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HOOKED ON COCALAND
st. mj's guide to paradise for lost gringos

 
 book four:

 

 Here and Home:


good riddance paradise forever

(concl.)

 
 When our Sages figuratively call the knowledge of God united with intense love for Him ‘a kiss’,

they follow the well-known poetical diction,
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth" (Song of Solomon 1:2).

 

Moses Maimonides (1135-1204)

The Guide for the Perplexed, Chapter LI, note[1]

 

  half mottled jester, half
              devil, perhaps the intent is Colombian jungle warrior,
              since carrying primitive spear and shield

devilish-looking participant in ‘Carnival'
got up as a kind of jungle tribal warrior with spear and shield
or is he just a clown?

Barranquilla, Colombia, 1998[2]

 

saturday, 10/15/94.


99.  CHANGE THINGS FOREVER.  VISIT A BORDELO WITH YOUR LITTLE STREET URCHIN GUIDE, ONE LAST TIME.

 

Robinson opens my door and comes in full of wit and vinegar on this sunshiny morning. like the rest of them, he deems it proper to walk in my room without knocking.

 

he writes my AT&T secret code on coarse Cocaland toilet paper so he can call Caridad and Tobías 'free', then leaves the door wide open. his voice, more affectionate than usual, filters in through giggles of the little girls in the other bed, tickling each other.

 

phone to ear, he looks in, unnerving me, trying to include me in the call.

 

spread the party around.

 

another fetching custom i'll miss when i get home to Denver.

 

"Give me my code number," i say, "before it lodges in your brain." or ends up in his wallet when he’s not thinking, and serves for calling Cocaland next week from Nueva Your.

 

rudeness doesn't translate well apparently. he's not offended by the innuendo from saint mj, and drags me out of bed to talk to Tobías.

 

"Tell your sister Happy Birthday," i say to Tobías. "I'm ready to come home and recover from the shock of falling in love with your country."

 

"Falling in love," corrects Robbie.

 

witty.

 

he knows my feelings for Chalo were platonic.

 

except yesterday, but he hasn't heard about that yet.

 

i've thought it out overnight, sammy.

 

i should have expected it and been ready to resist. Robbie warned me. "That little cigarette boy, Aim-chay, h'iss goin' to bein' a puta."

 

every time he said the kid would end up selling himself sexually, i defended Chalo and forgot about it.

 

i wish i could forget about it now.

 

i have to get it off my chest, sammy.

 

remember how you badgered me for months, saying, "Don't you have a sexual bone in your body anywhere?"

 

well, bone doctor, get your rubber boots out.

 

we got back to central Cartagena from Barranquilla, and Robbie took off with his family.

 

i was exhausted but too rushed to take it into account. beer and a bad night’s sleep, hilarity and riding buses with Chalo had wiped out my wall of protection, just like before Santisima Cruz. i should have gone to bed and given the wall a chance to restore itself, but it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon and i had a million good-byes to say.

 

i walked into the bare bordelo room with Chalo, the same dreary cubicle we'd visited before to 'negotiate', meaning negociar (in Spanish), that is, ‘talk business’, work out a deal. he informed me that after we cooled off under the shower and fan, and once we had finally 'negotiated in private' the amount i owed him for his hard work of being our ‘guide’ and clown companion, he would still have something else to 'negotiate'.

 

that was plenty of warning right there, and still, when trouble came, i wasn’t ready.

 

we left our clothes in the room and i took the key, as before. we showered in the public shower down the hall, deserted as before. we didn't soap each other's backs. i thought he was going to ask me to adopt him and take him to the states. we both knew something was coming, and the tension kept us apart.

 

back in the room i got dressed on the far side of the one and only bed, and he on the side by the door, as usual. i dressed with my back turned, as always. i hid my inner money belts and zipped and straightened the safari shorts. it was more than enough time. the last time, he had been dressed and ready to talk at this point, so i turned around.

 

he was seated on the other side of the bed naked, re-lacing a sneaker which he held over his crotch.

 

"Get dressed," i said.

 

i sat down on my side to tie my shoes.

 

"Get dressed," i told him again. "I have to go. Give me your shoe. I'll lace it."

 

he tossed it on the floor, walked around and sat down at my left. he must have worked on the sneaker pretty hard, because he was sticking out.

 

he put his arm on my shoulder as any young Cocaland pal might, and pulled me downward a little. not to be humorless and gringo, i went along.

 

was it Cocaland friendliness, or a come on? was he forced to make it as a hustler, selling his body, like Robbie said? was that how he planned to survive? was he practicing? it wasn’t working. he was practicing on somebody who didn’t turn on.

 

Robbie had said half of coastal Colombia couldn't find work. but they had family! each day somebody in every overcrowded hovel would scratch up pesos to buy rice for the family. Chalo had no family! he lived alone! he was unskilled, unschooled. cigarettes weren't feeding him. the only thing left was hustling, apparently.

 

maybe i was his first attempt, and he’d find it distasteful – hopefully.

 

it‘s critical you understand, sammy, that those were the reasons behind my letting him kiss me goodbye. i thought he was sitting there naked and affectionate because he wanted to be a hustler. that’s why i let him practice on me. i was hoping he’d realize he didn’t like it.

 

i’m not going to let you jump to the conclusion i know you want to.

 

we were sitting on my side of the bed like that, arms on shoulders. when he tried to kiss, i said, "Okay, if you insist," also because this was our big meaningful farewell visit and we were about to negotiate something special. i didn't want to stifle spontaneous Cocaland boyish goodbye affection, to whatever extent it might be that, even if so much affection made me uncomfortable. all my life if a friend has lingered in physical affection too long, i've gotten uneasy, as most gringo men would. this affectionate friend was also naked and aroused, making me more uneasy. but he was just a nineteen-year-old kid. so i let it go on with Chalo; mainly so he could discover he didn’t like it, if that was the direction he was headed.

 

you have to promise you'll understand this the way i want you to, sammy, not in any other way. if you can't promise, then don’t read any further.

 

after the kiss, Chalo complained my mustache 'pica', or pricked him.

 

he didn't like a man kissing him. as i’d hoped.

 

so i curled my lip to keep it from pricking, depriving him of an excuse to say 'no', and gave him a second chance.

 

this was done not for myself, sammy. i know what you're thinking, but i swear on St. Augustine's miter, i had no interest whatever in sex with Chalo. i suggested a second kiss ONLY to test his street hustler mettle. hustling might require a taste for kissing men. we should find out if he had it in him. right now. hopefully he would dislike it and quit this nonsense.

 

he accepted, however. he liked the second kiss, unfortunately.

 

or fortunately. for now he could survive, saved by hustling. he'd be alive, but i wouldn't know what to think of him any more.

 

mural: scales show the side with
              several red hearts on it weighs more than the other side
              where sits the whole child 

‘how much are you worth? the weight of your love’

Santisima Cruz girls’ elementary school mural

 

now, sammy, you know perfectly well how much i've hated same-sex stuff lately. you and racer made noises in the bedroom. racer went around the house naked and horny and i complained. you know i'm not BSing when i say i offered the second kiss to help Chalo decide what he wanted. he had to stay alive somehow, like Robbie said, while he waited for me to bring him to the states. the wait could be long because Robbie said it could cost thousands, and i was nearly bankrupt. the kid would have to hang in there until i got the money. it looked to me like he'd decided he’d have to sell himself sexually meanwhile, ‘hustle’, as we call it in the states. it also looked like he might like doing it. if so, he’d have to learn how, and learn it right.

 

i say all that, sammy, not because i believe in hustling, or recommend it, but to prepare you for what came next. keep your boots on, oh right reverend sex therapist shaman and sexual bone doctor, because the worst of the wading lies ahead.

 

swear on the holy birthplace of your Tewa race, the womb of the earth, that you will understand correctly.


or stop reading now!


after two kisses, purely instructive and pedagogic, he lay down on the bed behind me, still without a stitch, head to my left, legs behind me. i was frozen to the side of the bed, still sitting with my back to him.

 

it was my last evening in Cocaland and i had to get to the apartment to entertain family.

 

"Get dressed," i insisted, turning left to look in his eyes. there was frustration in my dry throat.

 

"Sí," he said. and he lay there sweetly. he was randy IN TRUTH, as if this were the way to negotiate. show your product. maybe it’ll sell. this is when he made the offer i mentioned when i was writing yesterday: if i helped him get to the states, some day, hopefully soon, once arrived he would sell me his body for sex at a reduced rate. but, if i would take him with me on the plane in the morning, he said, his eyes warming, "You can do what you want with me now. Anything." it was businesslike and manly, yet relaxed and playful, and took me off guard. it was all too clear, suddenly, what he thought of me, what he was offering, and what he wanted in exchange.

 

on his back, he was. still. he moved his hands behind his head, demonstrating his openness, as he said, to 'anything'.

 

the kid was showing luster at this business of offering himself for money.

 

how serious could he be? would he actually go through with it?

 

maybe he didn't know. maybe he’d never done anything like it before, and was experimenting with a friend who he knew wouldn't abuse him. it was a perfect practice situation, so i didn't stop him.

 

yet.

 

i had to get us through it, both still feeling okay. i was the parent here, the older brother, older friend. i had to do it right and keep it light.

 

but i didn't know what to do! i only knew what not to do.

 

"It's a misunderstanding," i said. "I'm not going to use you for sex," as appetizing as he looked, it could make a person give up homophobia. i almost said that, sammy, but i didn't lie. i didn't insult him. i didn't get mad. i didn't say, "Do you think a doctor with two teenage kids would screw a teenage friend of his own sex?" i didn't abuse him and say, "I'm not a faggot like one cigarette boy I know." i left St. Augustine out of it, frchrissake, and his purist views of sex. Chalo wouldn't have understood that.

 

i didn't mention el sida, AIDS, either. i said, "I've given up sex. For health and other reasons. I'm going to help you," i said, like an older brother; except that an older brother's voice wouldn't have shaken. "You don't have to pay for the help. You’ve already earned it by being a friend and helping me have a good time in Cocaland. I like you," i said.

 

he searched me with male Cocaland eyes, sprawled there on the bed, a beautiful glowing rosy golden brown, head to toe.

 

i was mesmerized. i was so focused on him, and what he might do next, i missed what was going on elsewhere. that's why i say it was my fault what happened next.

 

success at celibacy had made me cocky, sammy.

 

i haven’t been aroused for two and a half years, except in Cocaland cabs, and one time only in your adobe house. and what happened asleep or semi-awake, Augustine himself did not count. i don’t pretend nothing happened during some of my nights in Cocaland, asleep in bed, but in other sexual situations nothing did. unfortunately, other potentially sexual occasions have been few. in your San Juan pueblo i saw no women. i stayed in the house. there was just racer's ‘priapism’, as you called it. he had a medical problem, you said, maybe a psychiatric one, a hard-on that wouldn't go soft. it ‘hurt and overstimulated him to wear clothes’. you were putting him through a New-Age, or, let’s face it, a sammy-shaman deflation technique. i was to mind my own business, that of getting over my depression. i was your patient too. i got used to him walking around like that, sammy. he charged up the atmosphere with sex energy every single day. he even came on to me. but he only turned me on once; and it was only because you made the atmosphere unusually magical, sammy. you somehow talked me into helping you paint him as a kosa clown, and damned if he didn’t start acting like one. but other than this one time, caused by YOU, and your shamanalytic ‘magic’, i held up well. so, by the time i stepped off the plane in Cocaland, i’d already reached the conclusion i could fight off sexual energy anywhere, any time.

 

i was immune!

 

unfortunately, i never thought it through carefully until last night. i forgot about how few, and unvaried, sexual situations had been. i forgot to take into account, as well, how limited my capacity to feel turned on had been: i had been depressed and grieving. i’d had no energy for life, and less for sex. no wonder i had succeeded at celibacy!

 

i put this together last night in bed, after it was already too late, sammy.

 

i made the mistake of thinking i’d risen above sex. i got so cocky about it i started calling myself saint mj. i was kidding, sarcastic. but i think a part of me believed it, as wacked and grandiose as it sounds. not a church saint like Christian Augustine. but a saint in the belief system i’d put together over the years and took somewhat seriously.

 

so: sitting on the bed with the kid, eyeing him over my left shoulder, i still thought i had it under saintly control. he was more turned on now. his total position, hands under head, kept advertising, like a blinking neon sign, ‘So what do you want to do with me?’ and it seemed to turn him on more. his dick was jumping out of its skin, dripping with sex on his golden tummy. something had to give. i had to be tactful. sincere. forget celibate sainthood. i didn't want him to feel less spiritual, or rejected sexually. i didn't want him to think his body was less perfect than it was, or his mind, or spirit, or any part of him. it could damage his self-esteem if someone important to him talked to him like scum. he was a gem, well built, well hung. and well adjusted considering his miserable life circumstances. i'd have been a dolt if i’d ended up on the street like he had.

 

somehow i had to convince him sex was out of the question, or i wasn’t going to make it home in one sexual piece; and i had to do it nicely and lovingly.

 

"I'll give you something for your efforts," i promised, a little out of breath. "I won't forget you when I get to the states."

 

i got a business card out, sammy, like i gave Gustavo. i put it in my lap to write down my home number in Denver, and that’s when – writing on the card, out of breath and dry-mouthed from adrenalin – i finally noticed a bulge in my safari shorts.

 

if he noticed, anything could happen, so i mashed on the shorts. i wrote the international prefix hard, in big, heavy numbers, pressing hard on the pen. and as i wrote, i looked up at him and said, "Call me when I get home. Collect," with the very firm tone of, ‘I'm not BSing, put your clothes on like I said and let's go’.

 

as i finished writing, he reached over and took the card, and grabbed my tented shorts.

 

i jumped up. "Get dressed!" i said. "It's the last time I'm going to say it!"

 

he was dressed in no time and enjoying himself as usual, everything forgotten.

 

he showed no disappointment he wasn't going to the states the next day, or wasn’t getting his rocks off. he was unfazed, like Buddha, as blissful rejected as on the make. but i was a mess, and have been since.

 

the Dr. holds on to a
              bougainvillea tree, two little boys at his side 

hooked on Cocaland

 

i know what you're thinking, and i'm tired of defending myself with you, sammy, but i sense it’s called for, one more time. some of my friends would condemn me for getting into that situation, others would laugh the famous mj lorenzo off the face of the planet, and maybe they're the more wise; but you, with your fascinating view that sex is healing, have been cheering, i’m sure. you always seem to think i’m bisexual, when all i’ve been is experimental. so i’m sure you now want to know why, repeat WHY, when i found a reason to live, meaning someone to care about, i had to go and get all scared and walk away. i can hear you having a fit, reading this, complaining to racer, and ending with a pronouncement: "mj is afraid of his heart."

 

that sounds like you.

 

"What is he doing?!!!!X#X#X" you'd be asking racer now, telling him the story you just read.

 

don't deny it.

 

i'll tell you what i'm doing. i'm leaving Cocaland.

 

for good.

 

i thought i'd found a third-world heaven, offering two reasons to live, two ways to commit myself: the boys of Santisima Cruz, living with them in their town; and having Chalo live with me in Denver. they seemed mutually exclusive at first; then it looked like maybe i could live part of the year in Denver, part here.

