lorenzo. and this does NOT mean i'm sick and in need of your help. you're not going to change the way i see things. neither is anyone else. i'm just tired. world-weary, as you say, and rightfully so. i need peace and quiet. i might still be a tiny bit depressed, sammy, if you insist, but that does NOT mean i can't see through bullshit to the real meaning of events.

 

i’m not going to give up seeing things as they are, just to make you feel like a more successful therapist.

 

 

 

 

 

13.  GET THESE BASICS DOWN.  MONDONGO ISN'T MENUDO.  COCALAND ISN'T MEXICO.  YOUR MOUTH ISN'T YOUR MOUTH, NOT AROUND HERE ANYWAY.

 

now i was offered a bowl of mondongo, the local equivalent of Mexican menudo. tripe soup is not my usual top pick, sammy, and once again i was not the usual polite, professorial, gentlemanly writer-doctor i used to be in Denver, before all this hit. i wouldn't have behaved as badly in the states. i might have handled it better if i hadn't been so tired of the world, but the soup came with a half lime and a side plate of white rice molded in a cup so it stood up on its plate like a flat-top mountain on an otherworldly desert, and it confused me.

 

because of the way it stood up like that so beautifully and perfectly formed, i wasn't sure what to do with the rice. Robbie was busy being a center of attention. Efrén seemed my only hope for survival in Cocaland. so i sat down by him and did everything he did. i bulldozed the flat-top mesa of rice, bit by bit, into the tripe soup like he did, squeezed the juice of a couple fresh limes over the soup’s surface as he did, squirting half of it on family, unlike him. then following his example, i stirred and guzzled down the tripe and rice like a starving coyote, though i'd just had a ham and cheese sandwich on the plane, and always have hated the slippery gummy idea of cow bowels for lunch.

 

by copying Efrén i figured i might beat the problem i'd had in Mexico, and it would buy me peace and quiet with Robbie’s family sooner. when Jaime took me to Mexico three years ago, sammy, back before i went totally to the dogs with world-weariness, i kept stuffing chicken from chicken soup into corn tortillas, the way i'd seen an old Indian couple do in a Mexican street market. i did so despite Jaime's telling me again and again it was falso, or incorrect. it caused a surprising amount of conflict. i’d done it that way at home in Denver when no Mexicans were looking, so i claimed the Mexican Indians as authenticators of my habit. but he would not accept this either. even when Jaime's family, who were ‘NOT Indians’, as he insisted, proved in their authoritative dirt yard in backwash Mexico that he was right and i was wrong, and Jaime demanded i stop, i still went on sticking juicy soup chicken into my soft little corn tortillas, rolling them up and stuffing them in my mouth like that, in their dirt yard and everywhere i went. why not? it tasted good. and whose mouth was it, anyway, theirs or mine?

 

but sometime during the day yesterday, you see, sammy, i began to realize that on this trip i'd better avoid international conflict. i traveled this far from you and the states, as i said, only to track down peace and quiet. the last thing i wanted was someone scolding me about how i ate. if we're all doomed anyway, why should we scold each other? i want to be left alone to die in peace. i decided yesterday, therefore, that from that moment on, i would try to behave better in Colombia than i had in Mexico.

 

 

 

 

 

14.  WHEN THEY FINALLY STOP PESTERING YOU, SIT DOWN AND START A JOURNAL, A STORY-GUIDE TO PARADISE, A SAINT'S CONFESSION HOW PARADISE HOOKED YOU.  PRETEND YOU’RE WRITING YOUR JOURNAL TO YOUR SHAMAN/SHRINK/FRIEND/ EDITOR/APOLOGIST.  WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, TELL HIM TO GET LOST.  IT’S EASIER TO DISMISS HIM FROM A CONTINENT AWAY.  YOU’RE ONLY PRETENDING TO GET RID OF HIM ANYWAY, AND YOU’LL FEEL BETTER.

 

so far this morning i've committed no major faux pas, but then i haven't even gotten out of bed yet. nobody has brought me coffee. nobody has even seen me. i'm worried about mistakes, and it's making me uptight, so i've stayed in bed. and when you're uptight you do stupid, undiplomatic things. Cocaland sounded like a way to get away from the U.S., sammy, but i've been uptight about coming for weeks. i'm bound to blow it.

 

you'd probably say to me right now, "You just don't want to look stupid, that's all. You worry about appearances because you don't have any real reason to live any more, any real values to care about preserving." that's the way you talk to me, sammy. do you like the way you sound?

 

well, here's my answer.

 

i admit i have no pressing reason to live. good, then maybe i'm depressed as you insist. but since almost anything in this world is possible, sammy, maybe, since my days are numbered anyway, it's really the reverse. maybe i'm glad my life is over, and that's not depressing me but making me happy. maybe i'm feeling so good, i care about these people more than you realize.

 

so put that in your peace pipe and pass it around the pueblo.

 

since you think you have the world's craziness by the tail, and can talk and think about it intelligently, i'm keeping this diary for you. i'll get it to you when i can, sammy, so you can subject it to your psycho-SHAM-AN-alysis. for months you've complained i was too quiet. you've wanted information so you could cure me. well, now you'll have it. i'll tell you all i've been keeping to myself. you can analyze it and feel full of therapeutic shaman power. you can send some of your power back my way, across the deep aqua Caribbeangood luck!

 

my own theory is that i'm not – i mean, i don't even look depressed, or disabled, any more, like i've been telling you for a while, sammy. that explains why they ripped my suitcase linings like everyone else's. i look normal, as normal as you and Racer and Robbie and these people, like nice normal people everywhere. my hair's cut. i've showered. i don't pee in my pants any more, since months ago. i'm about to tell you all the normal kinds of things i've done in the last twenty-four hours. i feel so normal, in fact, that when i get back to the states i'm going to move out and LEAVE you and your clown houseboy, Racer. i'm going back to Denver, sammy.

 

you took me to your adobe hut to un-depress me. you thought an earthy baked-mud hut at the crux of lines drawn between four cardinal earthy mountains would do it. maybe you were right. i have more energy, and i thank you and your lay lines for it. but two years is long enough to mooch off friends. your twenty-one year old shadow, Racer, has to be tired of cooking for three, when he could cook for just you and him. your tribal brothers in San Juan Pueblo have to be worn out trying to lighten up this stubborn paleface gringo. i've sucked the tribe dry, haven't i? be honest, sammy.

 

i'm being honest with you. i didn't come to Cocaland to see the people Robbie told me about for years, as i've led you to believe; or to find a reason to live, as you said should be my goal. i didn't come to pick on colombians. i was kidding about that. no, sammy, i came to see if i could live without YOU and racer. i have no plans in this place but to get away from you, to read, think, sleep, maybe kick the bucket. dying's okay.

 

i didn't come for cocaine. i shot it up to make it work better than just snorting it worked, and it still didn't numb the pain. then i learned i didn't need coke to be numb, just a good depression. now i'm tired of being numb. when death hits, i want to be un-depressed enough to feel it.

 

i didn't come to help leftist guerrillas. i protested the war in Vietnam because it was illegal and immoral. what do guerrillas want anyway? extra wealth like ours in the U.S. that saps character? voting rights? freedom of expression? where did expressing myself get me? where did all the education used for helping psychiatric patients get me? where did the freedom to type lousy self-centered books into a computer in my spare time get me? burnt out and half dead. i never saved the world. it's doomed. i never saved myself. i'm doomed too.

 

the world is not worth saving, and neither am i, whether you agree or not, sammy, so it's time you quit trying. we've had this argument before, but let's have it again. i'd rather see the world destroyed, and you and me with it, and started over from scratch. the world as we know it is on a self-destruct timer. let's get it over with, and that statement does NOT mean i'm depressed.

 

"You're definitely depressed!" you always say. "If you're not depressed, why are you so cranky? You need help, mj lorenzo," you say. "Find a reason to live! You used to have a reason to live!"

 

do you mean when i wrote books to save the world for democracy, so we could all 'individuate' like Carl Jung, in suburban peace and quiet? that was before friends died of AIDS, before i got infected, somehow, mysteriously, before my son ruined his life and my hopes for him with cocaine. it's a long time ago and i can't remember.

 

anyway, i ask you to think about it, sammy. can a paleface gringo willing to go all the way to Cocaland to find peace and quiet, willing to live in the home of an honest-to-God plain ordinary Cocaland family and maybe even risk his life and sanity, be depressed?

 

suicidal, is more like it.

 

i'm kidding. see, my sense of humor is returning. sammy, by the end of this trip i'll prove i'm not depressed, any more than Augustine was when he said the world as he knew it was ending. then you'll finally stop worrying about me and leave me alone to die in peace.

 

"Mj lorenzo," you'd say at this point if we could talk: "You have the worst form of depression, the kind that hides as health. You dress your cranky despair in cynical jokes." that's your latest line. where did you get that line, sammy? did you read another book? "You go through the motions," you'd say, "pretending a certain amount of interest in the world and yourself, but you've really given up and have no reason to live."

 

but why would i give up? just because i'm HIV positive?

 

"No!" you raise your voice for the thousandth time: "You're not HIV positive. You're just emotionally sensitive! You have an overly creative mind," you'd say, softening your voice, trying to calm yourself down, "and people you've known and cared about have died of AIDS. That's why you THINK you're HIV positive. It's survivor's guilt," you'd say. "The fact is, you've never tested positive or had any symptoms."

 

but, as i've explained too many times, sammy, if i took the test and tested negative, that would be inaccurate. nobody knows my body like i do. anyway, i'm tired of these arguments you start. for two years we've argued and somehow all your arguing and mothering has gotten me less depressed. that's a plus, and it should be enough. i'm better now, and it's time we acknowledged it and went our separate ways.

 

maybe i don't have a reason to live. but i don't want a reason to live, sammy. i'm not made like you. i don't want to live. what i want is to be left alone, so i can exit the stage in peace.

 

that's not suicidal, or depressed. in a world like ours, where you work your rear end off, to send your son to expensive private schools and colleges so he can become a cocaine addict and get sentenced to twenty years in a California jail; in a world where you save everybody's psychiatric life and end up dying a slow ugly miserable insane death at fifty as reward; in a world that's falling down around your ears, it's just common sense.

 

so i've come here to where cocaine is king, and i'll try to write every day, as you asked, “Everything, all your feelings,” if, in the end, when the trip is over and i come back to San Juan to say good-bye, you'll please let me go without an ordeal. i have to come back to get my things, sammy. we can talk like adults a few minutes, can't we?

 

if you don't like my leaving, i'll have to go home to Denver without seeing you. you wouldn't want that. to just get a call on the phone and have to ship my things to me? and not hear from me how my trip went? and miss the pictures?

 

i don't want to argue with you any more, sammy. i have to get away so i can think for myself, and the more i argue with you, the more tied to you i feel. you'll never talk me out of my dismal view of the world. nobody will.

 

you know, sammy, a funny thing happened without you here to argue with yesterday. i managed to forget for several hours straight i brought sad and depressing books like you always read to get yourself charged up. i did as the Colombians did. instead of reading and thinking, i sat in the middle of pandemonium, staring into space like everyone here, watching TV, partying, occasionally venting, talking, asking questions, watching my Spanish improve, sammy, and only occasionally longing for peace and quiet. it was fascinating. i was so hypnotized by hubbub, i almost forgot i couldn't stand the world or anybody in it, not even myself. you see?

 

don’t you think i’m better off without you?

 

 

 

 

 

15.  WHEN THIRD-WORLD BANANA-REPUBLIC ARMED FORCES OFFER TO BE YOUR OVERNIGHT BANK, REMEMBER… BE POLITE.

 

anyway, after the tripe and rice, Robinson led the whole family into the little storage room to hand out inexpensive gifts from the states. a houseful of extended family packed themselves into one tiny room to see what wonderful things came out of his suitcase.

 

i grew up in a quiet little town on the Delaware River, sammy, as you know, in a sane little Protestant Anglo-Saxon family of four, my parents both middle-class professionals, in a big house with big rooms, and closest relatives an hour away in Philly suburbs. okay, given my last name and family Bibles, we know there were English, Irish, Scottish, Italian, French and German forebears too, and who knows who else. somehow it all got overridden through the centuries by middle-class-professional Calvinist-Methodist Anglo-Saxonism. that's the way i was raised, and it's hard to shake that kind of rearing when you're under stress, sammy, no matter how deliberately you've liberalized your education. i’m a person of quite a few liberal inclinations, but Cocaland felt a little foreign even to Anglo me yesterday. and with extended family coming out of dresser drawers, i was done in. i finally snuck away and conked out on one of the twin beds crowded into the girls' tiny room where my luggage had been placed.

