HOOKED ON COCALAND
La
Cartagena Terrible:[1]
finding dealers who deal paradise
Colombia’s Avianca airline flew Dr. Lorenzo and Robbie Rivera
from New York to Cartagena, Colombia and back
three times in the 1990s
Augustine, Confessions[2]
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
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
Robbie reacts
in a surprising way. he
praises me. i have
reason, he says in Spanish, to ask him for help: "You' here in
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
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
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
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 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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"¡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
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
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
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
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
"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)
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
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
if you can’t
make sense of the world as it is, make up a story, as they
say.
or: as i say, anyway.
“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 Toros. no, 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
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.
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
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.
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
that fit like a
puzzle piece with another twisted puzzle piece, a story Robbie
had told me yesterday morning in
when young
Robbie, excited with innocent anticipation, went to
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
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
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
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
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
14.
WHEN THEY FINALLY STOP PESTERING YOU, SIT DOWN AND
START A JOURNAL, A STORY-GUIDE TO PARADISE, A SAINT'S
CONFESSION HOW
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
whereas we've
never known anything of the simple daily routine, or the good news
about
one time that i
remember, the capital, Bogotá, was in
even
García Márquez wasn't very reassuring, though. why had he felt safer
writing his strange prizewinning novel about
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
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
"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 states? if
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
"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
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
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
"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
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
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: '
i'd underlined
those last words before i left the
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
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
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
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,
this didn't
worry Robbie, apparently, because it was well after dark when
we left the safety of
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
"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
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
the
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
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 lap. because 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
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.
"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
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
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?!
"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
yes. today, fortunately, i'm
fully educated and reformed and realize this word
"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 burundanga. if 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
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
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.
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
right,
sammy. taken care
of, just like the aguardiente
in
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
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
"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
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
25. WHEN YOU START LIKING THE
NATIVES AND WANT TO TAKE ONE HOME TO
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
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
all i'd wanted
for a long time, sammy, was someone to warm me up a little in
bed at night during the long
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.
“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
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
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
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
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
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 aguardiente. the 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
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
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
why think about
it at all? i have
no time left.
but it's gotten
me thinking about
why don't
don't ask me
why i worry so much about the
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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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 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]
"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
“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’.
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.
[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.