 

but instead, i'm walking away from Chalo and his country, because of the thing you’re thinking about, sammy. my heart. two and a half years ago i threw it out with the garbage. to find it again, i’ve been sifting through everything that’s been thrown out.

 

and i don't like sifting, suddenly, because i've found something in the refuse accidentally, that i never wanted to find. neither scenario for being with young Cocalanders, was ever to have included getting turned on by any of them. i still can't believe what was going on under that card.

 

if that's how i'm going to respond to the Chalos of this world, i should lock myself in the house.

 

Chalo, to survive, will have to learn how to handle a man who agrees to go with him to a cheap hotel to 'cool off' or 'negotiate', then kisses him.

 

that's why i kissed him a second time. since i had to go back to the states, and couldn't live with him and father and mother him, sammy, i had to test him before i left. he has got to figure himself out. ‘growing up’ means deciding what you like.

 

okay??

 

okay.

 

i didn't kiss him for my sake.

 

i think that's enough explanation to a good friend like you.

 

i've had it with trying to explain it to both of us.

 

 

 

 

 

100.  GIFTS FROM THE HEART CAN'T BE MEASURED, OR COMPARED.  LIGHTEN UP.

 

Chalo and i left the room and locked the door. i was sliding down a slippery slope, out of control. things could only get worse. eventually i’d crash into something or somebody, and we’d all be lucky if nobody got hurt.

 

i couldn't think of a gift for the family, for one thing. any gift i chose would go wrong. the best solution was to disappear and forget everybody, but i couldn’t think of a way. the family expected a goodbye party.

 

we walked down the stairs to the street. as we stepped into the light and noise, Chalo told me he'd had a good time. that was nice. it was fine, i mean. i'd had a good time too, until a certain moment. i didn't say that.

 

busy downtown Cartagena
              street with fancy buses and shoppers 

“as we stepped into the light and noise, Chalo told me he'd had a good time"

downtown Cartagena

 

Chalo led the way through central Cartagena's pandemonium of sidewalk stalls. we crossed the main drag with its speeding taxis, making it in one piece to Magali París, the city's only department store, to find a pointless gift for the family; and all this time, sammy, i hid my confused emotions from him, or tried to. then it was back to Centenario Park to catch a cab. we said goodbye with a quick hug as gentlemanly as possible in full public view. and i jumped in and was off to Efrén and Brenda's, at last.

 

locked out, as described yesterday. i had to climb the wall at my age, onto the first-floor balcony to wait for them.

 

life reeked.

 

it had the whole time we'd toured Cocaland, partying with urchins and guerrilla friends. i'd just convinced myself otherwise. now i was back to reality.

 

as i sat on the floor of Efrén and Brenda's balcony, boys shouting at soccer in the street annoyed me. traffic on the boulevard was nerve-wracking. every gain of the trip was a loss. how could i entertain Robbie's family or do anything with anybody, when my body wasn’t supporting me? i belonged in my room until we left for the airport.

 

Efrén and Brenda were too poor or fearful of theft to leave a chair on a first floor balcony, so i sat on the rough concrete and wrote you.

 

Cocaland, the only place in years that could find the key to my heart, i had to leave. i could never be around Chalo again, not the way he got to me in the hotel room. it wasn't his fault. i failed him. i couldn't come back and visit friends in Santisima Cruz, let alone live there. that pipedream was psychotic mania. i'd gone rampant with grandiosity all week, like a week’s run on coca, denying the danger.

 

as i wrote, something moved to my left.

 

a chest and face appeared in the balcony window, golden brown.

 

Efrén. he opened the balcony door wrapped in a towel, as surprised to see me as i was to see him. he’d been showering when i'd pounded at the door, we figured out. i followed with tablet, to write inside as he dressed, and sink into more gloom. i would tell Robbie, when he came, that i would stay in my room while they went out. this was my goal, sammy, whether they went out or stayed in. i was going to find some way to stay in my room and write, or sleep.

 

a tiny yellow Volkswagen cab pulled up, a shiny new third-world VW ‘Bug’, with glass you couldn’t see in. tablet went in cloth bag, as it had too many times the last three days, and i went to the balcony to find out who i was supposed to treat nicely this time.

 

from the doors of the taxi they jumped, one by one, like circus clowns from a tiny yellow Volkswagen between circus acts, a car which normally holds five people maximum in the states, in respectable neighborhoods. first came Robbie and his nephew Fabién. then granny Yazmín, and from the other side Robbie’s sister Brenda. that was plenty for a cab so tiny, but as in the circus, there had to be more. one of Brenda’s little girls jumped out, and then the other. the cabbie popped out to be paid. that was seven, right there. Brenda ran back and gave him two bills.

 

now Adriana did the comic climax, climbing out with three full shopping bags. and as the engine revved, little boy Jesús jumped out wailing, rubbing his eyes, thinking his mommy had forgotten him. a trap door was under the car with a manhole to a hiding place, or i was a naïve gringo dingbat. i smiled almost, but fought the smile.

 

nine people and three big bags of groceries in a Volkswagen Bug.

 

little Hey-Seuss pulling on Fabien,
              hanging on Robbie, arm around Brenda 

“i went to the balcony to find out who i was supposed to treat nicely this time”

(little Hey-Seuss, bigger Fabién, much bigger Robínson, and his sister Brenda)

 

now it was time for the chiefs of the circus clown tribe, Robinson Crusoe Rivera and Dr. M. J. Lorenzo, psychotic psychiatrist, to plan the evening. Efrén and Brenda and Yazmín and others had housed and fed us two weeks. Adriana had been helpful and fun. every member of the family had earned a thank you, meaning extra attention, said Robbie, when he came inside and saw me standing there.

 

we’d used rolls and rolls of toilet paper – just to name one thing for which we owed thanks. Robbie had told me when we arrived it was ‘scarce’. but you can’t treat toilet paper as scarce, when you’ve wasted it your whole life, like any self-respecting gringo, using twenty sheets when you could use five. the family must have wondered where it went so fast. they’d talked about us when we weren’t around, probably, wondering what we did with it.

 

maybe we used it to dry our hands, or blow our noses.

 

we used it for bookmarks in funny books we read without pictures.

 

they’d seen that.

 

we wrote a number on it and put it in our wallet. they saw Robbie do that this morning.

 

we wasted it because we were gringos, and gringos do foolish, exceedingly wasteful things, as everyone in the third world knows.

 

to pay the family in advance for a high rate of toilet paper consumption and other things, Robbie and i had gone to the flea market our second day. we’d bought four huge bags of groceries and a huge bag of rice. this was more polite than buying a ream of toilet paper, he’d said. accordingly, i’d bought something yesterday with Chalo at Magali París – with some of the last pesos i had on me – a small bag of rice, to replenish the family’s stock one last time. i told Robbie about this.

 

rice wasn’t enough of a thank you, i said, of course. their affection would feed me when i got home, just to name one gift they’d given me. i wanted to give them a gift that kept giving. five sacks of rice might have done it, but was gauche – cheap white stuff all over again. besides, i couldn’t carry that much to the cab. and i didn’t have the cash at the moment when i was with Chalo.

 

when someone gives you their home, sammy, their life; when they give you your life back; when they love you, rice and toilet paper aren’t enough thanks. Robbie’s family had made me one of them. they’d shared intimate family life, and they'd even let me record it. they’d served me, and spent their last pesos on nice Cocaland things for me. where did the beef and yuca come from? what about the slaughtered hen, a big deal in coastal Colombia. what did i kill? not my selfishness. not my sex drive, life-threatening as it could be. Robbie’s people had sacrificed without stinting. how could you thank them? it was impossible. the only answer was to quit trying. one small bag of ordinary Cocaland white rice would have to do, i told Robbie.

 

he said no. he yelled it, in fact, over all the noise, as we stood in the middle of the living room, the sala. it was nice, he said carefully in English, but they deserved more.

 

the other clowns raced around, using the bathroom, turning on TV, radio and stereo all at once, shouting, making noise, dancing vallenato, in short doing everything coastal Cocaland families do when energy is building for a great big costeño party. Robbie and i stood in the center of the ring like two clown parents, yelling in English about how to show the children a good time.

 

“They’re already having a good time,” i said. “We could stay here and order a pizza.”

 

Robbie’s face said this was no good.

 

i was too depressed to think of anything.

 

“And we,” he yelled, “are doin’ it like gringo, Aim-chay. We are eatin’ out!”

 

i was still thinking about it, however.

 

if i stayed home, they’d tell it forever, the great funny story of Robbie’s friend, the unhappy gringo. i had to get them to stay home for a reason, and it had to come from Robbie, not me.

 

“Okay,” i said, “how will we pay for it?”

 

“You have pesos, right?” he said.

 

i always had before. he must have noticed.

 

face of red devil wielding cross as
              weapon 

another devilish ‘Carnival’ participant, Barranquilla 1998

    

 

 

 

 

101.  HOW TO TAKE THE WHOLE FAMILY OUT TO DINNER, COCALAND STYLE:  NO CAR, NO MONEY.

 

all Robbie had to do was figure out how to get his family, every last one of the clown children, down to Boca Grande for an evening out; back home to two separate barrios for the night; then all the way down to the airport in the morning to see us off; and home again from the airport – all in the manner of a typical Cocaland family: NO CAR. NO MONEY. routine for a born and bred Cocalander.

 

in fact it was impossible. he just didn't know it yet.

 

i'd seen the ridiculously long line at the bank at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and forgotten, i told him, it might hurt his family, if i went back to the apartment without cash; and that was what i had done.

 

the truth was, i'd decided to manage with what i had left, and spend time with Chalo, not in bank lines, but showering, cooling off, 'negotiating', and saying good-bye.

 

"That’s why we have no money," i said.

 

"You are enchoyin' yourself?" he asked.

 

"No, I'll tell you later. Look," i said. "We have no money and no car. Let's stay here and eat rice."

 

Robbie did a quick check. Efrén and Brenda and Yazmín had too few pesos to bother counting. Robbie and i were able to scratch up 12,000. Half would get the crowd to the airport and back in the morning. That left 6000 – seven dollars – to transport six big clowns and four little ones to town, buy everybody dinner, and get everybody home.

 

"Money goes far here," i said, "but not that far." and i couldn't use Master Card. "And that's another thing," i said. "The last two times i tried to use Master Card, they said it was turned off at the source. But we can stay here," i said, "and eat the rice I bought as a thank you." i wanted to sit in my bed and write and hopefully feel better. that was how mj lorenzo dealt with problems.

 

"Whass happen with Mastacar'?" Robbie asked.

 

i'd used the card for two purchases of $100 each, i said, the fan and the vallenato CD's, and three or four small restaurant bills. but the credit limit was in the ten-thousands of dollars.

 

"How much iss limit?" asked Robbie.

 

i didn't want to say. i'd never told anyone. "There's something wrong with the card," i said with energy. "How can they say I can't use it?"

 

"How much is la límita?" he asked.

 

"Eighty thousand dollars," i made up. "And I know why it's cut off." we were still standing in the sala, trying to talk over the noise. i was getting more upset. someone had gotten my card number and used it. maybe the waiter in the restaurant in Barranquilla, the one that made an error, as he'd claimed apologetically. he'd said he'd voided the slip, yet he never returned the void as he should have, and i'd forgotten to ask for it.

 

i said, disgusted, "That's Cocaland. Give 'em a chance and they rob your gringo soul."

 

"Gringo sol?" said Robbie, puzzled. he didn’t grasp that i was exaggerating everything. "Whass tha'?"

 

"Credit cards, passport!" i shouted. "I should have stayed in San Juan! This place has ripped me off eighty thousand dollars!"

 

but you, sammy, kept saying, go go go!

 

my imagined story was sounding more likely. the fear had grown in me for a day, as i told Robbie, that Chalo had picked up a Master Card receipt. i'd been careful with him when i could. but maybe he'd given a receipt to friends in the unpainted wood-shack stall in the crowded alley, the place in Getsemani where they'd sold him the watch for fifteen bucks, the ‘authentic Georgio' watch for his mother. yet he didn't know where his mother lived. the little wretch couldn't keep his falsehoods straight.

 

the same wooden booth where i'd bought his shirt and pants, i said to Robbie. the place where they held his things for him, when he was out with his big bucks friends, the Americans to whom he wouldn't show his room. the men who ran the shop, i recalled, held the sneakers for him when i bought them that one day. Robbie knew who i meant. he'd gone with us and seen them once.

 

it was an accusation “cru-el”, said Robbie. "If Chalo is stealin' like that," he said, "he'ss havin' more shirt and more pants."

 

yet the kid hid his room from us. he came off like a hustler at times. i didn't mention how MUCH he acted like one that afternoon. i wasn’t ready to expose that nerve.

 

some of the family stood around looking worried.

 

"You are yellin'," Robbie said. "They think you are getting' mad at them, you are not wantin' to go out with them."

 

"I am, but I can't afford it, Robbie," i said. "I know what happened to my Master Card now." the nervous breakdown i wanted to hide, was coming out in money matters.

 

Chalo was a scam, i explained in English, family standing around looking concerned. every week he picked up some new stupid gullible gringo, kept him company, pretended to feel puppy love, showed him the town, did anything the gringo wanted, and was liked so much that the stupid gullible gringo bought him shirts, pants, shoes, and fifteen dollar Georgio watches for his ‘mother’, all in Chalo's friends' store. Chalo left the merchandise in the store for convenience, while he worked the streets and ran with his latest gringo victim, unhindered by packages. when the stupid ass gringo left for the states, those packages went back on the rack. ten percent of the take was Chalo's. he put his old stained and ripped clothes on again, paid his rent with his ten percent, and retired to his flea-bitten mattress situated on a bordelo floor, laughing at stupid-ass moneybag gringos.

 

the black comedy played in my mind. the film rolled on to the point where Chalo laughed on his flea-bitten mattress on a tile floor that was dirty, faded, scratched and cracked black and white checkerboard. then it stopped.

 

the family stood there, trying to read between English lines they couldn’t see.

 

Robbie said we'd witnessed Chalo with our own eyes deliver the watch for his mother to his uncle in Barranquilla. "Iss true, ?" he said, trying to walk me delicately past it.

 

yes, i said, but it was a teeming, densely populated neighborhood with marijuana mafioso hiding in corners. how did we know who the man was? 'uncle' might be chief of the Barranquilla drug syndicate, connected with the guys in the stalls in Cartagena who kept Chalo’s things for him.

 

"And," said Robbie, "that day you are buyin' the shirt and pants, Chalo iss wearin' them?"

 

"Yes," i said. "When we went back to meet him at the clock tower. And he hasn't taken them off since, except to sleep."

 

"¡Exacto!" said Robbie, "he'ss wearin' them every day, too dirty to go to the store."

 

"Not in Cocaland," i said.

 

"Sí," he said. "In Colombia."

 

Robbie knew. it was his country.

 

with the whole tribe watching, the two sad clowns came back to money. short on creative positive ideas, i said we stay home.

 

they could have the fun they wanted and deserved, said Robbie, if we just ate out on a different plastic card, not ‘Mastacar'.