 

hours later – it must have been, it was so dark – i woke in a sweat. everything was haywire. my heart pounded. the world was dying, or i was. Western civilization was ending. Anglo dominance of this world. some catastrophe was creeping up. the ‘first world’ was about to melt into history with its Bach, voting machines and designer watch bands. to get through this paranoid crisis, i had to take in everything as it was, right before my eyes, and quit trying to foresee the future. there stood Robbie in a white towel, golden rose-brown and dripping, his long black waves wet and shiny. he fretted about our having to get ready for a party with his mother, who he felt had been short-changed in the confusion. i was half asleep. straight from nightmare and cataclysm, i couldn't relate to a party at his 'wild' sister's (who hadn't even shown up for the first party so far). especially when he said it was in a 'bad' neighborhood and i should leave my passport, money, travelers checks, credit cards and everything valuable i'd brought with me to Colombia, in the naval compound with “friends of my cuñado', where it would be 'safe'.”

 

that woke me up.

 

right!!! safe, like the aguardiente they sent to New York with the Colombian navy. safe like the 400 bucks i lent him once and never got back. the cuñado, i.e. brother-in-law Efrén, and Robinson's sister Brenda, now entered the hot bedroom, adding their presence to a tiny space already overcrowded with two twin beds and a beat up dresser topped with sagging Colombian encyclopedia bookshelves. they hung over us, awaiting pleasantly an answer to this world-shaking question as Robbie and i debated it in English, sitting on opposite beds which were so close we were bumping knees. i couldn't think under so much international pressure. i asked Robbie in English to get us five minutes of privacy.

 

once we had talked and he was dressed, i was calmer and better oriented. i would stay in the apartment for the evening, i said. i could read in peace and quiet about the end of Roman civilization, and think about parallels to now.

 

Robbie left. i waited.

 

he came back with the news that everyone was going to the party. he wasn't being dictatorial. he just let me know kindly, that i could not stay in the house alone. i knew him. i wanted to argue but it would be useless. it wasn't my house or family. i had to respect my hosts and their rules and wishes. worst of all, i had to entrust my valuables to the Colombian armed forces.

 

none of this could have been foreseen in San Juan Pueblo, sammy. if so, i'd have stayed with you. i had to adapt.

 

i asked for privacy to think in peace about which valuables i was willing to part with forever, by leaving them with Colombian armed forces, and which to keep on my person, to defend when held up on the muddy street in a 'bad' neighborhood. my valuables were hidden under clothes on my body at the time, in several complexly located money belts. to contemplate their contents i had to undress. hoping no one would barge in through the unlockable door, but deciding if they did, it was their own dumb fault for not providing a lock, i tried to think it through as i stood between the twin beds naked, my ugly protruding belly blocking view of everything below. i untangled the most deeply hidden money belt from my jockeys, and thought hard.

 

some catastrophe was inevitable, but which one was more likely: to be robbed on the street, or to be robbed by Efrén's Navy buddies? it was a toss-up. so i divided my assets. i took twenty dollars in Colombian pesos that Brenda had already exchanged for me; my passport, against Robbie’s advice; ten U.S. dollars cash; and sixty dollars in travelers checks. i left behind my VISA card, Master Card, two American Express cards, personal and business, and a Sears card; eight hundred dollars in travelers checks; and a hundred in American cash; plus return plane tickets via Bogotá and New York to Santa Fe, N.M. i listed everything i was about to give to Brenda on a piece of paper, and stuck the paper in a secret spot in my wallet. the passport i put in a money belt hanging inside my safari shorts on the right hip, tied into the jockeys.

 

if they nabbed me in the bad neighborhood, if they searched me and yanked hard, they'd get my passport and the family jewels, which i’d forsworn the use of anyway. the passport would be worth more than life itself to an average Cocalander. i'd have two weeks to recover from castration, find a U.S. Embassy and get a new passport in time – maybe – to make the plane home.

 

that’s how i figured out what to leave and what to take, sammy.

 

if someone drugged and kidnapped me on the way to the party and dug deep, found the money belt, disentangled it and looked inside, they'd know they had a U.S. citizen, male; and who to contact for ransom.

 

 

 

 

 

16.  YOU'RE NOT PARANOID.  THEY REALLY ARE TRYING TO STEAL YOUR PASSPORT.

 

'kidnapped'?

 

for twenty-four hours, sammy, i've been telling Robbie that Colombia feels less safe than Mexicoas i think i told you, i've traveled in Mexico three times and have always carried passport, credit cards and travelers checks hidden on me, and i've never been robbed. it comforts a traveler when the information about a third-world country is mixed, good and bad, like fair and accurate info from any country should be. that's how the impressions of Mexico, for instance, seem to have added up over the years. our personal acquaintance with mariachi bands and smothered burritos in restaurants in Denver and Santa Fe, somehow takes the sting out of Mexican earthquakes and assassinations.

 

whereas we've never known anything of the simple daily routine, or the good news about Colombia, if there was any. in the U.S. the only ‘good’ news from Cocaland has been its coffee, world class soccer, and García Márquez' strange novel, "Hundred Years of Solitude." and Robbie Rivera, of course. everything else, 99.9%, has been very, very bad: earthquakes; landslides; drug wars; guerrilla wars; and so on. catastrophe sells papers, but in the case of Colombia there has been no exaggeration.

 

one time that i remember, the capital, Bogotá, was in U.S. headlines for days, sammy, because leftist guerrillas took over the supreme court building and held the justices captive. then someone decided the way to discourage guerrillas from such nonsense in the future was to destroy the building – guerrillas, justices and all. if you wiped the guerrillas out you'd teach everyone a lesson they'd never forget. the justices and buildings you could replace, but if guerrillas got the upper hand, you’d lose your country, and that couldn’t be replaced. this was the logic, apparently. so that’s what they did!!!!!! in the U.S. the newspaper reading public ate it up: except for coffee, soccer and García Márquez, Cocaland was a crazy mindfucking place!

 

even García Márquez wasn't very reassuring, though. why had he felt safer writing his strange prizewinning novel about Colombia in Mexico, so far away from his homeland, coastal Colombia? you had to wonder. when you thought about it, that book was good news for Colombia only for its having won the Nobel Prize in Literature, not for the story it contained which, though artfully told, implied that Cocaland was a bizarre planet unto itself, hurtling through space, spinning through crazy barbaric war after crazy barbaric revolution, heading straight toward mindless oblivion.

 

and as for soccer, when that great Cocaland fútbol star kicked the soccer ball apparently accidentally into the enemy's goal during a World Cup championship game, the reaction was not subtle. when he got home to Colombia they greeted him enthusiastically with assassination.

 

which meant the only ‘good’ news from Cocaland was coffee.

 

and Robbie.

 

i told Robbie these impressions of mine yesterday morning on the plane over Haitii just wanted him to acknowledge there might be danger, but he said my impressions of Colombia were 'in my head'.

 

"I know," i told him. "But what's in my head is important. I have to live with my head." i’ve always respected my head, sammy.

 

i proceeded to show him my Colombian tour books. they and newspapers all explained how my head had gotten that way, i said, meaning alarmed.

 

how? he asked, could i get reliable information about his country from books and newspapers written in the statesif the books had been any good he'd have heard of them, and he hadn't. i should just relax. and have a good time.

 

like he read the New York Times Book Review every Sunday, cover to cover? he doesn’t even read the Colombian papers available in New York. i didn’t say this though.

 

"Of course you haven't heard of the books," i said. "You're traveling to your own country, not someone else's. These tour books are written for gringos who know nothing about Colombia. They're good, well respected, reliable books."

 

as we flew over the western tip of Haiti, avoiding Communist Cuban air space like the plague, then crossed the deep aqua Caribbean toward Cartagena, i read aloud to him: 'Certain land journeys are best not undertaken at night, or avoided altogether, because of the risk of ambush by guerrillas (the road from Bucaramanga to Santa Marta, for example, should be avoided).'[17]

 

"We don' go that way," he said in English corrupted by coastal Colombian accent.

 

"All roads might be like that," i said.

 

"Yazmín take the bus," he said.

 

when speaking English, Robbie for years has used mostly present tense, first person singular, sammy, because when we got to Denver and i enrolled him in a free English class for illegal aliens in the First Presbyterian church basement, he dropped out before they got to past tense and second and third person. after a few months helping me in the apartment, cooking and cleaning when not in English school, he had decided he would rather work in a Mexican restaurant and win his independence from papá mj. no matter how i reasoned with him, English past tense was past tense forever.

 

"Your mother," i said to him on the plane, not having seen her yet, "is probably little and brown and undistinguished, and all she possesses in this world is a pig on a rope. So they leave her alone!"

 

over the years, because of all the things he'd said about her, i'd formed a picture. she was tiny from a rice diet, but overweight from retaining water, and feeble. she had a heart condition, partly because she would fatten a pig on kitchen garbage for months, then drag it on a rope behind her onto the third-world bus from the savannah countryside to the beach city of Cartagena when she visited her daughters at Easter and Christmas. the pig would be bigger than she was. in order not to waste an ounce of saturated fat and cholesterol, the family in the city would chow down the pig for days. then, larded up with grease in every cell of her body, her constitution strengthened by pork protein to withstand the ordeal, Yazmín would go to the hospital and get the kind of cardiology tests she could find only in the city, the ones she needed now more than ever.

 

i said to Robbie, "She blends in and doesn't have anything worth robbing more than a fatted pig," and i showed him the Fodor guide, page 336:[18] 'Don't accept gifts of food, drink, cigarettes or chewing gum from strangers, especially on bus journeys; there have been reports of travelers being drugged and relieved of their valuables in this way'. The drug in question, said another book, was scopolamine.

 

"My great aunt she teach me that in Santisima Cruz," he said.

 

without past tense or third person his English sounded ridiculous, sammy.

 

"When I five."

 

well, if he had been in possession of this knowledge since age five, why didn't he understand my preoccupation? i'd have to hammer away until the point got through.

 

i read aloud: "'Water in Bogotá and Medellín is heavily chlorinated and safe enough to drink, but rely on bottled or bagged water in other parts of the country.' That means Cartagena," i said.

 

"Yazmín drink the water."

 

"Your mother has drunk the water her whole life. She's immune," i said. "Remember, I have immune problems. Remember?" it made me mad to have to mention it in public, sammy.

 

he dropped it and i did too, for the time being, so we could fly over the Caribbean in peace. i don't have immune problems yet, i know. but if they're coming any day, why push my luck?

 

i don't think Robbie believes i'm HIV positive any more than you do. you talked to him, didn't you? you found his number in my little book, called him in Queens and told him you didn't think i was HIV positive. it was 'all in mj's head', you probably said. my only real problem was finding a reason to live, you told him. that would explain why he dismissed me so easily on the plane, saying it was 'all in my head'. it wasn't like him, sammy.

 

after a few minutes i couldn't stand the silence. i had to show him the Cadogan guide, like i'd shown you.

 

i read aloud from page 164: 'Colombia is a place of reveries, most of them romantic, many misplaced, but none innocent or inattentive’.[19]

 

i'd underlined those last words before i left the U.S., sitting in your five hundred year old adobe hut with its low ceiling: 'none innocent or inattentive'.

 

and i showed him the paperback that called itself a Colombian SURVIVAL KIT and discussed SECURITY for a full three and a half pages, including burundanga which the Colombians slip into your Diet Pepsi to make you sleepy and forgetful while they do whatever they want to you. it didn't say if this was the same as scopolamine.[20]

 

i could not get a rise out of Robbie no matter what. he was not going to admit there was DANGER in his country, and that was it.

 

you're probably wondering, sammy: if i'm practically suicidal as i claim, or about to die of AIDS anyway, then why care if i'm drugged and kidnapped and tortured? well, it matters because when i go, sammy, i want to decide how and when. i want it to be easy, direct and palpable. civilized.

 

then why vacation in Cocaland, of all places? you ask.

 

i've answered that already. to get away from you and racer.

 

and by the way, sammy, that's the depressing thing about HIV. victims sit around knowing no treatment can beat it, and the journey to death will leave them ugly and uncivilized for months or years. they'll be stripped of civilized dignity.

 

you had to leave that book on the dining room table last month, didn't you, 'Dying with Dignity'.[21]  that proves you believe i'm doomed. usually you pretend not to believe i'm doomed, sammy, because you hold that positive thinking is better, but it's not. reality is better and you know it. that's why, maybe unconsciously, you left that book about dignified dying sitting around.

 

"You don't have HIV anyway," you always say, "but if you should get it, by then they'll have a treatment for it."

 

and in the meantime, slowly dying with dignity, i should find a reason to live. who's messed up here, sammy?

 

 

 

 

 

17.  BLEND IN AT THE FLEA MARKET.  LIKE A PILLAR NOT A PILE DRIVER!

 

11 am, back at the apartment.

 

anyway, today Robbie whispered, "Stay by me! Watch! Watch!"

 

this was in the teeming indoor flea market a little while ago.

 

“¡Pilas pilas!” he whispered forcefully.

 

i studied my pocket dictionary, following him while he walked around picking out potatoes and yuca, and this word pilas seemed to mean something like, 'make like a fencepost and fade in'. fade in like the soldiers in green fatigues everywhere. concentrate your mental powers, in other words. disappear. dissimulate.