 

i drew a blank.

 

"You say it to them," he said.

 

he was right. we couldn’t protract this argument, making them wait a second longer.

 

"No tengo dinero,"[3] i said, glancing at his mother: “I have no money.”

 

she smirked. she didn't believe it. they stood there listening, big and small.

 

"But we'll eat in a restaurant," i continued in Spanish, acting happy.

 

she believed that less. i'd just said i had no money.

 

"But it'll be difficult," i said, "because for ten of us there's enough cash for one taxi only. That's too many in one cab. Besides," i said, "restaurants aren't accepting my Master Card. I can use only American Express, and –"

 

it had just occurred to me why we shouldn't use American Express, sammy. i was going to explain, and suggest we stay home for rice, or pizza, but they rushed out the door. very few Cocaland restaurants accepted American Express, i told Robbie, chasing him out the door. only boring ritzy places where gringos went. for two weeks we'd avoided those unauthentic and gringo-pandering spots. we couldn't ruin our last night with family, our last in Cocaland, i said as i chased him and everybody else toward the boulevard outside the Naval compound, by landing in one of those deathlike places.

 

besides, they were expensive. i kept that to myself.

 

"Let's stay here," i said. "We can dance while the rice cooks." i had no intention of dancing.

 

i don't even know why i was talking. we were across the street by now, waiting for a cab.

 

Robbie snatched a cab faster than a Wall Street magnate. in this compact-size Renault, he had to let his nieces ride shotgun on his legs. Yazmín, Brenda, Efrén, Adriana and i, plus the two boys, Jesús and Fabién, squeezed ourselves miraculously into the back. we packed ourselves in on each other's folded parts, sammy, like yellow banana peppers in a jar of olive oil. i couldn't move. i couldn't find my hands. Efrén's leg lost circulation before we pulled off, but he couldn't relieve it. he was hemmed in. i was on top of Efrén in safari shorts. Adriana was steaming on top of me, pressing her short shorts on my lap hotly, her strong haltered torso doubled forward, folded into the ceiling. her head and neck were lost in the front of the car somewhere near Robbie's. the taxi door was pressing on our right side, Yazmín and Fabién squeezing against our left.

 

the cab was steaming, sammy. and as we moved, with each bounce, eleven raw squashed yellow banana peppers went swish in warm oil and vinegar.

 

painted black body, yellow face with
              black spots, rings in nose and ears, grimacing, like
              African witch doctor 

participant in Barranquilla’s 'Carnaval'

 

 

 

 

 

102.  U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT ADVISORY TO U.S. CITIZENS IN COLOMBIA:  BEWARE COCALAND CABS PACKED WITH FAMILY.  SHUN THEM LIKE PLAGUE IF U.S. CITIZEN IS HIV POSITIVE; NOT TO MENTION CELIBATE.

 

And then

– I read that once somewhere –

the life of a hedonist is the best preparation for becoming a mystic.

People like St. Augustine are always the ones that become visionaries.

He, too, was first a sensualist and man of the world.

 

Hermann Hesse     Demian

ca  p. 88  (Demian speaking to Sinclair)

 

i was in trouble, sammy, packed in by family, sweaty body parts rubbing against me, especially when we slid through potholes and bounced, to wit, every few seconds. i'd had no experience with it anywhere. even in Cocaland, eleven people counting the cabby had to be a record for a cab that miniature. it made the boat from Magangué to Santisima Cruz seem spacious. if they had told me the day i got here, that before i left i'd know them this well, i'd have flown straight home. the first day’s ride from the airport was nothing next to this.

 

it wasn't merely intimate. it immediately provoked the volcano in my shorts into rumbling, more violently than at any time on the trip.

 

it didn't seem to care WHEN it broke through, or WHO was around to be wiped out, were it half the family, even Mary and Jesus. they felt like my family now, Adriana and Jesús, yet the rumbling kept up, so in desperation i came up with what proved to be a bad idea. whenever i felt turned on by Adriana's hot bottom and bare thighs, pressing down on me, i tried to picture a male there instead, a platonic friend. this should turn me off, i figured. Racer was a good first choice, sammy, since he'd walked around naked for months in the house, and i'd felt disinterest, even when he was turned on; which was always. i'd turned on by contagion or somehow only once that whole time, so racer seemed a good bet. there wasn't time to probe the logic of it, or explore a list of substitutes for Adriana's hot body. things heated up too fast. possibilities leapt to mind and took over before i could censor them.

 

just as unwisely, Chalo leapt to mind. i found myself picturing mister urchin, randy in the shower, then on the bed like he'd been; but this did no good either. instead of canceling sexual instinct, the image was engulfed, picked up and carried off by the flow of things. the volcano showed a will of its own. it was growing more determined, and as it got that way, its determination was headed in the worst direction, out to the front through the leg of my shorts.

 

now, sammy, if Augustine had been with me as he should have been after all the devotion i’d shown him, he would have seen to it that the natural human volcanic instinct, at least, if it had had to rear its ugly head at all, should have grown upward inside my jockeys along the belly. but no. so i had to do something; but i was hemmed in, i couldn't adjust myself, even if everyone's life counted on it, as you've realized by now it did.

 

i couldn’t find my arms and hands! they were lost. when Adriana stuffed herself in on top of me, there was no place to put them. i lost track of them and had to send my brain on a search mission. she was scrunched up against the ceiling, doubled forward. my hands were happily imprisoned between her thighs and breasts, my brain reported finally. one was under each breast, reluctant to move for fear of molesting her more than they had already. they could never be extricated to adjust anything.

 

the excitement grew, and i found strange things around me stimulating, a metal door handle to the right, and waves of damp sultry air from the windows. there was a hot man's body beneath me. that was strange. so i used Chalo again, stupidly hoping it would turn me off. when heat from the left mounted from Yazmin's thigh and Fabien's sweaty little arm and leg pressing against my bare arm and leg, i disliked the strangeness and switched to a different vision, one of Chalo as he'd sat to my left on the bus, in the shirt and jeans i'd bought him, pushing his arm and leg into mine. none of this helped, sammy, as you can imagine. if anything, picturing Chalo on every side made things worse, don't ask me why. but the damage was done. i had little control left. the more that little cab steamed along juicily, the more everything turned me on. we were way beyond the arousal i'd felt in bed at the apartment, whenever a fan blew warm dark sea air, flapping silk boxers against me half asleep.

 

the body part in question, the mouth of the volcano where solid was turning into liquid, what with sweat and natural lubricant and everything else, had snuck out the left leg of my jockeys, loose as they were from two days of wear. and worse yet, when we'd sat down, the left leg of my safari shorts had ridden up, so now, on a slippery surface between adriana’s bare thigh and mine, the determined little volcano mouth moved with each bump and turn in the road, delighting in its advance, awash as it was in everybody’s slippery warm skin.

 

deadly trouble. two and a half years' worth of lava on tap, pushing for release. if it burst like it seemed bound to, the fumes alone would kill the family with HIV. my desperate containment measures had failed. i couldn’t keep on trying to picture friends any more. it hadn't helped. i wasn’t Catholic, so i couldn’t pray to a saint, like Augustine.

 

what had that clever man recommended in situations like this?

 

if i could remember, i might save the family. even if i never remembered, just thinking about it might slow things down enough to make it to the restaurant intact.

 

Augustine struggled to suppress his sexual instinct for years, sammy, even before he became a Christian. sex had run his life, he complained, as it was running much of the Roman empire's by then, according to him. it bothered him that he couldn’t control it. other saints kept their sexual addictions to themselves, but Augustine published his in a book, The Confessions. each time he tried for control, starting at sixteen when he first wished it, sex defeated him. his mother, the future Santa Monica, shopped and found for him a woman he wouldn’t have to marry in order to shack up with and play house: a concubine, to keep the volcano in relative containment, at least. but he wanted total control. when his concubine became pregnant, he got upset and wanted to name the baby 'Mistake'. i dreamt that, or read it in one of the twenty books, sammy, maybe in the fictional biography. but anyway, if that's true, he must have softened toward the helpless baby, because he finally called him 'Given-by-god' in Latin. 'Adeodatus'.

 

Augustine blamed Rome's gradual disintegration on the Romans' dissolute sex mores. he worked on the problem for years in a scholarly way, even before he became a Christian. unbridled sex was wrecking Rome slowly, turning the famous ‘Roman peace’ into chaos, he said. if only he could figure out how to bridle sex and teach others, the Roman civilization might become livable again. Christians like his mother, Monica, loved sexual purity. maybe they could teach him. so he converted to Christianity hoping to find the answer, but did not. faith changed lives, but sex was stronger, apparently.

 

after analytic study for more years, using his classically educated mind, it came to Augustine one day: he was trying to control his sex urge all by himself. if God was omnipotent, meaning all-powerful, as Augustine, now a priest, proclaimed in the Credo every Sunday in church, then the answer was obvious: he would attain celibacy only if God wanted it. so he turned himself over, body mind and soul, to God. he became sex-free and remained so ever after, or so we are told.

 

remembering Augustine like this was helping me in the cab with family, sammy. i was completely turned off by the dude, so i kept it up as we raced along like a runaway Disneyland ride, through streets of Colombia’s ancient port city, now past a 450-year-old fort that poor old Blas de Lezo defended more than once.

 

 people touring ancient fort

“a 450-year-old fort that poor old Blas de Lezo defended more than once”

the impregnable fort of San Felipe in Cartagena

(with parts of downtown and Old Town in distance)

 

during Augustine's middle years, the Roman Empire fell apart irreparably. military setbacks occurred so often, no Roman could deny that the once peaceful, wealthy empire was crumbling. in Augustine's fifty-fifth year a Germanic tribe known as West Goths came down through Italy and sacked the great city of Rome. by now Augustine wasn't just a Christian, or even just a priest. his strong character and fertile mind had made him Bishop in North Africa, outside Carthagehe chafed not at the sack of Rome, for he saw it as God's will and punishment; but rather at the slanderous indictment of Christians leveled by non-Christians, after Rome was sacked. Christians were blamed for Rome's fall. moreover, as the pagans scoffed and mocked: Christian women weren't pure and holy virgins any more, they were defiled, because now they'd been raped by Goths. and instead of acting with Christ-like courage, some Christian women had committed suicide rather than submit to being raped.

 

i remembered this tiny bit of history Augustine had described in his writing, sammy, in his book, City of God, as we sped along in the cab on streets forever full of potholes. it slowed the seemingly inevitable between me and Adriana so much, i was confident i'd beaten the volcano. the family was safe, and Adriana’s reputation. i thanked Augustine for helping.

 

i didn’t need him any more, thank God. as we bounced, careened and flew toward downtown, i began to find fault with the so-called saint.

 

Augustine's celibacy for the sake of Christ, and his 'fall of man' theology, were pure wackiness, sammy. they showed what happened when Mind analyzed Myth to pieces and called it Theological Truth. i thought about it as we drove along.

 

to Augustine it seemed fair and reasonable, that Adam and Eve should have lost paradise for disobeying God; but it did not seem fair to his Roman sense of justice, that their children and all descendants should have suffered too, as the scriptures claimed, all of humanity including himself, just for the fault of two dumb ancestors. he had to come up with an explanation as to why a ‘just God’ would have punished him, Augustine, for something Adam, a great-great-grandparent, had done. to do this, he singlehandedly invented a crazy mamagallo notion that would fuck up Christians sexually for centuries thereafter – for sixteen hundred years without letup, right down to you and me and the wash lady, sammy.

 

the Biblical idea of sin has been hard for me to swallow since about the seventies. maybe i’ve rejected it wrongly, who knows. but the even crazier theological idea of so-called 'original sin' that i grew up with, that a strange moral condition called ‘original sin’ passed from my parents to me through sex when they made love and made me, causing all of my sexual feelings to be just as sinful and wrong as theirs, is the biggest pile of theological crap, the worst lying insult to me and humanity, Augustine or anybody ever came up with. ‘original sin’ was the messed up doctrine he authored to explain to himself why a just God had denied poor little him a chance to live in sexual paradise like Adam and Eve had, before they ate the ‘apple’.

 

now, as you know, the distasteful idea of SIN is everywhere in the Bible, but no such brain-spun perverted connection of sin to SEX has ever been found there as Augustine managed to come up with. Moses did not condemn all sex outright in The Law. the prophets didn't say it was wrong in itself. neither did Jesus, yet Augustine could not rid himself of the gnawing conviction that sex was evil and sinful in and of itself. since he was so sure of himself – he never suffered in the self-confidence department – and believed so fervently that sex was destructive, he concluded that the assumption had to lie everywhere hidden between and behind the lines of what the scriptures said. and naturally then, since he was looking for it so hard, he found it all through the Bible, hidden, but discoverable if you were as brilliant at this game as he was. this is how Augustine became one of the first church fathers to push the sick notion, sammy, that sex was dirty. he pushed it with all his political power as bishop and famous writer, using his powerful brain, his rhetorical skill at arguing and convincing, his incredibly powerful prose, his frighteningly forceful personality, and his incredible knowledge of scripture. he pushed it in every way he could think of. he even ridiculed publicly an Italian church leader who said that he and his wife made love and enjoyed it around the house whenever they wanted to. and he finally bullied the church into making it doctrine, that: the wonderful act of lovemaking should more accurately be described as the SIN of 'fornication'.

 

it was still a long way to Boca Grande. it wasn’t impossible i might become a danger to others and myself again, as long as we bounced along juicily in the cab, so i kept thinking of deluded, sex-wacked St. Augustine.

 

as down on sex as i am, sammy, i would never call it ‘dirty’ or ‘sinful’, as Augustine did. i’m down on it for other reasons. the funniest twist, though, is that even Augustine couldn't go along with Augustine. he kept finding ways in which sex was not evil and sinful, thereby compensating for his own fanaticism in spite of himself. he’d seen several sides of life, after all. we know a tremendous amount about him, because given his outspoken nature, his high post, and his ability as a writer, he became the greatest apologist of his day for Christians and their weird – to others – views and behaviors. as with ‘original sin’, he sought ways to justify rationally whatever he espoused emotionally, down to the finest legalistic detail. he wrote tracts and apologies and defenses and sermons, and spread his writings around the crumbling Roman empire in parchment scrolls, promoting himself for everyone's edification. so, when the greatest pagan and non-Christian intellects of his day, attacked his brothers and sisters after the sack of Rome; when they scoffed at the Christians of the capital of the empire, the city of Rome, whose head prelate was the most high-ranking Christian, supposedly all the way back to the disciple Peter himself: well, Augustine couldn't leave it alone. he had to defend his Christ-loving Roman brothers and sisters in the capital of Christendom. so, sitting just four hundred miles across the water in North Africa, in his library near Carthage, he dictated a book to his scribes. he did this for years during breaks between preacherly duties, issuing it in parts, calling it The City of God. and like his Confessions, sammy, as you know, The City of God became a critical part of the intellectual and spiritual foundation of developing Western civilization. for 1600 years it has affected how we all think in our ‘Western’ world.

 

it’s fascinating that Augustine wrote so much about sex, when you consider he was a celibate saint. and he wrote about it in amazingly frank detail. it just shows you, sammy, exactly how messed up Christians can get about sex. in this area more than any other maybe, they can contradict themselves to the point of hilarious hypocrisy. it's no wonder The City of God sells big even still. it's been a classic for almost 1600 years, maybe partly because it opens with a surprising, delightfully frank and lengthy discussion of sex. the first ten chapters are a defense of Christians, not just in their spirituality, but also in their seemingly weird sexuality. i thought about this while things were slowed down in the oily spaces between me and Adriana, and between me and the rest of Robbie's family, all squeezed up hotly against me. and it made me feel better knowing that Augustine, though he wouldn't forgive his own sexual urges, forgave situations among his spiritual brothers and sisters. he let monks have wet dreams without guilt, because, being asleep, they hardly knew what was happening. i read this in the Confessions.[4]  none of this that i’m telling you is drawn from books of fictional biography, sammy, except maybe that thing about calling his kid ‘Mistake’. everything is from his own writing. he let the people of his church marry and have sex and babies too, for, as he realized with his brilliant, analytic, classically educated mind, Christianity might be wiped out, if Christians didn't make more Christians by ‘fornicating’, as he disrespectfully labeled it. so, as i say, certain useful and sane exceptions to celibacy he forgave or allowed.

 

as for the attack on his Roman sisters, raped as they were by armored West-Gothic barbarian conquerors, he launched an elaborate rational defense of their feminine actions, assailing the critics of Christians with stroke after stroke of rhetorical genius. he left no stone unturned, and no potential rebuttal unaddressed. in The City of God he explored the spiritual sexuality of young virginal Christian female Romans from every angle, including whether it was more right and proper, i.e. not-sinful, for them to commit suicide before rape; or, after rape. as for sex during rape, he found, after careful thought and prayer, that they were pure in heart, virginal, undefiled, and without a drop of sin, if they had given in to sex without participating in it fully, willfully, in their innocent hearts. in other words, if they were victims of events and circumstances, and even if they hadn't found every aspect of it entirely distasteful, they couldn't be condemned. because what had happened had not been their fault.

 

i suddenly loved this point as i sat in the rocketing cab, sammy. i loved Augustine for making this point. it was really big of him. once in a blue moon, he could be a mensch of a saint after all. i too was a victim of events and circumstances. it might be dangerous and embarrassing, but it wasn't my fault that pressure had built up for two and a half years. it came from the best of intentions. it wasn’t my fault that Hispanic-world banks were so possessed by medieval bureaucracy that they couldn’t process long lines of customers with dispatch on Friday afternoons. it wasn't my fault Robbie's family was poor, and had no more cash than most Cocalanders, and that i hadn't gotten cash at the bank because poor little Chalo deserved a decent good-bye. it wasn't my fault that cabs in Cartagena didn't accept credit cards. it wasn't my fault that in our cash-poor condition we'd had to pile into one little cab to save money. it wasn't my fault Adriana had sat on top of me doubled over, and had worn nothing but short shorts and a halter. it wasn't my fault Caribbean life was so hot and sticky.

 

it wasn't my fault, sammy, my jockeys had loosened from two days of wear, starting on the bus to Barranquilla. they'd gotten looser as i’d shared a narrow bed with a young athletic male, fighting for sheets and space, ending up on a bare mattress. many things had stretched and loosened the leg holes of those jockeys, and i hadn't brought along a fresh pair with me because, when we'd left the house, we'd had no intention of spending the night away.

 

things had only gotten worse with the jockey shorts, and it hadn't been my fault. they had loosened more that morning, as i rode back on the bus from Barranquilla to Cartagena, bouncing in my seat beside Chalo; running out to be frisked by soldiers; then as everything had happened with Chalo at the hotel; shopping at Magali Paris for rice; and finally, bouncing and sweating during the taxi ride back to Efrén and Brenda's. in short, everything i'd done for two days had made those jockeys sweatier, wetter, baggier, looser, oilier, slipperier, and generally less serving for the purpose of constraining built-up male sex. i never could have predicted that it would lead to a crisis, when sexual instinct, like a bear waking after months of sleep, would leave its wintery den and wreak havoc in the space between Adriana and me.

 

it happened without my participation. Augustine would have forgiven it, just as he forgave Christian Roman virgins who were the victims of rape. it was a natural act i could hardly prevent, for which i was forgiven; so i quit trying to fight it so hard, sammy. i was so relieved by the realization that Augustine would have forgiven me, i didn’t ask if this would help or hurt the situation with Adriana. i just kept thinking about Saint Augustine, and the picture he’d drawn of the rape of Rome in the year 410. hardly even noting it consciously, i saw Augustine's rapist Germanic Goths in brassy breastplates and helmets, graphically dressed like muscular Norse gods on comic book covers. i imagined them so, for some reason. i didn’t question the image. it came naturally. their leg and arm muscles bunched as they raped the Christian Italian virgins in their gowns of white veil, laid out on gleaming brass shields. this was the image that came to me. it wasn't my fault, sammy, that i'd been exposed to Botticelli reprints of Italian virgins in see-through gowns everywhere, even in TV commercials. or that through the gowns you could see bouncing breasts and nipples, with rounded hips to the sides, on these long-haired loose-gowned Italian girls who were virgins. it was an automatic, barely conscious image. these scenes must have happened wherever Goths found Christian Roman maidens, in public squares, homes, fields or wherever. in fact, they preferred open public places, i figured, with lots of onlookers who were as aroused as i was becoming again. the act of public rape was anonymous and it was symbolic, deliberately, of the conquest of Rome by the Goths; and since these Gothic men wanted Roman subjects to revere and fear them, the greater the number of Romans and Goths that stood there watching, and the stronger the emotion accompanying their watching, the better. it all made complete sense to me.

 

Botticelli's 'Primavera' 

“it wasn't my fault that i'd been exposed to Botticelli reprints of Italian virgins

in see-through gowns everywhere, even in TV commercials”[5]

 

all this brought me to the spellbinding notion, sammy, that the ‘Visigoths’, or West Goths, being heroic fellows, and themselves pretty well Christianized too,[6] must have treated the girls with more restraint than we usually associate with the word ‘rape’. they raped Rome symbolically, carefully and lovingly, dragging it out, making it carry more meaning for everyone. they did it with brotherly love, or so they told themselves. they didn't hate Romans, after all. they just wanted jewelry and houses and sun like everybody else. so they came down from the north and showed their Christian sisters a little bit of Christian caring. they didn't stop at a protest or tears, of course, but slowed down and grew more careful. this got me going, sammy, as you can imagine, though it was wrong to enjoy a rape, even thinking about it. but it wasn't my fault, it was Augustine's, because his description of sex and religion at the time of the rape of Rome, in the Harvard Classic edition of The City of God i’d brought to Cocaland, was written so incredibly well it had stirred my power to picture things in detail.

 

we were bouncing and jerking and racing along, just coming to hot noisy downtown. the vallenato was bouncing and jerking wickedly at top volume, in our cab and every cab around. Augustine allowed it, and i had stopped fighting it briefly. if you had no control of a sexual situation, Augustine smiled on it. the lava was boiling. it was ready. we hit a huge pothole and i stiffened, trying to hold back again. what if i killed the carful with AIDS? what if they noticed, for Pete's sake? but it was too late. 'Cartagena de Indias'[7] went past my window, the city's sexy symbol, the big bronze statue of a naked golden-brown indigenous woman, with big luscious brown breasts and hips. i hugged Adriana's strong bronze boobs with all my hands and heart, and between her and me, the event took place.

 

and it went on so long and intensely, that Adriana might have noticed. she is a down-to-earth woman, after all, sammy. at times when i've thought of it, i've imagined she was helping, but of course i have no proof.

 

more likely she noticed nothing. rides in Cartagena are violent naturally, and the climactic part of the ride, when compared with the total, was just a seismic wrinkle, though it went on for blocks. and in the end, the volcano's mouth had traveled so far, that when it exploded it was over the floor in the back of the car, where none of us in our cramped positions could see it, hear it, smell it, or sense it in any way, i suspect. tons of fresh salty and fish-smelling sea air blew the toxic fumes away. Adriana's eyes and ears were in the front of the cab with Robbie's. my nose, like every other adult's, was jammed up against someone's back.

 

i don't know what it's called, sammy, when a man is de-pressurized after two and a half years. you're the sexpert. we were flying through downtown. we zipped and rattled down the main drag past the department store, Magali Paris, where i'd just bought rice with Chalo for the family. the volcano was still erupting as we passed the clock tower where we'd met Chalo late that one night. as we sped past the ancient beach fortifications built against pirates and the English there were bursts in honor of Blas de Lezo; careening around the traffic circle by the blue-green sea, there were shots for the docks and sailors with girlfriends. we turned and passed Efrén's work, the naval base, and tore down Avenida San Martín. there were a few aftershocks and by the time we stopped blocks later, across from the Café Pelican, it was basically over.

 

late teen boys in sandy area
              inside ancient city wall, through whose portals the
              Caribbean is seen 

“as we sped past the ancient beach fortifications built against pirates and the English

there were bursts in honor of Blas de Lezo"
youths playing soccer in the old ruined beach fortifications

 

i can't say where the lava went, any more than a volcano could. it might have gone anywhere. i hope it hit the floor.

 

and i think it stayed there untouched and unnoticed, because Adriana and i piled out the right side in a hurry. the rest of the people went out the left. and nobody slipped and crashed on the sidewalk.

 

Efrén was the last to get out and never looked back. he was too frantic with the excruciating prickly feeling of a dead leg coming back to life.

 

 spectacular yellow mummer's
              outfit on woman hiding little

a Barranquilla carnival mummer

 

 

 

 

 

103.  HOW TO PICK THE PERFECT RESTAURANT FOR YOUR HOST FAMILY.

 

we unloaded in the heart of Boca Grande, Chalo's turf, right across Avenida San Martín from Café Pelican.

 

right on the other side of the street from where we'd first met the little bugger.

 

the family stood around on the sidewalk while Efrén hopped up and down moaning, shaking a leg. i did likewise, copying his gestures, bending over severely, pretending my leg was asleep like his.

 

it was nice to know i was a real man after all, sammy, if you know what i mean. but i was upset. twice in a day i had suffered unwanted urges in the worst situations imaginable. first with a nineteen year old friend. now with another friend's sister and three-generation family. i was out of control, anything but celibate. i was so driven by sex, i’d let my mind persuade me Augustine would have approved what i was doing, even though my AIDS virus could have killed Adriana and several other people. she might keel over yet. that alone was enough reason i should never set foot in Cocaland again.

 

there was no time to get into it, however. too many big things were happening too fast.

 

i couldn't walk upright. the safari shorts tented when i did. San Martín was packed like the Ocean City boardwalk on a summer Saturday night, and someone was bound to notice. i was mopping a lethal lava spill on my left thigh, trying not to let on. each time that i'd bend over moaning like Efrén, pretending my leg was asleep like his, i'd wipe the leg, and wave my hand in pretend pain, airing it, hoping it would dry fast so i could use it again. the stuff was deadly and had to be gotten rid of quick.

 

"Pelicano is acceptin' america express," Robbie said.

 

"Yes!" i managed to say. i was dancing on one foot, waving multiple arms like a Shiva statuette. we were right in front of the Pelican, and i had the feeling i was being watched.

 

Robbie wasn’t thinking. he was in favor of the Pelican, but not me. what if Chalo came by selling Marlboros? what if he came in through the gate and joined us, like the last time? what if he sat down with the Rivera family, Cocaland style?

 

pandora's box would pop open in Boca Grande.

 

i said to Robbie, "i've had enough sex problems for one day."

 

he didn't know what it meant exactly, but he sympathized. he headed down the sidewalk and we followed. i felt better, thinking we'd left behind any chance of seeing Chalo.

 

after a short leisurely but disorganized family promenade Robbie saw a place with an ‘america express’ sign in the window. Efrén and i had straightened up by now, so all ten poured in. Adriana and i hit the bathrooms. then we all debated in the middle of the dining room, ‘all’ meaning: the professionally uniformed maitre di; Robbie; and i; and even some of the thirty dignified diners at tables which were covered with stiff white tablecloths: all took part, all considering carefully, in at least five languages, with entire big family in audience, whether the main menu was a la carte, or whether Veal Marsala included today's legumbresafter several minutes i calculated i could afford ten dinners, eventually, when the bill hit in Denveri was still being obstinate, sammy, a pain in the butt in every way.

 

by eating inside we would miss Chalo. that was a plus.

 

but now i thought of family more than myself, for once, and felt it was wrong in there. like other American Express restaurants in Cocaland, it was formal, dry, dead, completely indoors, enclosed with a roof and walls without a single window, without a breath of sea air. it was packed with boring rich sedate Cocalanders and gringos, out for a calm and sterile Friday night – because protected from street people, street vendors and street beggars.

 

"It might not suit this family right now," i said to Robbie.

 

given the rambunctious mood we were in, i meant. all three generations had vallenato-ed to ‘Santo Cachón’,[8] prancing like divine monkeys while Robbie and i had figured finances. in the cab we'd bounced to more music and done unmentionable things, i said. he didn't know what i meant, but i knew, and he honored that. so, rather than sit down, he and i went outside to consider. we stood on the sidewalk and breathed the fresh sea air, ready to decide what rightly fit us.

 

i looked for Chalo up and down. dozens of destitute cigarette boys passed, weaving among the crowd, but no Chalo. he’d probably flown to Paris with the millions of Colombian pesos he’d made using my Master Card number.

 

the family came out and we stood on the sidewalk like a lost gaggle of starving crows.

 

the Friday night crowd of Boca Grande flowed around and between us.

 

and like any Friday, a city-wide party had started at three. Cartagena had lifted off the face of the earth around five. it was floating through space and wouldn't return until Monday morning, if then. anybody with pesos, a surprising number of people, had crowded to banks, causing old-fashioned un-American bank lines like the long one i’d refused to waste my time on. after work they'd made an exodus to the suburbs to rest and shower, and by eight had ended up back in Boca Grande to dine and party with us.

 

tourists on the ramparts of
              old fort, city of Cartagena in the distance 

“Cartagena had lifted off the face of the earth around five”

the city center from San Felipe fort

 

standing on the sidewalk, i explained to Robbie in English, how these peso-rich Carthaginians had left for the suburbs and were back in Carthage now, looking for tables and a party, just like the visiting Romans, him and me. while we visiting Romans had wasted time mixed up about everything, the coca-rich Carthaginians, knowing their turf better, had taken every table.

 

"I think we'd be happier," i said, "if we just went home and called out for pizza delivery."

 

we'd avoid Chalo. i didn't mention that.

 

it hit me though, that in any outdoor place in Boca Grande, we might run into him. i didn't know his beat exactly.

 

i didn't say this either.

 

Robbie stood there, bewildered, the family waiting for direction.

 

i tried to feel as he felt, with a huge family of crows to feed, who deserved a party out. i tried putting their stomachs before my confusion, like he did, but it was hard. i wasn't very good at it, because i’d gotten out of practice at it. and i was upset.