 

how, now, sammy, surrounded by a throng of cheaply dressed golden rosy brown Cocaland children, brown rambunctious teens and brown pregnant girls carrying brown sleeping babies in a poor brown city barrio flea market, can a white gringo American psychiatrist with graying light hair, FADE IN reading a Spanish-English dictionary while walking, knobby knees poking between safari shorts and French white designer socks? huh?

 

hardly a single Cartagena native male wears shorts. 

 

besides, it's against my principles of rudeness to fade in. free speech and all that.

 

i said, "Are you gonna knock their lights out when they grab my wallet, all ten thousand of them?"

 

Robbie may talk like a tough Cocalander, sammy, but he's not one of them, as i see it – in size, just to mention one way. something in the stateside hamburgers made him grow. for thirteen years he grew, through his twenties and thirties, higher and wider, softer and rounder. until now, he's bigger than a fatted bull. but he's not violent, thanks partly to the great aunt who raised him. he can talk though. i don't know if all Cocalanders are like him, but Robbie can talk his way out of just about anything, even using exclusively present-tense first-person English.

 

i can't do that in Spanish. that's the point. and that's what made me nervous even before we left the states, sammy. here i am completely dependent on Robbie Rivera for survival. i lost the knack for depending on others for survival ages ago, way back when i became a father and breadwinner. i'm not used to it, as you know from your own experience.

 

i said, "You don't know Colombia any better than I do."

 

he doesn't read the paper!

 

on the plane while i read the Bogotá paper El Espectador cover to cover, pulling out my pocket dictionary anxiously to translate the latest kidnapping by guerrillas in detail, Robbie calmly watched the movie, "Baby's Day Out," as if telling me to relax like him. or maybe he meant like the baby, who escaped kidnappers again and again, crawling the streets and construction sites of Chicago without injury, in a state of goo-goo delight, making it home to frantic Ma-ma and Da-da finally in one smiling, unconcerned piece.

 

meanwhile, in the same 'department' or ‘state’ that we're in, called 'Bolívar', says today's local paper, El Universal, which i picked up at the flea market: only two hundred miles away from us – according to Efrén's map – ELN guerrillas finally released the mayor of Achí they kidnapped a few months back.[22]

 

"I didn't know that," said Robbie when i showed him this paper coming back from downtown just now. he was surprised.

 

i said, "That's because you and your family talk and talk wherever you are, and never read, and when the news is on, you don't pay attention."

 

he didn't argue. he's easy to get along with.

 

obviously i never should have come here, sammy, but Robbie invited me when i was desperate to get out of your clutches, and i accepted.

 

maybe you called him and put him up to it, sammy. did you? suddenly i think so. you thought such a trip might un-depress me, didn't you?

 

it’s not hard to see that i don’t know how to find peace and quiet. i’m running around the world like a beheaded chicken, running from you, running from everybody here, looking for respite, unable to find a family who will give it to me, when i should just retire somewhere out of the way, and wait for the peace and quiet that comes with death.

 

 

 

 

 

18.  DETECTING GRACEFULLY THEN SHAKING OFF COCALAND MAFIOSI.

 

i brought one other tour guide with me, sammy. the Frommer guide. which says the big cities of Bogotá, Cali and Medellín are all unsafe due to "bombings" and the "running battle between the government and the drug cartels."[23] And, they add, ”It's inadvisable to wander around the city of Cartagena after dark.”

 

this didn't worry Robbie, apparently, because it was well after dark when we left the safety of Cartagena’s armed forces housing, and wandered around toward the 'bad part' of Cartagena and the party, in the dark. i had a bad feeling, too. i felt gauche and cranky, and it wasn't my fault. i'd asked to be left alone in the apartment, and they'd refused. something bad was going to happen to me and they’d be responsible, not me, for ruining the party.

 

we jogged across the busy street outside Efrén and Brenda's little flat to hail a taxi from the opposite sidewalk. just as the tour books warned, a man with a husky Bronx accent came right up to me in the dark while we waited, and identified himself as American. how happy he was to see another U.S. American! he never even asked if i was 'American', just walked up and informed me, whether i cared or not, he was a U.S. American married to a Colombian. he proved this, and proved he was a Bronx goose too, by pointing to his golden rose-brown wife and their golden rose-brown children all trailing behind him in a line like golden rose-brown goslings. he asked where i was putting up and i said, "With friends, in the military complex across the street."

 

"Watch out," he said huskily, "for those military people."

 

right there on the dark sidewalk outside Efrén's, with Efrén and Brenda standing right there, sammy, this Bronx mafioso suggested i distrust my hosts.

 

i froze.

 

he said, again huskily, "I mean it."

 

what a pushy nuisance. it didn’t bode well. i jumped to Brenda's side as if remembering something of importance, but really to lose him. only to run into him a few minutes later at a bigger intersection we walked to.

 

the automobiles they consider cabs in Cartagena, sammy, are literally half as big as the roomy Pontiac Grand Prix's in New York, or even less than half. Colombian cabbies in Cartagena, no matter how many little mouths they have to feed at home, refuse sometimes to take four adults and three children in a single load, fearing they’ll scrape bottom hitting potholes. they pass you by, hoping for a smaller party. this was happening to us, so we had to walk to a more major intersection that was even less well lit.

 

the Bronx goose with so many goslings in a line must have had the same problem. he was there too. across the big intersection, he croaked, “Hey, American!"

 

i looked harder for a taxi.

 

"He doesn't want to talk!" he croaked so loudly the whole dirt intersection heard. or it may have just seemed loud because the background was a cacophony of motors, dog barks and Spanish gibberish, and his voice was a distinct, ugly, American voice from a definite New York borough. every rude English word was unnervingly clear.

 

this really did not augur well, sammy. if i'd stayed with you, or in Efrén and Brenda’s apartment, it wouldn’t have happened. a back room anywhere in the world would have sufficed, but here i was, force-marched on a tour of dark nighttime Cocaland, assailed on all sides by a nation who made the drug that ruined my son and maybe me, if not my country entire, when that was exactly what i'd left the U.S. to forget.

 

just then Brenda talked a passing cabbie into holding her younger daughter in his lap as he drove. think of that. just think of it, sammy, in the driver’s lapbecause he was willing to hold her, all of us including little Jesús himself, could squeeze into the small cab with our gifts and avoid doubling the ‘terrible cost’ and splitting up the ‘wonderful party’ by resorting to two cabs.[24] i jumped in first, as usual, and ended up happily squashed between the far door and Robbie's mother, holding a gift in my lap – an unwrapped abstract painting Robbie had bought from a ‘famous artist’, a waiter friend in New York, for fifty bucks. happily, i say, because i was safe from the Bronx goose.

 

needless to say, with crowding and heat, i reacted sexually just like the other cab ride. but it seemed a trifle, given we were headed for a nighttime party in hell. part of me felt secure, it was nice to know. i just wished all of me did. 

 

2 hens and a dozen following chickies
              cross an empty eroding dirt street in Pozón 

"his golden rose-brown wife and their golden rose-brown children
all trailing behind him in a line like golden rose-brown goslings"


typically un-busy, daytime poor-barrio Colombian thoroughfare with -- ? -- in this case

not goose and goslings, but hen and baby chickies

 

 

 

 

 

19.  DETAILED GUIDELINES FOR TOURING AN OVERPOPULATED MUD BARRIO AFTER DARK.  DISCREETLY.  IN DISNEYLAND SAFARI SHORTS AND WHITE DESIGNER SOCKS.

 

we got out of the taxi and Efrén, so quickly aware of my interest in such things, explained we were in a ‘poorer neighborhood’ again. it wouldn't have been hard to guess, sammy, what with a press of humanity in the nighttime mud dirt streets where we walked, between rows of dimly lit dilapidated, so-called, ‘houses’; what with the fact that individuals showed every combination of black, white and rosy golden-brown that individuals could be, a phenomenon many white suburban honkies of my generation tended to associate with poverty and bad neighborhoods, getting adrenalin chills up the spine. the feeling of poverty and chaotic congestion was aggravated by – of course – loud music from boom boxes everywhere, no two on the same Caribbean paean, mostly vallenato; dismal street darkness that nobody could afford to illuminate; and the presence underfoot, in the hot sticky wailing darkness, of barro or, in plain English, M_U_D, pocked with lakes of water, brown and mucky from an afternoon rainy-season downpour. we went single file in the dark, stepping from soggy earth mound to earth mound of sog, then, to avoid the worst muck, weaving up onto areas which, under most U.S. or so-called better circumstances, would have been considered private yards or porches. inhabitants on their open-air dirt and grass – would-be – porches either politely invited us through or sat silently, staring at our winding human train for some reason.

 

the men of the barrio looked undressed without socks, sammy, yet they wore shirts and long pants even in that much heat and humidity. i was sweating in the coolest, most appropriate thing i had, safari shorts i'd bought with Jaime in Disney World three years back, in the store you pass through exiting ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ – which should have been exactly the right attire on that basis alone – and my tropical flowery short-sleeved acrylic shirt bought at Mervyn's on sale, also with Jaime; and my classy white golf sneakers and white French designer socks, with fancy little doodad designs on the sides, pushed down to the ankles. Efrén, walking military point, put one foot in a mud bog to the ankle and when it wouldn't pull out he nearly fell over. i had brown spots on my white socks and white sneakers, and we all had cakes of mud dropping off our soles when we walked through the wide open front door – to my surprise – of Robbie's mother's house.

 

i couldn't believe that once upon a time during the planning stages of the trip, sammy, back in the states, Robbie had thought we'd stay night and day for two weeks in this cinderblock hut in a ‘bad’ ramshackle Cocaland mudhole barrio. what was wrong with him?!

 

several
              cinderblock huts along a Pozón littered street with
              barely clad children playing

"once upon a time during the planning stages of the trip, back in the states
Robbie had thought we'd stay night and day for two weeks in this cinderblock hut
in a ‘bad’ ramshackle Cocaland mudhole barrio.  what was wrong with him?!"
 

‘Pozón’, Robbie’s mother’s neighborhood in Cartagena

 

 

 

 

 

20.  SUDDENLY IT HITS YOU THAT RIGHT HERE IN YOUR OWN HOST’S FAMILY, LAND SAKES, THERE’S ACTUALLY RAMPANT RACIAL MIXING.  WHAT THE FLIP IS UP WITH THAT?  YOUR HOST NEVER EVEN MENTIONED IT.

 

we sat and stared into space again or talked in Spanish. there was a new sister, Adriana, maybe the one supposedly having a party somewhere; and there were what seemed to be all her kids, including one that looked very black, a little girl. Robbie gave this one a lot of surprised attention and talked about the little girl's color openly with all and any listening.

 

"How dark she is!" he went on in English, as he pressed on her baby black cheeks with knuckles, squeezing her kinky black hair between thumb and forefinger with fascination. she went along with it, maybe because she couldn't understand English and thought he was being affectionate. "This is my sister Mariela's daughter!" he said, unconfusing me. Mariela was the 'wild' sister supposedly having a party somewhere, whom we still hadn't met.

 

Robbie had never seen his nieces and nephews before, i had to remind myself.

 

"Her father is oscuro," he said to me, in awe.

 

i was fighting to keep rudeness to a minimum, so thought it better not to ask if oscuro meant obscure ‘Black’, as the word often meant in Spanish, or obscure ‘shady and mysterious’, as if the girl was somehow an unspeakable mistake, as his reaction implied, at least to me. but Efrén came by later, sat down, and explained all this as if he'd watched me and read my thoughts. her father was moreno, he explained.

 

yes. today, fortunately, i'm fully educated and reformed and realize this word moreno means – at least, in these parts, it seems to mean – quite, quite dark, apparently without thought to the racial or geographic or even parental source of the darkness. as if you went to the store and bought 'tulips, mixed' and they came up out of the earth all the wonderful colors in the picture on the package, some being quite wonderfully dark or moreno. this was the relaxed, innocent way poor coastal Cocalanders seemed to think about skin color and race of their very own children! but last night i was still thinking as a stupid U.S. American gringo, and figured moreno meant European white, TAINTED by African black blood, in the blockheaded perpetually racially conscious, and even prejudiced, U.S. American way of thinking. in other words: mulatto.

 

"Claro," i said, thinking i'd learned something.

 

 

 

 

 

21.  PARTY LIKE A COCALANDER.  SHARE AN AGUARDIENTE CUP WITHOUT GETTING MORE HIV THAN YOU GIVE.

 

finally everybody got up except, i think, Robbie's mother, brother and sister-in-law, and we headed outside. again we traipsed mud streets with poor lighting. i had no idea where we were headed. i was as good as hypnotized on burundangaif anyone i knew in the states had seen me, they’d have thought the family had kidnapped and drugged me. i was doing unspeakable things against my will, without the slightest objection. i never even asked where we were going.