 

Robbie couldn't relate to my paranoia. he didn't grok the far-fetched Romans-and-Carthaginians analogy either. but he was starved and that helped him think. he headed off fast and we waddled far behind him. he turned the corner and at the end of a short block he found a table big enough for ten starving crows, miraculously just emptied by another large family, at the front of a busy restaurant patio, right by the action on the sidewalk. and across the street at an outdoor cantina, LIVE LOUD vallenato was swinging, as perfect for us as for the twelve beer-drinking locals over there, who had hired the cantina’s loud live band.

 

Robbie's restaurant took Visa and Master Card only, however.

 

an interesting wrinkle.

 

i mentioned again the unusual idea of going home. "We won't run into Chalo at home," i said.

 

"Jou don' have VEE-SSAH?" he asked.

 

i did have a VISA debit card. i thought this through. i used it for cash machines only, and had seen none in Cocaland, so i'd forgotten VISA ever since many days before. but i could use it for a restaurant. there might even be enough in my checking account to cover the debit withdrawal. if not, so what? today was Friday and i'd be home Monday, to deposit money to my bank account before the bill ever got there from far away South America.

 

Robbie stared at me, waiting for an answer.

 

if i said 'no', we'd go home for pizza maybe. or rice.

 

"Sí," i said. "I have VISA."

 

Robbie accepted our good fortune calmly, and moved to the next challenge, getting the table cleaned. but i was bowled over, sammy. we'd found a perfect place for the family. for the first time that day i'd done something decent, and i felt blessed, almost saintly. i mean this sincerely. i briefly forgot Cocaland was out of control and i never wanted to see it again.

 

i even forgot about Chalo for a couple of minutes.

 

"Aim-chay" said Robbie, as we watched a waiter begin to clear the big table, "they not havin' pizza where Efrén live."

 

cartoon poster of a carnival
              couple 

cartoon of a Colombian carnival couple

 

 

 

 

 

104.  TO BE OR NOT TO BE:  HOOKED ON COCALAND.

 

we stood on the sidewalk outside our great find, waiting for the biggest family-sized table to be cleared and wiped.

 

Robbie had another question. he said in English, "Ém-che, whass happen' if cigarette boy iss comin'?"

 

"i'll tell you in a minute," i said.

 

i had to think.

 

we could sit with our backs to the street. Chalo wouldn't see us, and we wouldn't see him. but nothing was simple any more. i was too discombobulated for anything simple.

 

"Iss problema hidin' her from family," he said. he mixed up genders as well as tenses, at times.

 

and languages!

 

i agreed. "You and i are always having a nervous breakdown, worried that maybe it'll look like something it's not."

 

"What iss she thinkin' 'bout you and me," he re-worded. he meant his mother this time. he'd asked the question all week.

 

that was just one problem with Chalo. there were too many problems to go into them all.

 

we were still waiting for the table to be cleared. the big family before us had left a mess, and there was only one busboy. i watched the sidewalk for Chalo's happy walk. there was no choice but keep a physical distance. the kid had pushed a button i couldn't handle.

 

now Robbie had another question. "What we sayin'" he asked, "if he'ss comin' to the restaurant?"

 

"I guess we'll have to sit with our backs to the street," i said, without quite agreeing to do that.

 

"What we sayin' if he'ss seein' us todavía?" he asked, meaning, EVEN if we sat backs to street.

 

"I don't know," i said. i hadn't figured out what we'd do if he saw us. i didn't want another goodbye in my fragile state.

 

we were ushered to our cleared table and i stood there, checking the sidewalk, trying to decide where to sit at the table. for a second i forgot i was upset, and would have been happy to see the kid and thank him for everything. he was my only real family, was how i felt right then. we were castoffs, Chalo and i. we had more in common with each other, than with anyone else in his world or mine.

 

remembering the hotel room, however, i decided i should sit with my back to the street.

 

but i didn't do it.

 

the family were following behind us to the table. we had to do something.

 

all week long Robbie had warned me in whispered English, and he did so again now. "Colombianos like my family, Em-ché, never is approvin' a cigarette boy."

 

"Who is?" i said. "I'm not either," i said. i lowered my voice. the reunited family was about to sit down together at one big family table, and it was a sacred moment. that was how i’d been raised.

 

"If Chalo turns up," i said almost in a whisper, "we'll have to make up a story."

 

"Wha' story?" he said softly. he absolutely loved stories.

 

"it doesn't matter," i said, though it did. "Something fair to him. But we can't make him better than he is."

 

the rest of the family were seating themselves and we were still standing disrespectfully, whispering about Chalo in secretive English.

 

"He is standin' here," said Robbie, meaning maybe, in the near future. "They iss seein' how he is."

 

"What happened this afternoon wasn’t his fault,” i whispered, defending him without explaining. “The story has to make us look good, and him too." that was a sort of yardstick, but i still didn’t know what story to make up.

 

"What we tellin' them?" he said.

 

we were the only ones standing now. my head was barely working, and Robbie’s head not at all. he was on major overload.

 

"A white lie," i said very softly, "that we spent lots of time in Boca Grande. We met him when you bought Marlboros. He was on the street, circling the block, and he'd keep walking by us every time we ate, or sipped tinto; at the Cafe Pelican, by the sidewalk. He'd stop to talk and we took an interest in the poor homeless thing."

 

"Iss no lie," he said.

 

"No," i said, "but we're leaving out a lot. That's the lie. We can't tell them we spent ALL our free time with him," i said. "We can't tell them how intimate it got, how complicated."

 

Robbie thought i meant the trip to Barranquilla, the intimacy of all three sleeping in one room. the fake explanation made him happy, and we took the seats the family had left us, the two chairs we'd been standing by, ever since we got to the table. we were in the middle, where we could converse with anyone.

 

and we were facing the sidewalk.

 

i was worried. i proceeded to look for Chalo all through drinks and dinner; in spite of the fact i was a grown professional, i had raised two children who were now young adults, and over the years i had shown occasional adult good sense and judgment about several things. some fucked up part of me wanted to see him again.

 

where was the little runt? he had always been there, every time we looked for him. he didn't show up through half my steak and arepas. i got upset and forgot he might yet turn up at any moment.

 

despair took over.

 

maybe he worked that turf rarely. our little side street saw fewer beggars and itinerant vendors than the main drag, Avenida San Martín, where important places like the Pelican sat, and where the money and action of Boca Grande flowed most freely.

 

that was one possible explanation for his not coming by. another was that he'd gone into retirement on the ten percent of eighty thousand bucks he'd made on my Master Card. right then he'd be lying on his mattress in his bordelo rathole, counting millions of pesos, stacks and stacks bound in rubber bands like monopoly money.

 

if he was just a pathetic urchin, not a con, he’d be recovering from the week-long fling with his two gringo friends. still in shock, he'd be shaking right now, crying in his bikini underwear, sitting on his ratty mattress on the floor, staring at the new book i'd bought him. he'd be trying to learn English, his eyes too tear-filled to see. or some such pathetic melodrama.

 

i would learn the truth when i got to the states and saw the Master Card bill; or, when Robbie got to Cocaland in December without me, and stopped Chalo as he walked past the railing at the Pelican. he'd call me and tell me what the kid was up to.

 

i wasn’t coming back. the volcano was active again. it was too dangerous for too many nice people.

 

thoughts like these filled the rest of dinner. i barely talked to family, i was so upset, but they seemed thanked and entertained. the evening and the disastrous day were over before i knew it.

 

to my disappointment, and relief, Chalo never showed up.

 

 10- or 12-year-old in fancy
              multi-color silk oriental prince-clown costume

young reveler at Barranquilla carnival

 

 

 

 

 

105.  WHEN IT'S TIME TO LEAVE, KEEP IT SIMPLE.  SAY GOOD-BYE AND THANK YOU.  SIMPLE PEOPLE HANDLE SIMPLE THINGS MORE SIMPLY THAN LESS SIMPLE PEOPLE.

 

Brenda and Efrén's little girls, a foot away on their bed, are awake now, tickling each other, giggling and squirming. Brenda walks in the bedroom, bringing me a tiny amount of that really strong Turkish coffee, tinto, in a big cup.

 

with nice people like Robbie’s family in the world, sammy, why do i hide?

 

i'm trying to be as simple as they are this morning, and treat them well, so Americans can be thought of as a happy, peace loving people.

 

Efrén has gone food shopping.

 

as calm as things seem, i can’t get rid of the feeling everything might go wrong any second.

 

the huge suitcase of Robbie's i was going to use, is full of his dirty underwear. i can't repack yet.

 

i could shower.

 

but it's too early. i'm sticky already, sitting here in filthy safari shorts. if i shower now, i'll just be sticky and need another shower after i pack.

 

now i'm at Brenda's dining table.

 

the door to the balcony is open, letting light and noise in from the street. a gust of air comes in. i look around the room for something to hold onto.

 

Brenda is making breakfast. something special, it seems.

 

the breakfast is special, she says. three small arepas for me, made this morning, in the kitchen, by hand.

 

"No, by machine," says Robbie in Spanish, so Brenda can hear.

 

"Yes, by a machine named Brenda," i say in Spanish, loud enough for her to hear. she hears but doesn't get it.

 

Efrén and Brenda have a marriage that works. their roles are defined and complementary, not competitive. she is ama de casa, traditional housewife. he provides, and he leads. nobody would have it otherwise, not even she. the gringo world was like this apparently, back when things were simple. if Brenda says something to one of the girls, sammy, and Efrén corrects her saying, "No, don't say that, say this," she politely complies. he isn't crude or pushy, just in charge. she’s not freaked out and humiliated. she still has plenty of turf she can call hers.

 

if somebody had told me i could be in charge, sammy, i might have remarried years ago. a simple setup like that i can understand.

 

meanwhile he helps with things in the house, even the kitchen, and fixes every Cocaland gadget that goes Cocaland awry. at dinner last night, he shared some story with her at length, softly and playfully, and after dinner they giggled and indulged in one more beer apiece together, on mj.

 

Diomedes Diaz' vallenato hit, Santo Cachón, has become our hymn. it blares while i eat Brenda's homemade arepasRobinson dances opposite little Noemis, with the same sloppy, coca abandon that Diomedes shows in his video, unbeatable for pure party zane.

 

i search the room for something simple to keep my mind off yesterday.

 

Robbie for some reason won't dance with Daniela, the young lady he's talked to all week, off and on. he'll only be nice to her. she has come to say goodbye, hoping, i believe, that he'll marry her and make her a U.S. citizen. he winks at me so she can't see, then changes the conversation to Spanish for her sake. he plays the tape he bought for Adriana, which is pure Caribbean party music.

 

what Caribbean music isn't pure party?

 

Brenda offers three more arepas and i agree to one and only one, because i like them. and her. not because they're good for me. they're too good, in fact. you want too many. they're full of saturated fat and cholesterol. i keep this to myself, because i'm shy, and am trying to leave on a simple, upbeat note.

 

she makes them every Saturday and Sunday from scratch, she says. pure home-cooked cornmeal, eggs, cheese and salt.

 

pure saturated fat and cholesterol.

 

all i want is to get out of here before i hurt someone with something i say. before i kill somebody with an uncontrollable mammalian urge. i have a sexual condition i've never heard of. check the reference books on your shelf, sammy. what's it called? at my age, i get turned on like an adolescent when not even feeling sexual. i have to avoid certain situations: secluded spots with horny, naked third-world protégés; crowded cabs with near-naked sisters of friends; but how can i, when i'm in Cocaland? tricks that worked for two and a half years in San Juan, don't work here. the safety i felt from being celibate is history. the world is unsafe when mj’s on the loose.

 

and i'm the only one who knows it's happening.

 

drama builds toward departure.

 

Angel shows up. he walked several miles from Pozón to save taxi fare, wearing his blue wool basque beret despite the exercise of walking, the soaking humidity, and a sun that radiates burning heat like a broiler coil. yet he isn't sweaty. and he keeps the beret on in the apartment. i would itch like crazy. i hate feeling all hot in wool that’s touching my skin. reminds me of college ROTC, marching on a hot May afternoon in a scratchy green wool army uniform, green wool U.S. Army hat on my head, the full itchy, sweaty works.

 

Angel greets me with a brief, formal handshake, as always. he sits himself down in his hot wool beret, and stares into space.

 

i don't talk to him. i'd poison him with my thoughts.

 

i know why i dislike Angel's beret. it makes me think of his son, and Angel’s grief; and of my son and my grief; and of how Freddie failed, and i did too.

 

Robbie says Daniela's birthday is the 27th. i ask if he's coming back for it.

 

he ignores me. i'm not helping the party.

 

time for a shower.

 

nope. not yet. wait till the last second.

 

Daniela leaves.

 

what do i think about her, asks Robbie.

 

he should marry her. make her an honest gringatake her to Queens on my ticket. i'll stay here, rent the room in the bordelo, tie the bedsheets, get it over with.

 

are you serious? he asks.

 

no. not yet.

 

are you upset?

 

a little. "I'll tell you on the plane," i say.

 

damage control.

 

i’m keeping an eye on mj.

 

so he doesn't infect someone he loves with his poison.

 

the front door opens. Efrén comes in with groceries, pushing the mountain bike that he rode home from work yesterday in rush hour, when he made it from Boca Grande to Blas de Lezo in twenty minutes while it took my cabby 45.

 

in Cartagena, motorcycles and bikes like his mountain bike weave in and out of cars, trucks, buses and horse carts, adding to the dance, the party. if someone clip-clops the wrong way in the fast lane, like the horse cart in Barranquilla, who complains? who cares as long as you're dancing? whatever you do, it's considered part of the celebration. the number one rule in coastal Cocaland is to keep the party going. night and day. day and night. no matter what.

 

that’s the way it seems to me, anyway.

 

and it’s what i’m trying to do right now.

 

i think coastal Cocalanders party in their sleep. they dream party.

 

and all the party is conducive to baby-making. it’s life-affirming, a pro-life ritual. it rocks the streets until you forget you're drowning humanity in humanity, building an overpopulated world, screw by screw.

 

it would be only fitting if i got Adriana pregnant yesterday. Cartagena is pregnant city.

 

Mary, the mother of Hey-Seuss.

 

what would we do then?

 

think about it. it's simple. the more babies, the more trees chopped for firewood. the more fires, the more the atmosphere heats. the more babies and fewer trees, the more the people end up fighting over resources. the more the atmosphere heats, and the more we fight over resources, the sooner we bring on nuclear or environmental disaster, and the end of ourselves and our world.

 

it's simple math.

 

soon we'll partake of the mystical pro-life road celebration one last time, driving to the airport. we'll hope to survive the last crowded Cocaland cab ride with mj, whose poison is deadlier than exhaust.

 

why pass on thoughts to the next generation in books, sammy, when we're taking our last gasps now? there probably won't be a next generation. what's the point of passing on wisdom when we're strutting around cockily on a funeral pyre we've lit under the whole human race?

 

this must have been how the Romans felt, when their empire was crackling and crumbling.

 

i can't deal with anything today.

 

have i poisoned anyone yet?

 

i should talk with them. if i write all day, the last day here, they'll remember me as that complicated, silent gringo.

 

 

 

 

 

106.  DON'T EVEN APPEAR TO BRAG ABOUT THE SIZE OF YOUR COUNTRY.  ALL OVER THE WORLD THEY KNOW IT'S TOO BIG FOR ITS BRITCHES.

 

part of Western hemisphere
              with USA and Colombia both highlighted 

several Colombias would fit within the boundaries of the 48 states, not to mention Alaska
(digitally altered Encarta map -- see Bibliography under 'Microsoft Encarta')

 

9:40. in twenty minutes we leave. family and friends pour in, and i'm as venomous as ever. there's still time to infect paradise a little more, ruin the party.

 

Yazmín shows up and i give her a 1995 Fielder Rocky Mountain calendar too.

 

Angel's more interested than she, and it hits me i have no gift for him and Linda to take to their home, wherever it is. but Cocaland families share. Yazmín can tear hers and give him six months of it, after we're gone.

 

thinking geographically, as usual, Angel asks the length of the flight from New York to New Mexico.

 

"Three and a half hours," i say. "And the flight from Cartagena to New York is four and a half."

 

i didn't have to add that.

 

how could it be so far from New York to New Mexico? he asks.

 

"Two thousand miles," i say.

 

but how can Gringoland be three times the size of a country as enormous as Cocaland? his eyebrows ask.

 

patiently, i show Angel the kilometer chart on Efrén's map. from Riohacha in the northeast, to Pasto in the southwest, the greatest distance between any two Cocaland cities on the chart, is about 1800 kilometers. 1200 miles.

 

whereas the U.S., three thousand miles across, and two thousand, bottom to top, is three times the size of that, at least, i explain.

 

Angel looks at Efrén, as if for help: can't somebody please make the U.S. less gigantic and threatening?

 

yes, of course. if they could shrink the Roman empire 1500 years ago, they can shrink the gringo one now.

 

should i share this with Angel, sammy?

 

here's what i would say.

 

for half a millennium Romans studied the Old World, region by region, unconsciously preparing for world dominion. little by little they made the world theirs. each little Roman in his own little way helped the empire grow. once the world was theirs, Romans traveled up and down it in the name of stability and civilized peace, or prosperity, or better government, or free-er trade. they interfered militarily wherever they thought it was needed, and usually won. and wherever they took their ways, they uprooted non-Roman ways, causing resentment, as in Gaul (France), or among the Jews of Palestine in Jesus’ time.

 

like the Romans, twenty centuries later i am scouring the globe, dragging my ways with me. i can't revere other people’s ways if i don't know them. when i leave home my urges erupt. there are millions more like me where i come from, many of them too big for their safari shorts, just like me. they wait in gringoland, programmed like a diverse menu of sweet-looking ogres in a video game. they'll pop out of nowhere when least expected, anywhere in the world. and, just as in a good video game, these ogres will take your country’s resources, energy, spirit, independence, sisters, brothers, even life itself, each ogre in his or her own unique and surprising way, legally or illegally.

 

and when the Romans got tired of running things, and using everybody, the world took back the power it had lent them. the same thing is waiting for us, if we don't get humanity blown to nothingness first. if you don't believe me, sammy, read Toynbee’s Study of History.[9]

 

i don't feel like talking with Angel. i'm exhausted from talking to him already. he wouldn't understand. Angel wants to sit and be with his son in his heart. he doesn't know Toynbee was a controversial philosopher of history who i think made good sense in many ways, despite his openly Evangelical-Calvinist view of history, which causes most modern and post-modern scholars to dismiss and disdain him.

 

meanwhile gringo almightiness worries Angel. the thought that this Rome too shall fall, gives him no comfort. he’s too simple to think the thought.

 

Efrén is busy in the kitchen, making a salad to eat at the airport. when Robbie and i move to the boarding area, he explains, the family will wait two hours until the plane takes off. a glass partition between them and our boarding area will make farewell partying difficult, but will not make them feel like leaving before we board. they're so accustomed to potato and yuca soup, on junky tables in junky houses, that wilted salad on paper plates on laps, on faux black leather in the big, crowded, impersonal airport waiting room, will be just as much of a party as everything else.

 

Robinson's Caribbean tape blasts on.

 

while i've amused myself with the Fall of Rome, the family has partied another twenty minutes.

 

all's well in Cocaland.

 

and now we'll be leaving in a few minutes.

 

2 floats with huge fruits and
              flowers mobbed by festive humanity in a Barranquilla
              street 

carnival chaos in Barranquilla

 

 

 

 

 

107.  QUIT COMPLAINING ABOUT WHAT YOU HAVE, AND BE THANKFUL FOR WHAT YOU DON'T.

 

i take a shower and immediately am sticky.

 

under the rotating ceiling fan in the middle of the sala, i sit, trying to dry out stickiness from packing the suitcase so tightly.

 

thanks to Augustine of Hippo, i'm sweaty. i have to carry home twenty of the world's heaviest books.

 

but i think we're leaving, and that's a plus.

 

i still don't like salsa music, but a trip to Cuba might cure that, as this trip has cured false notions about Cocaland.

 

and about me.

 

speaking physically, i survived Cocaland better than i thought i would, sammy. taking Doxycycline i landed no new infections that i know of. i don't have foot and mouth disease from going barefoot in the baño. i don't have sore throat from a street urchin, or crabs from hotels and bordelosi saw a beggar in filthy rags on the sidewalk in decrepit downtown Barranquilla like the worst i've seen in clips of Calcutta; but i kept a distance. i only got diarrhea once when ‘guayabo’, meaning, hung over, seedy and pasty-faced as an overripe guava.

 

these things are good.

 

arrives Daniela's father, who will taxi us to the airport. departure drama picks up. he gets a tintoi get a Barranquilla Aguila beer. medicine, i claim, to help me leave ‘without pain’.

 

if they think i'm sad to leave, it's better. anyway i am. i spoiled a good thing, Cocaland. i won't get a second chance.

 

Efrén flops a plucked chicken on the cutting board. it's too big to be for the salad at the airport.

 

i ask about the chicken.

 

chicken soup, he says jovially.

 

too jovially to be aware of what happened in the cab yesterday. that’s good.

 

for the airport? i ask.

 

no, for lunch, he says.

 

lunch later?

 

no, now.

 

but it's ten, i say. we've just had breakfast, not once, but twice. and we have to leave, to be at the airport by 10:45.

 

every fifteen minutes we eat a meal. what is this? a sendoff to remember?

 

i know i'm complaining, but, if we miss the plane, there will be no sendoff, and no remembering.

 

Efrén sees this on my face.

 

that's good.

 

“Bueno,” he says. We'll leave in twenty minutes and still make it.”

 

he should know. he lives here. he's smart. he knows his way around on a bike.

 

he has more influence at the moment, and that’s what counts.

 

if i miss my flight, he won't like my reaction.

 

i tell Yazmín the beer is my pain medicine for leaving Colombia.

 

Daniela's father laughs. i want them to think i'll miss Cocaland. i will. i just can't stand it at the moment, or myself in it.

 

the guy on the radio shouts. the men in the room shout, as music blasts on TV. our leaving is a big event for the neighborhood.

 

and for me.

 

i forgot to mention, sammy, i never saw coca the whole time in Cocaland, or anyone who had seen or known about coca.

 

i never craved it.

 

that's good!

 

no tarantula made a meal of me. and i never got kidnapped, or robbed. or drugged, as far as i know. that's good. though something made me a stupid mush-mallow this whole last week.

 

i got turned on twice yesterday. once volcanically.

 

not good.

 

Angel sits with the men saying nothing, missing his son. if Bienvenido had been here these weeks, he thinks, the poor kid would have enjoyed the fun – swimming in the caño in Santisima Cruz, going in the cab to the airport. riding in a big speedboat up the Brazo de Loba and Mojana, with an unrelenting cool breeze in his face. getting frisked by soldiers. playing all day with cousins at family reunions. a long list of perfect boy memories.

 

what if my boy had died instead of Angel's, sammy? i'd be the one thinking what he might have done, had he lived. he's alive, at least, which means: there's hope for him.

 

that's good.

 

Freddie will hear of my trip and write me from jail: "Why did you buy jeans for that faggot kid? You wouldn't buy me a boom box for $50. If you'd given me the money I asked for, I wouldn't have sold coke and ended up in jail, making you sad."

 

right.

 

the answer’s not hard, really, and i might even put it in a letter to him.

 

“Freddie, I helped Chalo because he made an effort. He loved life, so I loved being with him. He worked whatever job he found, and took care of himself. He expected no one else to do it. He was proud, but not too proud. When he finally resorted to selling himself, it was only after he'd tried everything else. With me he really did try every other approach first.”

 

and that's good.

 

“Which means he might not be a ‘faggot’ by nature, just by necessity. Not that it matters. ‘Faggots’ are authentically people too. You’re the one calling him a put-down name, not me.

 

“And besides, Freddie, Chalo cared about himself and his future. He wanted a better life. When I gave him money, he put it into his business. He didn't blow it on coca or booze. He bought more cartons of cigarettes to sell. He was fun to invest in. It's not that I liked him and gave him things, merely because he first fell asleep on my shoulder.”

 

though that had its effect on me too, i admit.

 

and there's good in that.

 

“But, Freddie, if a son won't go out and work when plenty of work is available, why should a dad give him money?”

 

i bet he's working now, sammy, in some prison workshop in California.

 

and that's good.

 

the truth is, sammy, between you and me: if i had to choose, i'd rather invest in a working faggot who's a friend, than in a straight son who brings in nothing, not even a disability paycheck. the way i was raised, either you work or you’re disabled. there’s no in-between, expecting others to feed and house you; not in the states, where we have social security disability insurance from the government.

 

i wouldn’t send Freddie these thoughts. i might say some of them in person, if the right moment arose. but i've gotten it off my chest, with your help, sammy.

 

and that's good.

 

i like Juan Luis Guerra’s music, and that's salsa, sammy. another wall must be breaking down.

 

that's good.

 

i can't believe i brought twenty books on St. Augustine to Cocaland, expecting to be bored.

 

you say, 'But you learned so much from them.'

 

i learned celibacy is a crock, in Cocaland.

 

and that's good to know.

 

and i've learned it's twenty after ten and we still haven't left, and that's not good, sammy. i think they want us to miss the plane so i’ll stay and marry Adriana.

 

after yesterday, i might have to anyway.

 

candid shot of some family
              preparing for formal shot 

“I can't believe i brought twenty books on St. Augustine to Cocaland expecting to be bored."


preparing for a goodbye pose at the airport, Adriana on right

"I think they want us to miss the plane so I’ll stay and marry Adriana."

 
 

 

 

 

108.  NEVER SEND EMISSARIES.  TALK TO YOUR HOSTS.  AFTER TWO WEEKS IN THEIR COUNTRY, YOU MAY WELL KNOW BETTER THAN THEY, HOW LONG IT TAKES TO THE AIRPORT.

 

i want to tell Robbie i'm worried. by my calculation we should be leaving this minute, and the soup isn't ready.

 

what's going on?

 

no one will talk about practical matters. the crowd feeds on party energy. i try to feed on it too, now, writing anxiously in the middle of everything, accepting their energy as they accept mine.

 

in some ways i still wish i could live here, sammy, to feed off the life force that bounces everywhere like Brownian particles. i never felt this much life in San Juan, or Denveri haven't felt this much life in years.

 

if the level of Cocaland danger could be kept in check, i might come back. but what would keep it in check? it’s a hopeless proposition.

 

i appeal to Robinson to get the show on the road. he sends Daniela to get Efrén to serve soup, who puts it on the table full of tough, partially cooked chicken.

 

i peel the label off the sweaty beer bottle, and stick it to this yellow page as a gesture, then put the tablet in the Mexican shoulder bag. if i write one more time on the trip, sammy, i'll encircle the label with writing. i'll remember Barranquilla’s ice-cold Aguila beer, and the hangouts in coastal Cocaland where i drank it with Chalo.[10]

 

we're leaving late, on four home-cooked meals in two hours, including tough, uncooked chicken.

 

 

 

 

 

109.  SOMETIMES IT'S EASIER TO FART THAN TO CRY.

 

12:45. finally (sigh), we're taxiing on the runway. five straight hours to tell Robbie about yesterday.

 

he'll finally hear why i hate myself.

 

"Em-ché," he asks, "why the family sayin' i marry Daniela?"

 

i explain. "You'll be like them. Kid after kid. Broke all the time, helping the population-boom celebration."

 

he ignores this. my notion that civilization is unraveling, is eccentric to him. it is to everyone.

 

he's written to Daniela six years, he says, and doesn't want to 'break her heart' and tell her he's only interested in friendship.

 

"You're breaking her heart already," i say. "You're leading her on. Can't you see that?"

 

"Who is fartin'? Em-ché, you fartin'?" loud enough to be heard for rows. then even louder, "They forgettin' to clean the toilet from Bogotá!"

 

it's possible, i say, hushing him. it does smell. but i'm embarrassed. the Colombian-Americans filling the plane are not dimwits. the well-dressed Colombian lady across the aisle lives in North Jersey, the state where i grew up. she speaks English nicely and must understand ‘fart’.

 

leaving his family again has made Robbie an idiot. in the airport he said, "I'm cryin' on the plane." but he's not crying, he's a bobitojust like thirteen years ago, when he acted this way for so many weeks straight, i had to ask him to move out.

 

he says, "I'm not buyin' anything for Caridad. Today is her birthday." this means he wanted to get her something and didn't. he's not stupid and helpless. he just sounds it with his accent and bad English, especially right now.

 

he feels bad, and it's my turn to help. any subject but family is help.

 

unfortunately, the story i want to tell first involves Adriana.

 

"What happened," i ask, "with the canary you bought Caridad from the boys in Santisima Cruz?"

 

"They don' lettin' it out. I'm gettin' it out, but not gettin' in. Over there."

 

"That's what I told you in Santisima Cruz," i say. "Remember? That it's hard to get living things from one country to another besides humans with money. But you wouldn't listen. You had to waste your money. Remember I said that?"

 

the newspaper they gave him free as we boarded becomes a major interest. El Tiempo. a principal Bogotá paper. for the first time in his life Robbie reads the paper.

 

and another thing, sammy. he's never been to his country's capital, Bogotá.

 

most coastal Cocalanders haven't. it's a costly trip over huge mountain ranges, way inland, up up up into a big cold smoggy valley. why go to a place so unlike home that the people look at you when you talk funny? Cocalanders are too happy and poor in their steaming festive back yards to go making pointless trips. they travel to see family or make money, not to enlighten themselves.

 

i still can't comprehend the size of Colombia. i find it enormous, unlike Angel. on a map of South America it looks small, but that's because the South American continent in real experience is much bigger than it looks on a map. if it takes six or more hours to get to Magangué by speeding bus, and two more hours to get to Santisima Cruz by speeding river launch, and after that you're still barely past the point on the map where you started, Cocaland must be very big. right?

 

Robbie puts earphones on.

 

i agree, and put mine on.

 

he turns up the nuisance factor. "Try this channel," he says, pushing buttons on my chair arm. "Tchaikovsky," he says, as if i couldn't tell.

 

Robbie, i have a story you might like to hear.