 

after a couple of blocks weaving between mud puddles, Efrén wanted to know if i wondered where Robbie was.

 

"Yes, where is he?" i wondered aloud, in a daze. i hadn't even missed him. i was hypnotized by intense human activity and music and i was profoundly concentrated on mud, and how to avoid it.

 

"He went for a walk," said Efrén, or at least it was as much as i understood him to say. somehow i got the idea we were going for a walk to look for Robbie. he did seem to have disappeared. it was eight o'clock, long since dark, yet disproportionately hot for the late hour. the air was very close. the 'streets', which knew only people traffic, no vehicles in this dangerous and impoverished mud barrio, were positively teeming with people at this evening hour now, winding in and out of puddles and mud in antlike files like we were. all the raw wooden shanties and little unpainted concrete and cinderblock dwellings were lit up with dim naked light bulbs. upbeat plaintive vallenato – the only Caribbean music i've ever heard with so much fine lively accordion, sammy – poured every which way, making a normal person’s head spin.

 

after countless blocks of miserable muddy third-world poverty and mesmerizing vallenato pouring dizzyingly every which way, Efrén pointed at one more totally typical small porch full of five men leaning back in hard high-back chairs, drinking, and said, "There is the party."

 

we walked up and were greeted by a happy, enthusiastic, probably inebriated young man of about thirty-five holding a half-gallon of silvery liquor in one hand and a tiny see-through plastic cup in the other. we were immediately offered some. this was Mariela's man, presumably father of the very, very dark little girl. he had rather tightly kinked hair like the little girl's, but his facial features were more Caucasoid than Negroid, and his glowing dark chocolate face had a rosy tinge in the cheeks, as if he'd worked in the sun all day, or drunk some alcohol, or both. Robbie came out from the back of the house. i joined him and Efrén, and sat down in a chair on the porch and leaned back as if i thought i could fade into the straight row of dark drinking men all leaning back in their chairs, and swig aguardiente unnoticed.

 

eventually i realized there was only one tiny plastic see-through cup for the whole party.

 

however, when the host first gave me the shot-size see-through plastic cup, i held onto it for a while and sipped it leisurely. when i'd finally finished off the last drop of sweet, throat-shrinking licorice, the coastal Colombian liqueur they call ‘aguardiente’, i put the tiny cup on the porch under my chair thinking it was mine. after all, he'd given it to me. but later he came around with the bottle for a new round and i looked under my chair for ‘my cup’ and it was gone.

 

was the tiny little throwaway cup everybody's cup? hadn't i seen it at some point passed from one person to another? and there it was now, in his hand. when in Carthage, should one necessarily do as the Carthaginians did, even if it was risky health-wise?

 

just at that moment a vallenato came on with excited lyrics, "Yo soy Colombiano!!!!" a song so vivifying no one could keep from shouting with the music. "I am Colombian!!!!!" in the middle of this unabashed patriotism they handed me a cup. i didn't want to spit on Colombia, so i put the cup to my lips heroically, downed it patriotically, and handed it back. now i felt like a Colombian. the same cup was passed to each one in turn quickly, and i was rewarded immediately with thoughts of diarrhea, candida, herpes, TB, meningitis, rheumatic fever, typhus, malaria, dengue, and a foreign strain of HIV virus compounding the one i already had.

 

the cup returned again and again, every five or ten minutes. each time it looked dirtier, but it was probably 'in my head'. each time i put it to my lips and swigged harder than the last, getting drunker and more Colombian with every swig. between swigs i'd tell myself it was the fastest way to go, it served me right, it was what i'd always wanted anyway, to die drinking like a Colombian. i worried myself nigh unto diarrhea then told myself that thoughts of lethal germs were unfounded scientifically. i had to calm down or i'd pass out with hysteria, and cause an international scene.

 

later, when i was finally in bed, in peace and quiet, and could think rationally again, sammy, i realized i could have swigged all night, dumping it down, simply without touching cup to lips. i should have thought of it sooner. what was wrong with me? that must have been how everyone in Cocaland avoided HIV.[25]

 

and do you know, sammy, it wasn't until just this minute, writing to you, that i really saw the light. it's embarrassing. humiliating, really. it occurred to me now, for the first time, that my state of health in body, mind and spirit, might have been a greater threat to theirs, than theirs to mine.

 

does that make me a white Yankee arrogant asshole or something?

 

but do i care though?  that's the question.

 

 

 

 

 

22.  ALWAYS ACCEPT CHICKEN AND RICE FROM STARVING SISTERS.

 

the hostess, Mariela, Robbie's skin-and-bone 'wild' sister with high cheekbones sticking out like facial chicken wings, offered me food. as skinny as she was, i hated to take her food. we'd eaten more times than i could count that day, yet Robbie took a plate. so to avoid an international crisis i did too. it was just a small paper plate of greasy fried rice with chicken, tomatoes and onions, and i ate every morsel. why not? that greasy stuff was really tasty, sammy.

 

Efrén and Brenda looked kind of tired at this point.

 

Robinson said to me in English in front of Mariela, "I feel so sad my sister has to live like this!"

 

"It's OK," i said to hush him up. it offended me he would be so openly rude to his family. no one in this intellectual desert could possibly understand his English, it wasn't that; it just was crude to cut down your sister right in front of her face, to a special guest like me. besides, to me, unused as i was to the fine art of distinguishing a hundred different shades of poverty, it seemed no worse than the house we'd just left, his mother's. Mariela's unpainted see-through board shack was more nicely decorated inside with all those birthday things, in fact, and it was much more fun. and then too, there was a cute little kid about eight or ten who was well-mannered and friendly and looked like his – maybe – father, a rosy translucent chocolate pronounced choh-koh-LAH-tay, chocolate, as they say with affection and no offense here.

 

the name of this nephew of Robbie's, he said, was Fabién.

 

10 year old Fabién all neat
              with tight curls and aqua pants and shirt 

Fabién


"there was a cute little kid about eight or ten

who was well-mannered and friendly
and looked like his – maybe – father"

 

 

 

 

 

23.  SAVE PARANOID QUESTIONS FOR YOUR HOST IN PRIVATE.

 

i don't know where they've gone again, sammy. it's the second time today they've left me alone a long time.

 

if i ever get hold of Robbie for five minutes in private again, i'll have a dozen important questions. like, "Why do you feel bad about Mariela's house?" and, "How do you swig aguardiente without giving people HIV?" and, "What did the Bronx mafioso who married a Colombian mean, when he said, 'Watch out for those militarios, i mean it'?" does Robbie trust his sister and brother-in-law implicitly? should we just automatically trust their neighbors? where is my money exactly? during those foggy moments before we left for the party i was in a cataclysmic daze, sammy, expecting the world to end. i remember Brenda coming in from somewhere else in the compound, as if she'd gone to another plane of existence and hidden my stuff there.  was Brenda coming down from an upstairs apartment or in from outside, or straight through the back kitchen wall or all three when she said, "It's taken care of," meaning my valuables were stashed? i do remember her saying, "It's taken care of."

 

right, sammy. taken care of, just like the aguardiente in New York harbor. just like the four hundred dollars i lent Robbie to send to Cocaland for somebody's complicated miscarriage in Cocaland once. this is why i've come up with a foolproof plan to put my worry to a test. as soon as i see them all again i'll claim i stashed the wrong travelers checks. of course i'll have to see the plane tickets and money belt and everything, everything, so i can be sure everything's still there.

 

i also have to ask Robbie how i can sleep in silk boxers and not expose myself unwittingly in the middle of the night. will anybody be up walking around, looking? how can i sleep modestly in a sticky hothouse where everyone's on top of everyone else and walks right in everyone else's unlockable door? in New York he'd said we would sleep desnudo, which i took to mean naked, due to the heat. now it looks like it meant 'without a sheet'. i would give my right arm to sleep naked, without sheet OR shorts, sammy, it's so hot, but wouldn't you know, not only do doors not lock, they put me in a tiny crowded room with two little girls.

 

 

 

 

 

24.  SHOW NO SURPRISE WHEN YOU MEET AN EDUCATED WORLD-TRAVELED MULTILINGUAL DARK-SKINNED MAN IN A GODFORSAKEN RAMSHACKLE COCALAND BARRIO, AS YOU ARE BOUND TO, IF YOU TOUR COCALAND PROPERLY.

 

the party wasn't over yet.

 

Mariela's cherry chocolate husband passed the new aguardiente bottle Robbie had wangled, or won somehow, through a lengthy ceremony out in the mud street in front of his sister's rickety wooden shack in the dark. finally he'd exchanged cash for product, and now he passed it to a friend to do the honors and continue the increasingly drunken ceremony – increasingly in my case anyway, since i hadn't drunk in two years and more – and the friend went around the circle, one by one, handing the cup, waiting for the swig, taking it back and filling it again from the bottle he carried. it seemed to be a Cocaland custom, pouring and serving aguardiente in this way.

 

we were inside in the sala now, or front room, a tiny space maybe five by ten, its four walls of unpainted board, with air and light passing helpfully between the boards. a small table for eating had been pushed to the end corner holding a boom box radiating wild vallenato, the volume dial up so inhumanly high it caused soul-wrenching distortion of bass beat and treble accordion. crepe paper ran drunkenly everywhere, and a Woolworth-type big-lettered decoration hung in the air, raving in drunken Spanish, "Welcome to my birthday." a home-made poster dangled on the wall painted with "2", and quite an enormous 2 it was. and just about at that point i got to meet a tired, very little two-year-old girl on two daintily white-shod feet whose birthday had provided an excuse for the drinking and carrying on.

 

when the new aguardiente host, who, like Mariela's man, was black, but with white-person facial features, got to me, he addressed me in French: "Do you speak French?" he asked.

 

i said in French, "A little." Un peu.

 

he rattled on in French, which is easier to understand when you're drunk, sammy, explaining how he had studied French in France and presently taught French in the Colombo-American University in Cartagena. then he said, "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

 

"A little," i answered in German, "ein bisschen," too preoccupied with translating to be surprised.

 

he rattled on in German about something, and i thought enough of this nonsense and pulled him back to Spanish. i explained in sloshed Spanish how i knew some German. he explained in Spanish that his father had been employed by – i think – the Colombian government and was stationed fifteen years in Bonn. he addressed me from then on in English, of all things, and i answered in the best Spanish i could, to be extra polite to such an educated person. my faculty of speech by this time seemed well lubricated regardless of language.

 

but i couldn't figure out how in the world anybody so educated could be in such a remote, shack-y, third-world mud hovel, sammy. and then i realized the same question applied to me. what was i doing in that mud pit, singing and shouting Colombian vallenato? it just showed how low i had sunk in the world. instead of traveling the world on private disability insurance income, i should have been in Denver at that very moment – if i’d been ‘normal and healthy’ – in a clean brick townhome sleeping. getting up the next morning, driving my silver-blue Bronco II to my Victorian office in Capitol Hill, to sit there on rose-colored faux-Victorian furniture all day, trying to straighten out crazy depressed gringo psychiatric patients, one at a time, when the rampant mental illness of U.S. Americans was a problem bigger than all of us. i was supposed to be driving my kids – Nico, dressed in the current mode, black from head to foot, from her mother's house to ballet at 13th and Lincolnthen i should pick up baggy-shirted, buzz-cut Freddie and haul him to Wax Trax to buy rap and more rap and more rap CD's, and try to talk him into an old-fashioned Grateful Dead double album with my credit card, hoping he might give up rap and cocaine, and go back to the good old innocent days of marijuana, acid, booze and the Beatles and Grateful Dead, avoiding cocaine prison. that's where things had been with him, the last time i was in Denver and he was free, and my mind and body were working, two and a half years back.

 

 

 

 

 

25.  WHEN YOU START LIKING THE NATIVES AND WANT TO TAKE ONE HOME TO DENVER, COUNSEL YOURSELF IN THE FOLLOWING WAY.

 

finally Efrén looked inconsolably tired and Brenda agreed that it was time for bed. we filed out. i said good-bye to all my new, educated vallenato drinking buddies, one by one, handshakes all around, and we found our way safely somehow, through drying mud, back to Robbie's mother's.


here we sat and stared into space again, and Efrén came back to life. Robbie's mother and his youngest sister, Adriana, wanted to know if we had eaten.

 

Adriana? who was this?

 

had we met before?

 

"Yes," i said. "¡Gracias!"

 

at Robbie's apartment in New York i’d warned him he must tell his people i had to keep my weight down and avoid cholesterol. i should eat a meal and a half a day only. food should be cooked in olive or canola oil, if oil had to be used. none of it happened in the hubbub and never will. out of respect for Robbie and his family who were hosting me practically free, i agreed to a "very small plate" of food from Adriana. i'm sure she understood, sammy, because i said it in correct Castilian Spanish with only a very tiny gringo accent that Queen Isabella and her Castilian kind would have gotten around in a second. they all nodded, every one, including this sister with soft lips i hadn't noticed before, Adriana.

 

out came another enormous bowl of mondongo soup and a heaping plate of fried rice and chicken, several slices of fried platano and half limes on the side. a real Colombian repast. i put it away like i hadn't eaten in weeks, keeping an eye on soft-lipped Adriana, and in the excitement spilled a metal cup of fresh hand-squeezed pineapple juice all over the floor.

 

that's how i began to think seriously about Robbie's youngest sister, sammy. it happened fast. in no time there was Adriana, getting it up off the tile floor with a wet mop. so quick and unquestioningly that the next thought followed like a computer sequence: wouldn't it be nice to have someone waiting on me like this when i got back to Denver???

 

all i'd wanted for a long time, sammy, was someone to warm me up a little in bed at night during the long Denver winters. but being drunk i was forgetting a different conviction of more recent origin. the one i'd had since the day i began to know with certainty, without even a test to confirm it, that i was hiv positive. and i'd been feeling particularly strong and convicted about it recently, since discovering Augustine. not because of his idiotic delusional interpretation of the Bible to mean that sex was sinful and dirty, the so-called doctrine of ‘original sin’, as i've said, but because of the interesting view he supported, that all past sex acts were despicable, and future ones out of the question for anyone serious about escaping the world's clutches. last night though, as i said, i seemed to have forgotten all this for a moment. all the excitement about Adriana suddenly had me worked up – for the third time in a day – and i wasn’t even stuffed into a taxi with her.

 

today, sober and hung over, i'm struck by the fact i've gone without sex for two and a half years, sammy. how can a healthy man go that long without screwing? or, i should say, without even getting it up? and still stay sane? such has been the case with yours truly, as you know. maybe i haven't been healthy, as you say. i've been meaning to ask you for a long time, sammy, since your calling card says you’re a sex therapist: where does sexual energy go when you're that depressed? is it turned off like a spigot? or has it been building up like a reservoir behind a dam, waiting to break loose? that's what it felt like last night, the first time i was drunk and noticing a woman in at least two and a half years.

 

The Dr. with several members
              of Robbie's family, especially Adriana 

“that’s how I began to think seriously about Robbie’s youngest sister”

 

back row: Fabién, Brenda, Dr. Lorenzo, Efrén, Adriana, and one of Angel’s girls

middle: the two little girls of Brenda and Efrén; and Hey-Seuss

front: the two-year-old birthday girl


 

 

 

 

26.  GETTING THE WHOLE FAMILY HOME AT 2AM, EVEN TWO LITTLE GIRLS SO TIRED THEY HAVE TO BE CARRIED, FROM THE LOW-RENTEST MOST OUTLYINGEST BARRIO ON THE PLANET, TO THEIR DIGS THREE MILES AWAY, WITH NO CAR AND NO MONEY.

 

finally Robinson asked if i might feel comfortable returning without him, right then, with Efrén and Brenda, to their apartment, while he stayed at his mother's. i agreed without another thought.

 

"Without me," he repeated.

 

of course, i nodded. had he thought i might object? it was the revised plan anyway, wasn't it? i was adapting pretty well, wasn’t i? was i not a mindless shell of a person? why ask my permission? i looked at him, not saying any of this.

 

he wanted to give his mother attention, he apologized. he wanted to stay overnight at least once in the house whose rent payment he slaved to wire monthly from New York. besides, he said, there was no extra bed at his mother's for me.

 

what a surprise. what a disappointment! i’d miss the chance to sleep with fourteen people in one bed, in a shack in mud heaven, my silk sleeping boxers and all my stuff three miles way. i didn't say this because i didn't want an international crisis. i just smiled and swaggered. so Efrén and Brenda led their two little girls and me happily away.

 

"Where's Jesús?" i asked halfway down the muddy street, and got some explanation about his falling asleep. out back in a burro feeder, no doubt.

 

we waited a half hour and there was still no taxi.

 

standing there in the drying mud streets of Robbie's mother's mud-poor barrio, my first day in Colombia seemed to be lasting forever, sammy, and forever was too long. i was half-dead and my attitude was about to leak through.

 

we were at grave risk for being robbed or kidnapped at that dark hour, it seemed to me. we could have walked back to robbie’s mother’s and slept fourteen to a bed, of course. no cab came. why would it, considering the hour and location?

 

Pozón has to be one of the remotest, low-rentest, ramshackliest barrios in the world. i say this with authoritative knowledge.

 

just a while ago, riding home with Robbie and the groceries from the flea market, Robbie told me that many Pozón residents had ended up in his mother's neighborhood after being displaced – rudely chased, more accurately – from a poor crime-ridden neighborhood in central Cartagena. the city fathers had uprooted the area, razed it and burnt it to the ground, he said. they'd stripped it of every scrap of burnt wood and concrete, so nobody could start another trashy barrio on the spot. because it had gone slowly downhill over its five-hundred-year history until it was a menace to the civil harmony of South America and Cartagena. he told me this as we drove by the spot. there in the heart of the city lay a plot of empty land, skinned to the bone – nothing but acres of flat baked mud. not enough shade for a cockroach.

 

a Cocaland solution for a Cocaland problem.

 

"Did your family live there?" i asked.

 

"Oh no!" Robbie said, appalled.

 

'Well then,' i almost added, 'if you're so affronted, why are people so nice as yours living in hell-hole Pozón?' i couldn't think of a polite way to say this quickly in Spanish, so i stared at him, bewildered.

 

last night we stood in the new replacement barrio’s mud street in the middle of the night, Pozón, and there was no taxi. we were vulnerable. i was crankier by the minute and Efrén noticed, i think. finally a cab came by after thirty minutes, but we didn’t jump in. Efrén just talked with the driver, trying to talk him into helping or something.

 

don't get the wrong idea, sammy. that cab wasn't there because some taxi driver thought muddy Pozón a great place to find late night business, so had gone out of his way to drive by. not a single taxi driver in Cartagena thought anyone in Pozón wanted to leave there at that hour, or had the money to do it. that little cab was there only because it was full, bringing six or eleven people back home for the night, from central Cartagena.

 

when it drove off and they told me this, i was discouraged exceedingly.

 

then it was back. but instead of heading for us and slowing, it picked up, speeding, like the cabby had an important errand elsewhere. Efrén waved him down. it was a dangerous plight to be in, because once the cabby sensed you were desperate, he would charge a fortune. ALL prices are flexible south of the border. i’d have jumped in and paid whatever, but not Efrén. four dollars instead of two? that was a lot to him. he had to risk losing our only possible ride home, rather than pay four bucks. a macho thing, no doubt. he could have just asked me to pay it. instead he had to dicker, coastal Colombian style, lying, saying another taxista had offered to take us away for 1500 pesos, about two dollars. he had gone to dump his passengers deep inside the barrio, he said, and was about to return to get us. and furthermore this driver would eventually have to drive right by Blas de Lezo to get to downtown anyway, so he might as well make some money at it, instead of going back to town with an empty cab. this crap went on for minutes, sammy. we were losing the only taxi we’d ever see, for crazy male Cocaland poverty pride.

 

two dollars or four, it was a bargain. i’d have paid a hundred dollars to get out of that mud-hole overpopulated with starving refugees from the worst crime-and-cockroach-ridden barrio in the hemisphere. i’d have withstood another aguardiente party at that hour, another meal, weary as i was, to celebrate getting out in one piece, every hidden money belt intact.[26]

 

i was about to speak up and tell Efrén to forget the dickering and lying. i’d pay what the man wanted, let's go. but it felt like shotgunning a peacock with his tail feathers spread, so i bit my tongue.

 

finally the poor taxi driver waved in despair. he agreed to 1500, a standard fare, which i told Efrén i’d pay at the other end.

 

i was relieved once inside the cab. and since we were just four adults and two little girls, only, i didn’t have to suffer unwanted stimulation, in the way i had previously, uninvited – twice – from third-world taxi cab overcrowding. that was good news too.

 

sleeping was another story however. 

 

 

 

 

 

27.  BRIEF, NOT TASTELESS DESCRIPTION OF HOW TO SLEEP IN A TINY ROOM TOO HOT FOR PJ’S, HORNIER THAN AN ELK IN RUT, WITH TWO LITTLE GIRLS A FOOT AWAY IN THE OTHER TWIN BED.

 

after an evening in dark, muddy Pozón, Efrén and Brenda's wonderful cozy place felt like home sweet home, banana republic armed forces and all. i got to lie down in the saggy narrow twin bed where i'd napped, with the two little girls a foot away in the other twin. so civilized!! i turned off the light and stuffed all valuables i'd kept on me in the pockets of my safari shorts and pushed the shorts down between mattress and wall. if some cocaine-crazed idiot crashed through the window above my head and tried to grab the safari shorts during the night, sammy, he'd have to get past an angry fighting mj. with that thought i lay down hot and naked but for silk oversized boxers as pj’s.

 

soon i forgot about the crazed cocaine addict coming in the window. all night long as i lay there, a rotating floor fan breathed steamy Caribbean heat over my skin. heat feels better to me than cold, as you know, so i couldn't complain. the hot humid breeze tingled nerve endings. it flapped loose-fitting silk without f-ing letup, waking me horny again and again, swaying like a draped flagpole in a stiff wind.

 

technically it broke the Augustinian rule, but i disliked jockeys as pj’s, and i wasn’t going to turn off the fan, or sweat under a sheet.

 

the two little girls slept the whole night through, as far as i could tell, or they might have received a rude education.

 

it was the first time anything so PLEASANT and sexy had happened to me in two and a half years, sammy. fondly i lay there thinking how Augustine had said with apparent tenderness for his celibate monks, and his celibate self, that you couldn't blame a man for what his physical nature did in his sleep, even if it was, sexy dream and all, 'like unto the very act itself'. true, Augustine was an idiot when inventing theology about sex, all too often. and, he was a bully at times the way he went about making the 5th century church accept his crackpot sex-suppressing doctrine. but you couldn’t deny he was a genius with language and convincing reasoning. ‘like unto the very act itself’ was a gem. the whole thought was beautiful.

 

i like the idea of a saint being honest about sex, sammy, recording it in writing for the next twenty centuries of college Lit classes to read and discuss. but you have to be pretty bummed out about the world as it is, to give up sex of every kind like he did, hoping it will start a new and better world. i've given up sex too, granted, but for a more enlightened reason. i take no stock in the world of the future whatever.

 

 

 

 

 

28.  WHEN THEY ASK YOU TO TAKE THEIR WORST MISBEHAVING BOY HOME WITH YOU TO THE STATES, AS THEY VERY WELL MAY, SINCE ANY COCALAND FAMILY MAY HAVE AT LEAST ONE, THINK THE OFFER THROUGH SIMPLY AND QUIETLY, WITHOUT OVERREACTION.

 

later Monday. we're back at Robinson's mother's now, in Pozón.

 

i got away from everybody for many hours today, sammy.  i wrote a lot, as you must have realized by now.  as a result i feel a little less cranky for the moment, almost like being around people again. sometimes though, i feel like throwing a connecting rod if i can't get away from the whole lot of them.

 

Robbie has just given me certain critical bits of information regarding the family of the little black girl. i can't decide if i care. i still don't know who Jesús belongs to, but the very dark little girl is his sister Mariela's, whose two-year-old was the excuse for the party last night. in one long English sentence he revealed that the 2-year-old is the only child of Mariela and her current man, the cherry-chocolate one who was last night's first chief of aguardientethe two darker children who i thought were his, are not. their father or fathers have nothing to do with them and Mariela has to raise them without fathers. the dark boy, Fabién, who i thought was well-mannered and "looked just like his father," is no relation to the man and is not always well-mannered, either, they say. he's usually the ringleader, says Robbie, of whatever mischief his little nieces and nephews are up to. the shockingly dark little girl that Robbie for her blackness calls a monstruo, or 'monster', is also no relation to the man.

 

do i care? it's fascinating, i admit. it's like ordinary gossip, which i've been denied in my closed-door, manicured condo townhome development in Denverhere in Cocaland i'm a stranger, sammy. i've never met these people, yet i have to give them credit for one thing. i know more about their bedroom habits after one day, than i do about anybody's in my sterile, fence-ridden neighborhood after fifteen years.

 

critical information to take with me to the grave.

 

i think it’s to their credit. why should we have to hide our ‘private’ lives anyway?

 

Robbie now suggests i take the ten-year-old boy, Fabién, to the states.

 

i say, how can i, i'm going to kick the bucket any day.

 

he says we discussed the subject once in New York when i was in a better mood, and he remembers i said at that time i might consider taking someone home.

 

i say the kid is too young to meet my conditions, namely, that for all it will cost me in money, time, inconvenience, loss of privacy and other things, i must expect anyone i take home from Colombia, male or female, to pay me back in kind. how can a little boy pay in kind? no, i feel sorry for the kid, i say, but i need someone mature.

 

why think about it at all? i have no time left.