 

i'm not in the mood for Tchaikovsky. too much Tchaikovsky emotion, and Tchaikovsky self-preoccupation, and Tchaikovsky unexplained pain.

 

after a hundred years of national embarrassment, and with the recent collapse of the iron curtain, news has finally escaped Russia about what Tchaikovsky’s pain was all about, sammy. i just read it a few weeks ago in a recently published CD liner. late in life, his emotional pain finally ended when former school chums forced him to suicide, because as an older man he’d fallen in love, and attempted an affair, with one of their young teenage sons.

 

i push channels for something light. La Traviata. tragedy among straights.....

 

they wake us up with Customs Declarations cards, snacks and drinks.

 

Robinson takes my snack and will not give it back.

 

the bobito, the little dumb clown, is back after thirteen years.

 

"Is this how you get when you don't want to cry?" i ask, confronting it head on. "Goofy?"

 

"Yes," he says.

 

after a short movie about seat buckles a voice comes over the loud speaker. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is a person speaking."

 

he explodes laughing and i do too, releasing tension between us.

 

i want to tell him i feel rotten about Chalo. i think i'm in shock and have lost my mental acuity.

 

i met the little scamp before the Santisima Cruz trip, sammy, and i think the adventure and abandon he stirred up in Cartagena, i carried with me to Santisima Cruz. after him, everywhere i went, young Cocalanders went straight to my heart, probably because he had opened it up. but of course i had to go and blow everything.

 

and the girls? Adriana and Sandi were sensations.

 

today Efrén took a picture of me with Mariela, Adriana and Brenda. like a dope i called them my three sisters. all day i avoided Adriana like the plague, careful not to show her special attention. i spread attention around. i blew a roll of film on family as they stood in twenty different combinations in the sunlit airport. they bounced around like Brownian particles, in and out of sunny spots, moving into new poses. Adriana was one of the particles.

 

Rosana and 3 year-old
              daughter with cooking utensils hanging from the
              thatch-roof rafters 

Robbie’s fourth sister, Rosana, with daughter in Yazmín’s house in Santisima Cruz
under the (palm-) thatch-roofed lean-to against the back of the house, in the smoky back-(dirt)-yard-('patio')-kitchen
a banana tree branch with ripening bunches suspended from rafters (top center)
and kitchen sundries hooked neatly to pillar and post


"the town is unsafe, i say"

 

this was after we'd checked in, paid the infernal airport tax of $17 which no one had warned me about; and which i almost yelled out loud at the check-in lady was highway robbery. they should have included it in the price of the ticket i bought in Queens!! i told her. then we ran upstairs and got documents stamped which airport personnel were supposed to have given us and stamped on arrival!! i wanted to yell at somebody about that too!! but couldn’t figure out who.

 

Cocaland has to go haywire by definition, each day in some new and unique and unforgettable way.

 

Robbie has another subject to keep him from tears. he thinks it was oh so funny when the soldiers came on the bus after we left Barranquilla.

 

"There is you an' Chalo sleepin' with your heads," and he rests his head on my shoulder, "and the soldier is jus' goin'," here he knocks on my shoulder. "I am sayin' 'Em-ché, Em-ché, get up!' Iss Elizabeth Taylor an' Rock Hudson, nineteen-hundred-six-y-five."

 

it's funnier to hear it with thick accent, and tone as if he knew his movies. what movie would it be? a romance? it wasn't romantic with Chalo. i wish he'd quit saying that. my case is weaker since yesterday, granted. no wonder i'm afraid to tell him the story. what does he know about gringo movies anyway? in 1965 he was four years old. and anyway, those two would never have agreed to star together. the actress who slept every night of her life with a man, and the actor who slept with men, not women? Robbie can really shoot the bull.[11]

 

he nods assuredly.

 

if he keeps clowning, sammy, he won't get to hear what sordid scandal befell his sister.

 

"What movie was that?" i ask, bewildered, chuckling. i have to get him beyond it.

 

"Yes!" is his answer.

 

he did make it up, or he'd tell me. ‘mamagallo’, they call it in coastal Ccocaland. a game. clever. outrageous, maybe. a friend plays with your mind, deceiving you in order to kid you. no matter how he misleads, you are never allowed to complain about mamagallomisleading is fun. it's a tease, an artful hyperbole, delivered with affection. it's pulling your leg, only worse. both legs, till you topple and crash.

 

i won't argue with mamagallo. i just want to get home again, sammy. add up damages. pay bills, call the bank about Master Card. pass a few quiet days. then pull out this diary and remember how i felt about Chalo and the boys of Santisima Cruz.

 

and Sandi and Adriana and little boy Hey-Seuss.

 

i'll be doing my reading in Denver, in case you forgot, sammy.

 

maybe i'll retire on disability and write, a book about friends and family in Cocaland. i want to ask Robbie what day in December he's going back, but his eyes are closed.

 

whenever he goes, i won't be going.

 

Cocaland is dangerous.

 

i am.

 

Robbie's eyes are open. i grab him half asleep and tell him what happened with Chalo, in detail, everything, including the kid’s come-on and the way i ignored my response until the last second.

 

Robbie sits and listens calmly.

 

i should, "Takin' it with grains of Saul’,” says he. this is the same Robbie who worried that people would think we were gay.

 

i'm not going to take it with a grain of salt. what's the matter with him?

 

he's being a sport. keeping the party alive. no heavy bring-downs. i tell him what happened with Adriana, his little sister, in gory detail, all of it right behind his head in the cab, right on his brother-in-law's lap. maybe this will bring him down. maybe he'll wake up to how ugly the world is. i drag it out including the part about Augustine, and how in the end one of the church's great saints did not help at all and everything went firecrackers. since it was his baby sister with soft lips, i apologize.

 

"She not seein' nothin'," he assures me. "I not hearin' nothin'."

 

can't we discuss this intelligently?

 

we can't have one bad moment in his country. bad moments are not recognized. if necessary, he makes things up. he’s like a talking doll that randomly utters one of only five canned lines, no matter how you address the doll. if he and i were visiting Cocaland together, and the world were in meltdown, he'd be trying to make me feel at home.

 

i can't party like Cocalanders any more, sammy. i'm not up to it. i'm staying in my house in Denver, no friends. no sex. i'll save the world from HIV, including Robbie's friends and family. this is what i tell him.

 

"Whass happen' with condón?" he wants to know.

 

condoms.

 

doesn't he dislike anybody? he's supposed to dislike me, write me off. faggot, boy-fucker, sister-raper, mother-killer. he's supposed to see things as i do, as crappy and out of control.

 

he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. i don't get it. i never have understood it.

 

"Condoms are the greatest," i say, "when you can't say no. But I CAN say no, Robbie. Usually. And when you're HIV positive, celibacy's the only thing workable."

 

besides, pulling a condom out of your pocket can say something you’re not ready to say.

 

if it pertains at all.

 

"I want to fuck Chalo like the man in the moon," i say. "And Adriana. We shouldn't be talking about your sister."

 

a look tells me to talk on.

 

"There was no possibility, Robbie, of maneuvering a condom between her leg and mine. My hands were cut off. Her butt was in the way. You're missing the point. Everything was out of control. That's the problem with Cocaland. Everything is out of control! Dangerous elements are everywhere, and I'm one of them. I'm lethal, remember? I need controlled, minute-to-minute, suburban American monitoring. And so does Cocaland."

 

another blank look.

 

his position has been, all along, that given the right situation, my crazy celibacy would fly out the window. he's been proven right. simple humanity wins again.

 

it goes without saying, he still does not believe i have HIV virus in me.

 

it's nice to know your friend believes in you and accepts you as sane and sound, sammy, and has all along, despite so much evidence to the contrary.

 

but here he's wrong. he takes it too far. i'm not immune to disease. he thinks i'm immortal.

 

 

 

 

 

110.  ON THE FLIGHT HOME, LIST IN YOUR JOURNAL THE RISKS YOU TOOK GETTING HOOKED ON COCALAND.

 

Cocaland is a dangerous place with serious problems, sammy, no matter what they pretend. and one of the worst, most dangerous problems, is precisely that: pretense.

 

after our last goodbye hugs and kisses with family, we went into the boarding area Efrén had described. somehow it came out that the young Avianca hostess serving Pepsi was from the state of Sucre. she held out her hand for Robbie to slap, as if it made them instant cousins.

 

"Where in Sucre?" she said.

 

"Santisima Cruz," i answered for him.

 

she was from a nearby pueblo.

 

in the dazzling Spanish that ensued, i was sure i heard her say to Robbie, that it might have been a little risky there, considering the current situation. so i said to her in English, since she was supposed to speak it on the job, "The state of Sucre was wonderful. What did you say about Santisima Cruz?"

 

she said again, this time in English, that she was from Sucre state. she seemed to speak little English.

 

"I know," i said. "But I thought you said something about Santisima Cruz," i tried again.

 

"No, I frah Sucre estate," she said, faking English worse than Robbie's, to get rid of me. she was a good actress.

 

i know she said something about danger in Sucre state, sammy.

 

the whole country, if you ask me, treats guerrillas or any serious issue, in the same denying, minimizing, evasive way. just to keep the party going, even if it means suspension of the truth. and i've had enough of it.

 

 

 

 

 

111.  YOU SEE, YOU SURVIVED HUNDREDS OF DANGERS.  YOU MUST BE CLEVER AND WORTH PRESERVING AFTER ALL.

 

it’s 3:30 pm in Cartagena, 4:30 in New York.

 

we're way, way above clouds now, which look like the fairly smooth surface of some planet far below.

 

remembering Robbie's hometown, i expostulate on the virtues of Santisima Cruz' young men, bemoaning i couldn't raise Freddie like them.

 

 4 twenty-ish boys and one
              tagalong pose stooping and gangle-legged on a porch

Gustavo left; Pedro right; and friends
on Victoria's porch
(from the Dr.'s collection: a dark blurry photo that was restored digitally)


"'All the peoples in Colombia are anti-American'" he says. 'They don' like it, the U.S. interferin' in Colombia'."


i screwed up. i can’t figure it out. other people divorce and fight over kids, and the kids go on functioning.

 

my percentage of the fault is small, is my theory. our culture is weary, luxurious, irreligious, spoiled and navel-contemplating; and it has rubbed off on me. the whole thing's a loss, and it rubbed off on Freddie too. no one sticks their neck out for a good cause any more. look at me. that's why i respect and sympathize with Ibrahim, i tell Robbie, because he wants to help rural campesinos raise their living standard. but Ibrahim is sticking his neck out, i tell him, and i'm worried about him.

 

this draws out tidbits i haven't heard before.

 

as we talk, i get a better idea of what went wrong with Hernando, maybe. we agree that neither Ibrahim nor Gustavo ever talked about politics. Pedro either. only Hernando. and, as i say to Robbie, i think now, in retrospect, Hernando was taking a bigger risk than he realized, probably because he was seventeen and drinking.

 

"He wasn't drinking," says Robbie gravely.

 

"Well seventeen," i say.

 

anyway, by the nature of his interrogation and his radical view of things, i say, as if he'd been politically indoctrinated, and was too young to know when to shut up, Hernando may have been liberal; leftist; even Marxist.

 

i push provocatively to pry data loose from Robbie; because no other approach has worked so far, to get him to admit the place is dangerous for me.

 

i can't tell Robbie bluntly, "i'm not going back." i want him to realize on his own that i can't go back for the wedding. he'll accept it better that way.

 

as i force him to think about it, he'll have to admit eventually that it's dangerous. then it'll be easier for me to say i can't go back. and he'll have to support it, because he'll just have admitted, out loud, that there is danger. it'll be too late to talk his way out of it. that way he'll understand better, that my fear of returning is not a rejection of him or his country, but a vote for survival – mine, and everyone else's i'm a danger to.

 

as for Hernando, Robbie can't confirm or deny my thoughts. he doesn't know. Hernando is not inner circle.

 

"Well, definitely anti-U.S. American," i say.

 

"All the peoples in Colombia are anti-American," he says. "They don' like it, the U.S. interferin' in Colombia."

 

naturally. how many Jews, at the time of Christ, enjoyed Romans pushing them around Jerusalem? their city. their turf.

 

but i want him to admit that Santisima Cruz is more anti-American, and hence dangerous, say, than Cartagena, where there's little or no guerrilla activity. i just don't know whether to approach him directly or indirectly.

 

“Only Hernando seemed anti-American,” i say.

 

"They're polite," he says, "and don' tell you."

 

"Hernando wasn't too polite to tell me," i say. "And the fact he never came back to meet me at Gustavo's birthday party as he said he would, tells me he got – maybe – scared. Or someone put a leash on him. A muzzle. He never came back, Robbie," i say, "even though his friend came back with something for me to drink. And that was scary too."

 

Robbie sees i'm afraid. it's on his face. but he hasn't agreed there's any reason to be afraid.

 

he doesn't ask to hear more.

 

i go on anyway.

 

i had already told Hernando and his friend in passing, i say, that i was not used to much hard liquor. and, because i'd had a hangover from aguardiente all morning, thanks to the beauty queen's ass party the night before, i didn't want another drop. so as polite hosts, they should have known better than to insist. what i really was used to alcohol-wise was red wine, i told them, one glass at dinner, because it was good for the heart.

 

"Would you like some wine with your dinner?" Hernando's friend said with that.

 

"Oh no!" i said, "I don't want to drink at all, really!"

 

but then they left. the friend, like Hernando, didn't seem much a part of the inner circle of Ibrahim and Gustavo and friends from Saturday night. so i didn't know whether to trust him when he came back with the only wine drink he said they could find, a glass of champagne. and not seeing Hernando with him, made me more uneasy. it was such an extreme gesture in that backward barrio, i explain to Robbie, to produce a glass of champagne. you should never turn down such a very special gift, and that’s why i feared it had burundanga in it, like the tour guide said. i didn't know whether to drink it or not.

 

Robbie has no comment.

 

maybe he doesn't care. maybe he can't figure his people out. he's been away many years. maybe he feels criticized. maybe he gets my drift, but refuses to agree. there's no point in asking him which it is. he'll only tell me what he wants me to hear.

 

maybe i'll have to catch him off guard somehow, so the truth about danger slips out of him, exiting when he's not guarding the exit door. i just don't know how to make it slip out.

 

"Why didn't Hernando return to the party?" i ask.

 

he doesn't know.

 

"I think," i say, "Hernando figured it out, or his friend or someone, guerrillas, told him, he was saying too much. I was an unknown quantity. I might be in the wrong place to hear his politics properly. So, on his own, or because guerrilla friends warned him, he decided not to return to the party. That's my theory."

 

Robbie is quiet.

 

this is important, sammy. it's critical. it's a matter of life and death for me. and the people we care about. yet he's quiet.

 

he's asleep in fact.

 

might as well talk to a slug.

 

at that party, i should add (Gustavo’s birthday party Sunday night), i was trying to be polite, so i sipped the sickeningly sweet champagne and nothing happened from that, either. any more than anything terrible happened the rest of the trip.

 

i admit!

 

but that doesn't mean the place is safe!