 

but it's gotten me thinking about Denver again, sammy. how are my house and office and the patients i haven't seen for two years? at the moment i feel this way: that i'd rather be disabled by a depression caused by an HIV infection that doesn't exist, as you've always claimed. i'd rather accept the diagnosis of psychotic depression if i have to, and go on drinking my way through third-world countries; than give up the disability insurance checks that pay for the fun, then sober up and go back to the states to work, meaning to talk sense into U.S. American psychiatric patients who are just as lost, spoiled and dispirited as i.

 

why don't U.S. medical schools teach that mental illness is epidemic in our country – endemic, actually – and most important, that it's contagious? maybe, as you've insisted, there are reasons why i'm tired of this world besides HIV. maybe it isn't practicing psychiatry that did me in, either, or living in a world so overpopulated it can't feed itself, or having a son destroyed by cocaine. maybe it's just the whole damn insane U.S. gringo civilization i can't stand. i don't want to think about it. all i want to do from now on is forget, sammy. and coastal Cocaland has to be one of the best places on earth to forget whatever you want to forget. yesterday was proof of that.

 

don't ask me why i worry so much about the U.S. and the rest of the world. i know it really isn't important in the grand scheme of things. worrying won't change the course of history. it won't help me live longer. it won't cure me of whatever ails me, and won't solve a single one of my problems, either, but still i can't stop thinking about it. that’s why i plan to give you everything i write for SHAMANalysis. maybe you can figure out why i think about it so much, and what if anything might be done about that.

 

 

 

 

 

29.  IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT FAMILY CONNECTIONS, GO AHEAD AND IMAGINE THEM.  JUST KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

 

here is my latest theory. in the absence of facts, i have a theory about Mariela that i've worked out in the back of my mind last night and today, while everything else was happening. i figure she likes black men and was with a dark enough man when she had the first child, the oldest one, Fabién, to make it look to the whole world like the man and the kid had come together.  but then when the first little girl came out like she did, about as black as they get in Cocaland, the first guy dumped Mariela, suspecting her father of being another, darker, man.

 

a little while ago Robinson told me this was all wrong. he didn't say it was TRASH, as he should have rightfully. he's usually better mannered than that. he just explained it as well as he could. the fact was, he said, a single moreno man was father to both the older children, Fabién, and the very Black ´monstruo´ girl, and that man was gone. completely gone.

 

but my crazy mind refuses to accept this. for some reason i prefer to imagine that at least one of the many sisters of each of my former Latin protegés, Jaime and RawBEANsawn, must be a puta, a prostitute.

 

where does a crazy notion like this come from, sammy? what's wrong with me?

 

 

 

 

 

30.  ONE OF YOUR HOSTS HATES THE WORLD AND YOU SYMPATHIZE.  WHAT NOW?

 

still later, back at Efrén and Brenda's.

 

leaving Robinson's mother's a little while ago, we walked with Robbie's brother. he has barely spoken since the whole reunion began. he and Robbie stared into space in Cartagena's new metropolitan bus station, sitting on spotless new green benches. it's built in the boondock suburbs next to Pozón because Cartagena is certain to spread out that way rapidly, as long as Colombians keep ignoring birth control like they have until now. the whole population thing seems stupid and inevitable. in a few months, as the population explodes, sammy, boondock Pozón will be the center of town, and Cartagena, like so many big cities in the world, will suddenly be as enormous and difficult to live in as Mexico City, where your eyes burn whenever you leave air conditioning.

 

i sat there mourning the loss of civilized towns and cities of manageable size, wishing for a deserted beach and a hammock.

 

Robbie said of his brother, "Angel is so quiet."

 

Angel was sitting twenty feet away, looking right at us, but he didn't understand our English. i've always liked solving psychological mysteries, as you know, sammy. what had Robbie meant? was Angel always quiet, or had something unusual happened? for a minute i was almost the shrink i used to be. i asked Robbie questions. he was confused on the time line, saying he'd never known Angel because he, Robbie, had come into the world at an inconvenient time and had been farmed out to his mother's aunt at birth.

 

i wasn't going to listen to that tripe. i'd heard it too many times, starting in a Miami Beach hotel room, fresh salty ocean air blowing in the windows. i wanted useful information.

 

he knew this much, he said: Angel had been sick a few months ago, had even lost a lot of weight, and Robbie'd had to postpone his long-planned trip to Colombia so he could work two jobs and send $1000 for Angel's medical care. did that explain Angel’s being quiet? as we talked, it came out that Angel's eleven-year-old son had died a year ago. that seemed more important. why hadn't Robbie mentioned it before? that kid’s illness and death had cost Robbie money, too, he said. i sympathized with him and with Angel. it was one of the worst things that could happen to a man, i said, losing his son. the younger the son, the harder. i should know. Robbie grew animated. even Angel perked up a bit, watching us, probably wondering what we were so worked up about.

 

Robbie didn't have kids so might not know how it felt to lose one. in his experience as a son, he was an unwanted commodity. no one had seemed very worried about ‘losing’ him. he didn’t mention any of this though. instead he told me that the kid who died was his brother's oldest child, and his only boy.

 

my oldest child and only boy was Freddie. last year in Denver he'd been smoking crack, not working, complaining by phone that i wouldn't pay for any more college semesters for him to flunk. the only thing that interested him in life was rap music and Grateful Dead bootleg tapes. and cocaine, of course. he was killing himself, like the rest of U.S. youth, one brain cell at a time. in the meantime he lived in comfort, selling and cooking crack in his bedroom, housed by his mother who bought him food at health food stores though she couldn't afford it and of course wouldn't have thrown him out. what else could a loving mother do? she couldn't throw him out like Dad had done. Freddie might end up on the streets. it was unthinkable. maybe he'd be forced to steal or commit a bigger crime. maybe he'd get more depressed and miserable. maybe he'd die.

 

meanwhile Robbie's family in Cocaland, very much alive and with lots to live for, since they had so much convivial love and companionship every day of the week, were only a step away from prostituting or living on the streets, practically starving to death, struggling meal to meal. and they had never even considered crime as an alternative. they hadn't considered drug abuse, world-weariness, or depression, either. and they apparently weren't involved in cultivating coca leaf.

 

something about this was not right. it didn't seem fair.

 

if any sane man were going to live awhile and wanted to invest in one situation or the other, my family’s or robbie's, which do you think it would be, sammy? it was an easy choice. especially now that Freddie was in jail and the state of California was feeding him.

 

and Robbie told me more.

 

Angel's wife was Jehovah's Witness, he said, and hadn't wanted Angel's kid to have medical care, especially the blood transfusions needed for leukemia. even though he was not her child and she'd given birth to four healthy children of her own before meeting Angel, he had gone along with this. naturally, then, Bienvenido had soon died.

 

Robinson finally agreed that Angel's weight loss and hospitalization this spring must have been less physical than emotional.

 

i diagnosed Angel as "Major depression, single episode, without psychotic features 296.23;" and "Unresolved grief," the DSM code number for which i couldn't remember,[27] and i haven't felt the same about poor Angel since. the two diagnoses couldn't have been far from my own; and he seemed to have more of a right to them than i, since his son had died, while mine was alive. yet Angel was bouncing back better than i was.

 

i was proud i'd figured this out, sammy, and for a second wondered if i might be ready to practice psychiatry again.

 

my mood has improved slightly in the last few hours, making me wonder if my body could do the same.

 

in the old days when things were going my way, i used to see God in everything, in music, in writing, in friends i didn't like, even in a pretzel. i used to think like St. Augustinei saw God in Freddie, in my psychiatric patients; in every little problem, there was the grace of God. if i could get back to that way of thinking, sammy, i might be able to stand practicing psychiatry again.

 

the trouble has always been, that i can only think positively when things are going my way.

 

you probably are hoping as you read this, sammy, that here at Efrén and Brenda's, with lots of time to think it through logically in my preferred way, i'll be able to get my correct perspective back again. but since things aren't going my way, and can't possibly, since i'm bound to die of the dread disease, it's hard to see God mystically and happily in anything, any more.

 

not to discourage you, sammy, that's not my aim, BUT: my feeling is that Cocaland has got to be the last place in the world to find a reason to live. there's a good bit of love in this family and a few others, maybe. there's a pleasantly benign universal delight in drinking and partying. but overall, Cartagena is a disaster. it's wilder, it's true, than sun-baked San Juan Pueblo, which was so dusty and dead it never stirred feeling in me at all, even after two years. but though Cartagena brims with spirit, though it believes in itself and even believes on some nights, like last night, that it's about to lift off the earth, this town is no inspiration to me, sammy. i have to be honest. how, in a place like this, where a simple man like Angel has to suffer so much pain, could you have thought i'd find a reason to live?

 

if i wanted to, sammy, i could travel the world for years, finding more and more reasons to stay depressed. but why bother? who wants to look at situations like Angel's? why drag out the pain? i can't handle it any more.

 

i swear to you, sammy, Robbie is going to take me to a nice beach this afternoon, whether he likes it or not.

 

Angel in his usual dark beret,
              with wife Linda and their (her) 2 daughters 

Angel (in usual wool beret) and Linda and their (her) two girls


"who wants to look at situations like Angel's?"


missing: his young son, who died recently of cancer

 

 

 

 

 

31.  HOW MUCH OF COCALAND MUST YOU SEE TO KNOW HOW TO STOP THIRD WORLD OVERPOPULATION BOOM?  ONE DAY’S WORTH.

 

as i sat there in the sparkling new bus station in the middle of nowhere, talking about depressed Angel and his dead son, letting my mind wander, in walked Mariela's dark little eight- or ten-year-old Fabién, the boy Robbie had said i should take to the states and raise. why? so he could get his little hands on all the crack cocaine he might want, since it’s more available there than here? so he could enjoy the freedom to hate and destroy himself by the age of eighteen?

 

across the spacious empty bus station waiting room he walked – with confidence, looking more at home than in his own sala. he'd ditched school, apparently. he'd come to the new station to fool around – not for the first time, clearly.

 

and i thought to myself, sammy, here was one more of God's children, Robbie's nephew, Fabién, hurting from scarce resources and scarce parenting, both caused by third-world population boom. he wasn't hooked on dope yet, or sick of the world. he just wanted fun and acceptance, found little at home, where there wasn't enough to go around, and wandered abroad looking for it.

 

and samuel, you wouldn’t do something like this, i know, because you accept life with its heartaches. but for once, i actually prayed, or something, and said: god, whoever-, whatever-, wherever-you-are, please pluck me off this spinning mudhole, before i witness one more sorry result,... of friends of mine,... getting laid without condoms.[28]

 
 map of western half of globe
              showing Cartagena, New York and flight route avoiding
              Cuba 

"but for once, i actually prayed, or something, and said
god, whoever-, whatever-, wherever-you-are

please pluck me off this spinning mudhole

before i witness one more sorry result...

of friends of mine... getting laid without condoms."

Cartagena, Colombia with respect to the rest of the world
[29]


[1]  The title for Book I, which is the Spanish expression, ‘La Cartagena Terrible’, should be understood to mean: ”The Terrifying City of Cartagena.” Cartagena in 1994 was a blisteringly hot, tempestuous, party-loving, developing-world city full of homeless kids walking the streets, and truckloads by the thousands of very poor immigrants from the back country of coastal Colombia, the people Dr. Lorenzo refers to in his trip journal as ‘costeños’, or coastal people, meaning Colombians living anywhere within one or two hundred miles of the Caribbean Sea; including Robbie’s family, in fact; for they too had come to live in Cartagena from about a hundred miles inland. The people of Cartagena and the Caribbean coast of Colombia have been since its founding a liberal mix of three ‘races’: Spanish ‘white’, who were the conquering people; New World indigenous (Native American) ‘brown’ or ‘rosy-golden brown’, as mj called their bronze color, the conquered people; and ‘black’ African, imported to do slave labor for the Spanish conquerors since the pope forbade enslaving the New World race. Those and a few caucasians from other countries were the three groups of people who had cross-bred to create Cartagena’s many-hued population, starting from the days of its founding in the early-to-mid 1500s, when Spain’s conquest of the New World (‘for God, Gold and Glory’) was in its heyday. In 1994, 450 years later, Cartagena was attracting beach vacationers from as far inland as Bogotá, the capital, and from all over Latin America; but was also attracting Colombian citizens from the boonies of backwater coastal Colombia seeking new life and opportunity, like Robbie’s family.


[2]  The quotation is from Augustine’s Confessions, where he describes his profound grief reaction to the death of his best friend when they were young.

[3]  Several expressions of Spanish-speakers: (1) ‘Nueva Your’:  Spanglish for ‘New York’, nueva being the Spanish word for ‘new’, and ‘your’ being the way many Hispanics pronounce ‘York’, leaving off the 'k'.  (‘Spanglish’ refers to the way many Hispanics in the U.S. combine English and Spanish in their speech, often creating new terms that exist in neither parent language.)  (2) ‘Aguardiente’ in this case is a Caribbean liqueur usually made from sugar cane, often flavored with anise; generally the word means liquor or a strong liqueur; it is close in meaning to the English word ‘firewater’ (see appendix A glossary); literally aguardiente means 'water your teeth' or 'tooth flush', maybe even 'mouthwash'; (3) Vallenato: a kind of Colombian music and dance which originated in a particular coastal area of Colombia now called ‘the valley’, i.e., the valley about 200 miles straight east of Cartagena, almost on the border with Venezuela, where the principal city is Valledupar; (4) ojalá is a common Spanish expression which native Spaniards borrowed from the Muslim Arabs, who lived in Spain and ruled large parts of it from the 700s to the year 1500; it means ‘if only it – hopefully – may become so’, or, more literally, ‘may God, i.e., Allah, permit it’. For an alphabetical glossary of most of the foreign language terms used in this work, see Appendix A.


[4]  taxistas:  ‘taxi drivers’ in Spanish;  see Appendix A for a glossary of foreign language terms used in this work.

[5]  familia:  Spanish for ‘family’.  See Appendix A for a glossary of non-English terms used in this work.

[6]  A photo of all those of Robbie’s family the Dr. met in Cartagena is at the end of subsection 9, on the present page.

[7]  One of the most popular books of the very late Middle Ages and early Renaissance in Europe was The Imitation of Christ, or De imitatione Christi (Latin), thought to have been written by Thomas À Kempis, a Dutch monk of the order of The Brethren of the Common Life. The term imitatio, in general, while it had other meanings as well, often was used to refer to a particular kind of ‘spiritual’ exercise practiced commonly in medieval Europe. Educated people who could read, would read and study the life of a particular favorite saint and attempt to emulate or ‘imitate’ that saint’s particular kind of ‘spirituality’, often weird and extremist, as it will seem to many today in post-modern secular America. Often an imitatio, or imitation, involved some form of self-denial or ascetic self-sacrifice turned into a religious ritual behavior.  Mj here, by offering Sammy his ‘imitatio’, both in print and in example, is not just poking fun at the medieval practice of emulating saints’ lives, but also mocking his own and some of his followers’ tendency at times in the past to see mj lorenzo as someone ‘very important’ to the future moral perfection of humanity, as for example when he claimed, back in 1970, that he had been ‘born into the world to keep the human race from annihilating itself’. At this point in his life (1994) he is doubting himself and rejecting that lifelong mission of his (temporarily). He is depressed and, as most psychiatric textbooks will point out, all of his present out-of-character behaviors are derived from his depression: his self-doubt, self-hate, anger, unfriendliness, meanness, escapism, isolation, alienation, insolence, sarcasm, defeatism, nihilism, his spurning of food and sex, his ‘somatic delusion’ that he is terminally infected with HIV and will die soon, his apparent delusion that civilization is about to collapse, his ridiculing of Western civilization’s greatest past cultural heroes, like St. Augustine, are all just the many symptoms of a lingering significant depression, which, during the last two years, has been even more severe than at present. Far more, in fact: for if Sammy Martinez had not taken mj lorenzo into his home in San Juan Pueblo in New Mexico and spoon-fed him real food and friendship and love, ‘forever withstanding his inappropriate and rude ire’, as mj’s devoted pundit following have said so many times, and still are saying to the present day (2017), mj lorenzo probably would have died by this point in time, 1994, of insufficient nutrition caused by severe psychotic depression and not eating.   


[8]  Perennial defenders of mj lorenzo’s ‘true underlying essential sanity’ against all comers (and there have been many ardent and even scholarly souls on both sides of the argument over the decades since the Dr. was first published in 1971) have loved to remind the world that their hero, mj lorenzo, was not the first person in history to imagine the possible eventual disintegration of his own empire and civilization. It certainly was not necessarily a sign of psychosis or severe depression, they said, to think such a thought or even get upset over it.  For example, they said, the great Roman general, Scipio Africanus the Younger, whom no fellow Roman ever accused of being crackbrained, had felt inwardly assaulted by catastrophic thoughts like Dr. Lorenzo’s as he watched the great city and empire of Carthage fall to his own conquering Roman forces in the spring of 146 BC. A noted history professor at Cornell, in a webpage defense of the Dr.’s sanity, pointed out that not just one but two Greek historians, Polybius and Appian of Alexandria, subsequently described in their Latin histories Scipio’s thoughts and emotions at the time of this event. Appian wrote: ‘Scipio looked over the city [of Carthage] which had flourished for over seven hundred years since its foundation, which had ruled over such extensive territories, islands, and seas, and been as rich in arms, fleets, elephants, and money as the greatest empires, but which had surpassed them in daring and high courage, since though deprived of all its arms and ships it had yet withstood a great siege and famine for three years, and was now coming to an end in total destruction; and he is said to have wept and openly lamented the fate of his enemy. After meditating a long time on the fact that not only individuals but cities, nations, and empires must all inevitably come to an end, and on the fate of Troy, that once glorious city, on the fall of the Assyrian, Median, and Persian empires, and on the more recent destruction of the brilliant empire of the Macedonians, deliberately or subconsciously he quoted the words of Hector from Homer: ‘The day shall come when sacred Troy shall fall, and King Priam and all his warrior people with him’. And when Polybius, who was with him, asked him what he meant, he turned and took him by the hand, saying: ‘This is a glorious moment, Polybius; and yet I am seized with fear and foreboding that some day the same fate will befall my own country [of Rome – as it did, in fact, 600 years later]’.”  From Appian of Alexandria’s Lybica, 132, a history of the people of the Roman province of ‘Africa’ (modern day coastal Tunisia and extreme northeastern Algeria) written during the 2nd century AD.

Rebuttals came chiefly from Dr. Lorenzo’s ‘psycho’ pundits (mostly Freudians), people who tended to label the Dr. mentally disordered more often than his other followers did. They said that the ‘difference’ between the Dr. and others, such as Scipio, lay in the ‘quality and quantity’ of thought on the Dr.’s side. Scipio confessed to such a strong emotion one time only, then went on with his life as a Roman general and politician. Whereas mj lorenzo dwelt on the thought. He obsessed about it, said the ‘psycho pundits’. He ranted and harangued and went on for weeks and weeks without stopping on the subject, and even wrote a whole diary about it, which he sent to a friend hoping for confirmation of his sentiments. He researched world history looking for past parallels to his premonition that Western and especially American civilization was about to collapse, just as Scipio did when he recalled Hector’s words in The Iliad; but Scipio let it go, while Dr. Lorenzo allowed it to possess him and drive his thinking and behavior for months, even down to writing a book about his ‘sick depressive obsession’, as the psycho pundits called his premonition.

 

“Even if what you said were true,” returned some of the Dr.’s staunchest defenders, “that would not necessarily mean that sagely wise Dr. Lorenzo’s ‘sick depressive-obsessive’ premonition (that his civilized American and Western world was coming to an end) was just 'crazy psychotic', and not accurate. People in ancient Jerusalem thought the weird and revolting prophet Jeremiah was teched in the head, too, when he wore wooden yoke bars predicting future subjection and slavery to Babylon and would not quit bitching and moaning, ‘weeping day and night’, about his ‘sick depressive obsession’. At various times they beat him and persecuted him, imprisoned him, threw him into a muddy cistern to die, locked him up in stocks and threatened to kill him, until he cried, ‘Cursed be the day wherein I was born,’ but his seemingly crazy premonitory vision was precisely accurate: that the Judaean kingdom was about to be burnt to ashes, Solomon’s temple leveled, and the leading citizens hauled off to Babylon as slaves.”

 

“Oh, Yeah?” a severer set of critics came back in an internet chat room. “Then how come by the end of the trip your great psychic prophet, mj lorenzo, who could see the future so brilliantly clearly, no longer felt that civilization as he knew it was coming to an end? Huh? Do psychic prophets who can see the future clearly, usually change their view of the future so easily?”

 

But many mj lorenzo readers continued to believe that he had been right when he predicted an early end to Western and American civilization, mainly because they felt that so many of the characteristics of a falling Rome in its latter days (2-400s C.E.) were observable in America and Europe now.

 

Whereas the Dr.’s position from 1995 on, once he recovered from his psychotic depression of 1992-4, remained that Western civilization including America could pull itself together if it followed the implied advice of Arnold Toynbee, studied itself, defined which particular kinds of ‘challenges’ it faced, picking from the theoretical ones Toynbee outlined in A Study of History, and, with effective moral leadership, found ways to meet those challenges. “Nothing is impossible,” said Dr. Lorenzo, as quoted by Sammy in his National Geographic article on the Dr.: “Even though practically every other civilization that ever existed died eventually, China, as Toynbee pointed out, has preserved its same civilization and culture for 5000 years and shows no sign of failing; and the Jews, passing through all kinds of hairpulling, angst, and redefinitions of themselves, have preserved their cultural identity for 3500 years, even though dispersed across the globe.” 

 

[9]  All chapter and division titles but one are the devising of Sammy Martinez and his editorial board, not of the diary’s author. For a more complete explanation of this, please see the ‘Editors’ Note to Reader’.

[10]  Photo of Robbie taken by Dr. Lorenzo in the summer of 1981 in Crested Butte, Colorado, 6 months after they met in Miami Beach. Probably in this photo Robbie had not had a haircut in all those six months, because when they first met in Miami his hair was short and clipped like that of the Emberá men in the black and white photo.

[11]  Photo of two Emberá men found in Gerardo Reichel-Dolmatoff’s Apuntes etnográficos sobre los indios del alto rio Sinú (Transl: Ethnographic notes on the Indians of the upper River Sinú). (See Bibliography under Reichel-Dolmatoff.) The picture may be found on Lámina II (Plate II) following page 40 of the magazine issue, and the caption explains: “dos hombres Emberá.” (“two Emberá men”). The article is about this small tribe. In the late 50s when Reichel-Dolmatoff visited and studied the area, most of the tribe was in the states of Chocó and Antioquia, but a portion remained on the upper branches of the upper Rio Sinú in the state of Córdoba, the state directly west of the state where Robbie grew up, the state of Sucre. And the River Sinú, it should be noted, though it flows into the Caribbean via Montería, is part of the same coastal flood plain wherein lies Robbie Rivera's hometown of Santisima Cruz – the Sinú is only 150 miles away and its tributaries come within inches of those of the Magdalena-Cauca system that encompass and run through and drain (and flood) his hometown; and during the flood season these two tributary systems likely often interconnect, so that during the rains one could canoe from Robbie’s birth town to the country of the Emberá without portage, and vice versa. The indigenous people of the upper reaches of the Sinú, in other words, the Emberá in the black and white photo here, were/are quite likely to be a remnant of, or be very similar in appearance and genetics to, the Sinú tribe that, according to the Colombian encyclopedia in Efren’s apartment, originally inhabited the region around Robbie’s birth town. The Sinú were the tribe from which his family were most likely partly descended, that is. A few years later some of the Dr.’s friends in Santisima Cruz gave him a book which also confirmed that the Sinú were the original Native South American inhabitants of the area now called Santisima Cruz, Robbie’s hometown.  (See Bibliography under Álvarez Jaraba, Isidro, p. 18). In any case, when the Dr. happened upon this picture in New York University’s Bobst library in the fall of 2015, he was reminded of how Robbie had looked in 1981 with his cropped mop of dark hair.
 

[12]  Two novels about being marooned on a tropical island. (1) Robinson Crusoe, 1719 adventure novel by Daniel Defoe, a Calvinist Englishman: a shipwrecked English sailor survives alone on a tropical isle, thanks to the kind of orderly, self-disciplined, rational resourcefulness which Dietrich Schwanitz, in his history of Western culture, Bildung, referencing this very novel, explained as an integral part of the ‘Calvinist’ worldview (see Bibliography under 'Schwanitz'). (2) The Swiss Family Robinson (1812) was an adventure novel too, but written by a different author, a Swiss, Johann Rudolf Wyss. In it a Swiss-Protestant family, also Calvinist, consisting of father (who was a church pastor), mother and four young sons, is shipwrecked on a tropical isle, and they survive by wits and mutually respectful family teamwork. Both novels (1) and (2) were likely to have been read by a boy between the ages of 8 and 18 during the years (1940s and 50s) when mj lorenzo was growing up, especially in well-educated, upper-middle-class Protestant, Delaware valley families like his own. The fantastically elaborate tree houses in Disney World and Disneyland, by the way, are based on the tree house which the (fictional) (2) Swiss family, Robinson, built on their tropical isle, while waiting and hoping to be rescued. In Defoe’s novel (1), Robinson Crusoe manages to survive reasonably well; but, after a long time on his island, he rescues a local native about to be cooked in a stew by enemies, and turns him into a constant helper, giving his ‘man’ the name of ‘Friday’. In Hooked on Cocaland, however, the savior-saved roles are somewhat reversed. The one called ‘Robinson’, even though mj felt more comfortable seeing him as his ‘Man Friday’, was actually saving mj’s life, both at the time they met, and on this trip, not the reverse; while mj, most often oblivious to, or even resentful of, the help from Robbie and his family during the trip, helped them in only a very few tiny ways barely worth mentioning, mostly providing the money for food, transportation and all family activities for a two-week extended-family reunion, including a trip to the interior for four (Robbie, Yazmín, Angel and the Dr.); all of which would have been expensive in the U.S., but cost a gringo very little in Colombia, given the rate of exchange between American dollars and Colombian pesos.


[13]  In English the Spanish word ‘jungla’ means ‘jungle’, and ‘sabana’ means ‘savannah’, which the dictionary defines as: “a tropical or subtropical grassland usually containing scattered trees or shrubs that develops in areas in which heavy rainfall is interrupted by a distinct dry season, that is often maintained by human action (as of periodic burning or heavy grazing), and that tends to pass on the one hand into steppes and on the other into savanna woodland.” This is a perfect description of the geography around Robbie’s Colombian hometown, as will be seen, and suggests he had a more than adequate high school education, despite Dr. Lorenzo’s preconceived negative prejudices. (Merriam-Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, digital version for computer, Version 3.0, 2003.)

[14]  ¡CLARO!” is a Spanish word which means ‘Of course!’ or ‘I understand perfectly clearly!’ Here, mj is using it to get rid of people. He knows he is not understanding much, and often is not interested in understanding, simply because he is so world-weary; and so he dispatches with people and conversations by saying ‘Of course, I understand everything perfectly’.


[15]  See, for example, the Spanish-language article in the Spanish-language version of Microsoft Encarta, “Blas de Lezo,” Microsoft® Encarta® 2006 [DVD], (Microsoft Corporation, 2005) (Microsoft ® Encarta ® 2006. © 1993-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.), quoted here in Spanish, then translated (below) by the Dr. to English:Blas de Lezo (1687-1741), marino español.... se enfrentó a las fuerzas combinadas de Inglaterra y Holanda en batalla librada frente a Vélez Málaga, y.... Lezo perdió la pierna izquierda.... participó en la defensa de Tolón, donde también resultó herido.... En 1713 fue ascendido a capitán de navío, y un año más tarde, fue destinado al sitio de Barcelona, donde perdió el brazo derecho.... En 1737 regresó a América como comandante general de Cartagena de Indias, plaza que tuvo que defender de los ataques del almirante inglés Edward Vernon. Aunque consiguió rechazarlos, resultó herido y murió en esa ciudad.” (TRANSLATION.: Blas de Lezo, 1687-1741, Spanish sailor.... confronted the combined forces of England and Holland in full battle near the town of Vélez Málaga [Spain], and.... Lezo lost his left leg.... participated in the defense of Toulon [France], where again he was wounded.... In 1713 he was promoted to ship’s captain, and a year later was sent to Barcelona, where he lost the right arm.... In 1737 he returned to the New World as Commander General of Cartegena de Indias, fortress town which he had to defend from attacks by the English admiral, Edward Vernon. Although he succeeded in chasing them off, he ended up wounded, and died in that city.)


The naval confrontations of Malaga and Toulon were described by Winston Churchill in A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, vol. 3, The Age of Revolution (Malaga, p. 54; Toulon, pp. 67-70), as part of the War of the Spanish Succession, a war that particularly interested Churchill since it had permitted his ancestor, John Churchill, to show his true political and military colors and had won John and his descendants entry into the peerage under the title of 'Duke of Marlborough'. De Lezo fought on the side of the French, whose King Louis XIV wanted to make his grandson, the Duke of Anjou, the first Bourbon king of Spain. De Lezo was only a boy of 17 in 1704 when he signed on as a crew member for a French ship and lost his left leg in the battle at Malaga, apparently quite ardent that his country of Spain and all its possessions should fall to the French Catholic Sun King's realm of influence, and not be parceled out by English and Dutch Protestants. In 1714, when as ship's captain he lost his right arm at Barcelona, he was 27. Winston Churchill, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Vol. 3, The Age of Revolution (New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1966).  


[16]  Buque Escuela Gloria 1993, liberally illustrated 20-page brochure in Spanish and mistake-ridden English, produced by Colombia’s general maritime office, Direccion General Maritima, specifically Fondo Rotatorio Armada Nacional, and handed out free by its officers and sailors as a good-will gesture to any interested parties anywhere in the world.

[17]  Fodor’s South America, published in 1994, page 336. Exact data was unavailable as of October, 2014, due to the fact that the Dr. was chased out of his rented home in Mexico in 2013 by a super-dangerous Mexican drug-trafficking (and kidnapping and extorting and head-chopping-off) cartel. He left most of his books and papers behind, in his hurry and his need to travel lightly. Info will be added to this webpage when available..... Addendum: additional note, August 5, 2015: see Bibliography for full reference details.

[18]  Ibid.

[19]  Cadogan Guides: Ecuador, the Galapagos & Colombia (1991), p. 164.

[20]  Colombia: a travel survival kit, by Krzysztof Dydynski (published in Australia by Lonely Planet Publications, 1988), pp. 51-54. See, for example, p. 54: “Burundanga is a kind of drug used by thieves and robbers. It is obtained from certain plants and trees commonly called borrachero by a quite simple process, then put into food or drink and given to the potential victim.... Bear this in mind before accepting a cigarette from a stranger in a bus, a beer in a bar from suspicious company, or a drink in any public fiesta....”

[21]  Books with titles something like Dying with Dignity were standard help texts for the AIDS community at the peak of the HIV-plague crisis, when so many people were dying slow and disfigured deaths from an epidemic disease no one knew how to stop. This was before the discovery that certain anti-cancer medications helped, and before the discovery of the ‘cocktail’ of three such drugs combined. Other such help texts included Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ On Death and Dying, and her AIDS: the Ultimate Challenge, this last being found in the Dr.’s own personal library.


[22]  El Universal, Lunes 3 de Octubre de 1994 (El Universal newspaper published in Cartagena, Oct. 3, 1994), page 11A, bottom: “Al sur de Bolívar: Guerrilla liberó a ex-alcalde y plagió 2 concejales” (transl: “Southern Bolívar state: Guerrillas freed former mayor and kidnapped two town council members”): “Mientras que una columna insurgente liberaba a un ex-alcalde de Achí, otro grupo de sediciosos secuestraba a dos concejales del municipio de San Pablo que se desplazaban a bordo de una chalupa por el conflictivo sur de Bolívar....” (TRANSLATION.: While one band of insurgents [ELN] was freeing the ex-mayor of Achí, another rebel group [FARC] was kidnapping two San Pablo municipal council members as they were traveling by chalupa [motor launch] through the conflict-ridden southern part of Bolívar state.”


[23]  Frommer’s Budget Travel Guide: South America on $40 a Day, 1993-94 (New York: Prentice Hall), p. 299: “Important Warning: The running battle between the government and the drug cartels in Colombia poses a significant danger for the traveler, especially in the provincial cities of Medellín and Cali, where the cartels seem to hold sway, and in the capital, Bogotá. Instances of violence continued as we went to press, with bombings in areas visited by tourists.” And, p. 333: “Don’t wander around the walled city [section of downtown Cartagena] after dark – it is not well lighted.”


[24]  Dr. Lorenzo could not explain this apparent miracle afterword. Some of the party must have left earlier, he concluded, or they would never have fit in one tiny cab.

[25]  How to ‘avoid HIV’. By 1994 it was pretty well understood, especially by M.D.s like Dr. Lorenzo who had studied the matter thoroughly (for not just their patients’ sake, but their own as well), that HIV was spread when the virus in the blood or semen of one person managed to get into the blood of another person, usually via a cut or by sharing needles, or by other means. Whether saliva or other body fluids might also be dangerous was less well understood, but generally not feared as much. Thus mj lorenzo’s fear of another person’s saliva at this point during his first trip to Colombia would have to be understood as part of his then lingering psychosis and set of delusions regarding HIV and other things, a paranoid delusional system which had developed as part of the psychosis accompanying his severe depression, which began in 1992. It is worth noting that several days later, after reaching Santisima Cruz, Robbie’s hometown, he shared aguardiente cups on several occasions without the slightest concern for HIV, just one of many signs that the October 1994 trip was driving away his psychotic depression rapidly.

[26]  It was not until a much later date that Dr. Lorenzo learned that Efrén, an officer in the Colombian armed forces, always traveled with a concealed pistol, a fact which might have lessened mj’s anxiety about personal safety, maybe, had he been aware of it.


[27]  ‘DSM code’: in the diagnostic and statistical manual (DSM) of the American Psychiatric Association (APA), each psychiatric diagnosis is spelled out and given a (code) number, along with tips for distinguishing one disorder from another that resembles it. See Bibliography, Appendix B, under ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual’.

[28]  A number of people and groups had fits with this closing thought of the Dr.’s first diary entry. In fact, the whole and entire first day’s diary entry was a severe trial for most of the Dr.’s ardent supporters, and the rest of the world, both. But the closing caused one of the biggest stirs. Right-to-Lifers in the states, Latinos everywhere, and third-world population groups were the most offended. Robbie, on behalf of Fabién, Mariela and the rest of Robbie’s family, protested the ugly prayer personally to his friend mj, and to Sammy, both; and both of them apologized. During a three-way ‘conference’ phone call, Dr. Lorenzo reminded Robbie that he, mj, had been still depressed and half-crazy at the time, in 1994, going back and forth between feeling a little better, and then again feeling rotten, negative, anti-people, and even anti-life at times. He thanked Robbie for taking him to Colombia, so that Robbie and his family, friends and countrymen could pull him out of it. Sammy explained that the editorial board, in keeping with their approach to the diary entire, had left the thought in, hoping to show how dark the Dr.’s depression had gotten, and to preserve reality, including the reality that even cultural leaders and ‘culture heroes’ might have a dark and weak side at times. They didn’t want to ‘paper it over’ with niceties, when in reality the Dr. was not the only famous person on the planet who had ever had such a negative attitude toward life. “Real life,” Sammy said, “is raw at times.” The whole idea of publishing the diary was to show raw reality, hurtful as it might be to some people’s feelings. “Even Jesus Christ had a kind of dark and weak side, you could argue,” Dr. Lorenzo said to Robbie in his own defense, “because, just before the crucifixion he asked God to save him from the horror, if only he would. And the prophet Jeremiah cursed the day his mother bore him during one dark depressed and discouraged period of his life, he suffered so much from people's stupidities.” Robbie protested, on behalf of his family, that if mj wished to protest the day he was born, that was up to him, but the prayer implied that mj ‘felt poor little Fabién should never have been born!’, and that was something else completely. Jesus the Messiah had never said anything like that! “That horrifying thought never entered my mind,” the Dr. said. “But other horrible thoughts did. I was worried about the survival of the human race if the number of children born to a family kept overwhelming its ability to provide love and care, just like what happened to you. Weren’t you upset? Didn’t you feel hurt and left out for years, maybe even now, even still, after your mother gave you away to her aunt to raise, because she was overwhelmed with having too many children at once?” Fortunately this discussion with Robbie occurred in private. Unfortunately the rest of the discussion was too public, from the Paris-Match, to The India News, to the San Francisco Chronicle and Catholic Digest; but, as Sammy pointed out in a letter to The Philadelphia Inquirer, both the public outcry and the public defenses of the Dr. only served to draw more needed attention to the Dr.’s cause of preserving the human race against the anti-human forces which could destroy it. For another picture of Fabién see the Dr.'s diary entry for 10/11, subsection 81.

[29]  Basic map borrowed from Microsoft Encarta, Version 15.0.0.0603, copyright 1993-2005 Microsoft Corporation, digital encyclopedia for PC. Map then amended by editorial board: it was darkened and enhanced with more contrast and reduced in size; then yellow arrows and yellow city and country names, etc., were added. Note that the flight route to Cartagena avoids Cuba's air space ‘like the plague’, as described by the Dr. in his Oct. 3 diary entry, subsection 16 -- because Cuba still in 1994 was anti-God communist and therefore shunned and shut out by Congress from the USA's Godly Calvinist capitalist trade network and love.


welcoming face of Santisima Cruz
        boy click here to
          go home go ahead go back

outline                  detailed table of contents

first page of diary          image index   1   2

glossary                  bibliography


what's happening with  Dr. Lorenzo now  (Dec. 2016)

the impact of  Jung's 'opposites'  on mj lorenzo

on the grave matter of what the Dr. calls  'mass psychosis'

about Sammy Martinez'  'Introduction'  to the present work

note from B. C. Duvall:  how to read  this kind of writing




Back pages feature April 2017:

An aging dry-brain yet still self-analyzing shrink
Dr. Lorenzo

tells a live educated audience including would-be post-postmodern writers

why he risked chasing away readers

by recently adding to this website's home page

-- not 1 -- not 2 but --

3 hokey Bible verses