 

you were right to only a degree, oh awesome awful Pueblo shaman. leader of the Tewa tribes, whom i see tomorrow. you were right that the trip might energize me.

 

never mind i might have been kidnapped, raped, killed.

 

never mind an un-Platonic teen got me going.

 

never mind i nearly killed a cabful of family.

 

i’ve been energized just trying to stay alert to dangers.

 

Robbie’s eyes have reopened.

 

i tell him, "I think Ibrahim and Gustavo have a lot going for them, unlike Hernando. Maybe that will keep them alive. They seem to know better than to talk to some U.S. American they don't know, about politics, no matter what they feel, or how strongly they feel, or how much they like him. They seem to know how to hold their liquor so it won't jeopardize their safety, or things safety depends on."

 

"Their safety depends in the guerrillas," says Robbie.

 

i look at him.

 

he says, the fact guerrillas would send the brothers home from parties in neighboring towns, had zero to do with their drinking too much.

 

did Yazmín get it wrong? it's true, what he says: at no time while drinking did they lose control, or discuss anything on a sensitive subject.

 

what are you trying to tell me? i say.

 

two young locals, he says, who were guerrilla protégés a couple years back, were killed by the guerrillas because they stole cattle from people in the area. they endangered the guerrillas and their cause, by sullying their reputation.[12]

 

the town is unsafe, i say.

 

basically, he says, he and his family are sympathetic to Victoria and Ibrahim and their cause.

 

he's changed the subject. he refuses to discuss safety in a logical, organized, coherent way.

 

why? i ask.

 

because, he says, they've been close all their lives.

 

not for political reasons? i ask.

 

no.

 

Robinson always acts like he knows nothing about ‘politics’.

 

so, after all these years of not discussing it, i tell him my politics.

 

i'm not getting an admission out of him anyway. we might as well talk about something else.

 

it's the same politics i told Hernando, turning him off too obviously for his own good.

 

you've heard it before, sammy. how i kept ending up around political radicals over the years, most recently at Naropa in Boulder, including Latin American writers, who were always leftist or Marxist. but i never bought their political programs whole hog. because all my life, young idealists of every kind all over the world, have seen their causes usurped and corrupted by tyrants – dictatorial, destructive people, and forces.

 

i say, "There's no politics that will save the world from self-destruction."

 

Robbie needs to understand this as much as Hernando needed to. "Look what happened to Rome's empire," i say. "Nothing saved them. Look at the loss of spirit in the U.S.," i say, "the world’s showpiece of democratic capitalism. People would rather get high than wrestle with problems. Look at the massive suppression and tyranny they suffered in the Soviet Union, Marxism's greatest showpiece." and i tell him what i told Hernando, which turned him off, apparently: that no politics will solve the problem of the unequal distribution of wealth and opportunity, as long as two things remain: the population explosion; and the human heart, which can turn selfish and destructive on a whim.

 

even in Santisima Cruz, a tyrant could come along, i say. he could turn the whole town overnight into an unsafe place to live, if it isn't dangerous already.

 

not a single black Robbie eyelash bats in agreement.

 

he simply won't admit that his country is dangerous for me.

 

but maybe he'll admit i'm dangerous for it.

 

"The problem of the human heart will never go away," i say. “Never. Humanity doesn't change. That was proven yesterday," i say. "After all the love your family showed me, I turned on them. A selfish urge took over, and I was out of control. Mammalian juices took over. I was a killer, a sexual predator, a walking time bomb."

 

Robbie takes no issue with mammalian juice, be it mine, his, or a man on the moon's.

 

something else weighs on his mind.

 

Saturday night he saw something he never told me about. we were all still seated around the men's bench in the camino, drinking in the early hours of the morning. Robbie was on a chair facing the caño, and Ibrahim saw it a little from his angle, too. several people dressed in traditional white glow-in-the-dark campesino muslin gear ran by on the other side of the caño and disappeared into a house.

 

when Robbie told Victoria about it the next night, she said the people fit the description of guerrillas. there was a house across the canal from Yazmín's, where they went to change clothes after riding to town from outlying areas, before mixing with townspeople.

 

now we're getting closer.

 

i ask Robbie why Victoria would tell him something like this, which sounds like inside information she should keep to herself.

 

he says, "Well, because my mother and Victoria's children and all of us have been friends for such a long time."

 

"But couldn't it get them – and us – in serious trouble?" i ask. "Like killed?"

 

“Oh, no. I don't think so. If it could, she wouldn't have said it.”

 

i give up.

 

does it seem safe to you, sammy?  a town where they change clothes in the night to hide identity, then run home to the countryside in innocent, pure white campesino gear to kill teenagers who rob a third party's cattle?

 

"It's not that simple, Robbie," i say. "It's not that safe. I think Victoria, Ibrahim and Gustavo are thickly involved with guerrillas. Maybe even Sandi."

 

i can't tell him bluntly i'm afraid to return. something has gotten in the way.

 

instead i tell him i sympathize with the boys. i've spent years as a psychiatrist, helping poor, creative, bright people, many of them young, get a better chance in life. i especially sympathize with Ibrahim, who is willing, despite the fact he has everything going for him – education, youth, looks, personality, leadership, charisma, smarts, talent, class – to stay in his little backwash county-seat home town and work for low pay, rather than move to a city. he's willing to go up the caño by launch and stay there all week, giving his life to teaching poor isolated floodplain kids, for scant reward.

 

"If I didn't fear for my life up there," i tell Robbie, "I'd move to Santisima Cruz and go with him to the countryside. For Ibrahim it's a dangerous sacrifice. He's doing it because he believes in it. He has something he believes in, and it gives his life meaning. It stabilizes him. I admire that. Freddie needed that.

 

"I need it," i say. "I need something to live for, but that doesn't mean I'd risk my life to get it. If i taught upriver, it could be suicidal."

 

maybe i sympathize, sammy, because Ibrahim was dashing and mysterious with his mustache and low campesino straw hat over sneaky eyes.

 

and he gave me a warm hand.

 

"I can't forget how he treated me that night," i say. "But it doesn't mean I'd risk my life to go back."

 

this gets no rise out of Robbie whatsoever.

 

"And I don't agree with the politics," i go on, "because political positions, no matter what party, are potential traps and diversions from what really matters, what lies in the human heart.

 

"Unless your heart is in the right place," i say, "there's no sense trying to fix the rest of the world. That," i tell Robbie, "is what the guru said at the program in Miami Beach the week you and i met there in the first place, thirteen years ago. It’s what he always says."

 

Robbie nods his head.

 

it's easy for him to agree. like me, he's not a political animal.

 

he's a man of heart.

 

unlike me.

 

"And," i tell him, "my heart's not in the right place. Your people helped me find my heart again, and now I see it's puny and diseased. That's why I can't go back to Cocaland. I thought your country was helping me find something good that might be left in my heart. But there’s nothing good there."

 

"You are findin' somethin'," he says. "You're happy now," he says.

 

i don't think he's gotten a thing i said, sammy.

 

how could i be happy? i feel rotten.

 

 

They looking back, all th' Eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat,

Wav'd over by that flaming Brand, the Gate

With dreadful Faces throng'd and fierie Armes:

 

Som natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them soon;

The World was all before them, where to choose

Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:

 

They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,

From EDEN took thir solitarie way.

 

John Milton

Paradise Lost

final lines

1667

 

lush subtropical vegetation
              and tranquil reflective waterways with Colombian river
              delta style canoes and a long skinny launch full of
              standing and sitting passengers and piles of full gunny
              sacks 

“your people helped me find my heart again

and now I see it's puny and diseased”


village-to-village passenger-and-cargo launch
on the river/canal system

(the only transportation network in and around Santisima Cruz)


(which was not a tourist town in 1994)
(and is not now in 2017 either)

(because it has always been too hard to get to)
(and has had no hotel)
(and so - even though it may look Disneylandish - themz ain't no touruss, Boris)


'coz


Santisima Cruz is the real flippin' wake-up item
as real as you
and as real as me
and as real as Hannibal
and as Miz-zour-ee

and as Tom and Huck
and as Mississip-
pee


Ri-ver


coun-tree


in
eight-tee-


n and in hun-dred


and in for-tee


and
three


[1]  Guide for the Perplexed was published around AD 1190 in Cairo, Egypt, originally written in Arabic by a devout Jew. Moses Maimonides was a medical physician, and also a theologian, philosopher and sage: in short, along with Rashi one of the towering Jewish scholars of the Middle Ages. Dr. Lorenzo was not normally someone to whom the name of an unknown ancient sage came in a dream. But, to his amazement, he dreamt about Maimonides once during his 50s, not sure where he had heard of him, if ever, maybe only briefly in a Philosophy course or textbook while at Wrigley College, and if that, none of it remembered consciously. Because of the dream’s uncommonly shocking strangeness, straight from the mj lorenzo (or ‘collective’) unconscious, especially its uncannily specific naming of a medieval mystic philosopher and doctor he knew virtually nothing about, he read up on Maimonides in encyclopedias and then took the dream to a Jungian friend of his for interpretation. From time to time in subsequent years Dr. Lorenzo found Moses Maimonides to be a reliable source of wisdom on a variety of subjects, including Biblical scripture, the Jewish Talmud, and certain frank exotic medical intricacies of male sexuality, such as the partial numbing effect upon sexual appetite lifelong caused by infant male circumcision, as Maimonides claimed. Additionally, studying Maimonides’ dramatic biography offered a colorful and enlightening window into Old World life in the Middle Ages.

   The present quotation illustrates the tendency of almost all religious mystics to equate physical and/or spiritual (Platonic) love of the beloved to spiritual love of God, and to blur the boundaries between the two, letting each kind of love teach of the other. Such a tendency is found among mystics of all faiths, Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim (e.g., Sufism and the Persian mystic poet, Rumi), etc. It is not surprising, therefore, that Christians and Jews of a wide variety tend to agree that the Song of Solomon (in the Bible), though ostensibly a sensuous love conversation between a King and his bride, is to be read and understood as a parallel of the kind of deep spiritual love that is possible between God and human. Maimonides, given his tendency toward the mystical, was clearly a member of this school of thought, as this quotation from his ‘Guide for the Perplexed’ reveals. Many students of mysticism consider Augustine, as well, to have been a kind of mystic, as suggested by the opening to his Confessions (“Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our heart is restless until it rests in Thee.”), and by many other passages from his writings. And Carl Jung grew up in a family imbued with knowledge of mysticism’s esoterica: one important male member of his family had made a scholarly study of an Arabic version of the Song of Solomon. All of which may help explain why mj lorenzo, increasingly over his lifetime, ‘fell in with this bunch of lovesick fried-brain mystics’, as High Times put it in their 1998 review of his just published Hooked on Cocaland. The Maimonides quote here was found by the Dr. in an article entitled “From Guide for the Perplexed,” in Encarta, a digital encyclopedia for computer. Microsoft Encarta Premium 2006, version 15.0.0.0603 (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Corporation, 1993-2005). The selection of the Maimonides quote and its placement here were mj lorenzo's idea; and he has approved this footnote (as well as every other aspect of this work, and of this B.C.Duvall website).

 

[2]  ‘Carnival’ in Latin American countries is the equivalent of New Orleans’ ‘Mardi Gras’, occurring on ‘fat Tuesday’, the last day before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of ‘Lent’, the traditional church season of self-denial that leads up to, and prepares one for grasping the significance of, Easter. In Colombia the principal ‘Carnaval’ celebration occurs in Barranquilla each year.

 

[3]  no tengo dinero  =  I don’t have money.

 

[4]  Augustine’s views on nocturnal emission can be found in Confessions X: 30.

 

[5]  Sandro Botticelli’s “The Primavera,” or ‘Spring’, painted in 1478.

 

[6]  Dr. Lorenzo is quite correct here in the way he paints a picture of the West Goths in A.D. 410 when they sacked Rome, and this speaks well for his likely historical accurateness throughout. Eventually the Roman church unequivocally condemned the Arianism of the Christian Goths (Visigoths and Ostrogoths, both) and the Christianized Vandals, as ‘not orthodox’, and thus ‘a heresy’. In 410 AD, however, things were not so clearly spelled out, as yet. Christianity had been the Roman Empire state religion for almost a century by 410, and the Goths, living on the fringes of the empire, had been converted from barbarian polytheism to Christianity; but they did not yet understand Jesus to have been (a human incarnation of) God. They were not Trinitarian Christians, in other words. In AD 410 ‘orthodoxy’ was still a fuzzy proposition, even though the Nicene Creed of 325 AD and Theodosius’ Council in 381 had both made Trinitarianism part of the official Roman state religion; 'orthodoxy' was still ‘fuzzy’ in 410 because some prominent Christian bishops here and there still held to Arianism in 410, i.e., the belief that Jesus, though he was the Messiah, was not God; and this left the West Goths (‘Visigoths’) seeing themselves, in 410, when they sacked Rome, as still not too very rebuked or un-Christian or heretical in their way of looking at Jesus. In short, though they indeed sacked Rome, and were at that time called, and still are thought of as having been, 'barbarians', they nevertheless saw themselves in 410 as good mainstream Christians, as did many others. St. Augustine himself painted Alaric's West Goths in 410 as being less barbarically 'barbarian', and more 'mildly' atrocious, than other barbarians in their "soft-hearted"-ness toward their victims (see Toynbee [cf. Bibliography], p. 409, where he quotes Augustine on this matter, from the latter's City of God, Bk. 1, Ch. 7).

 

[7]  ‘Cartagena de Indias’ – another name for the city of Cartagena in the country of Colombia: if the namesake city in Spain was simply ‘Cartagena’ (Woman from Carthage), the new Spanish city in the New World named after the original would have to have a slightly different name, and so would be nicknamed ‘Cartagena de Indias’, which meant ‘the city of Cartagena which can be found in the Indies’ or, ‘Cartagena of the indigenous people of the New World’ or, ‘the Indian Carthage-woman’. A related term, ‘La India Catalina’, or simply ‘La India’, literally ‘The Indian woman’, was a term which came to refer to the famous enormous big dark bronze statue of an entirely naked and divinely endowed (in the bosom) indigenous woman that the city erected in 1974, many centuries after its founding, to honor (and symbolize) the city of Cartagena and its history, its name, and original indigenous population, a statue Robbie never failed to point out to mj whenever they drove by it, out of his chest-swelling pride for his family’s city and its culture and history; except that, in the constant Cocaland confusion it seemed to mj lorenzo that Robbie referred to the statue as ‘Cartagena de Indias’, or ‘La India Cartagena’, though he may have said, or meant to say, ‘La India Catalina’. Who knew?

 

[8]  The most popular new vallenato hit of the day, in October, 1994, was probably ‘Santo Cachón’, sung by Diomedes Diaz and his vallenato band.

 

[9]  Toynbee, Arnold,  A Study of History (Abridgement of Vols. I-VI by D. C. Somervell), Oxford (New York: 1947). Toynbee was a philosopher of history who studied all known civilizations of the past and analyzed how each one of history’s known major civilizations had gone about succeeding or failing as a civilization; he then drew certain conclusions and described a few universal principles by which any civilization ticked, and might be preserved or destroyed at certain critical points in its history. According to Toynbee, for example, if a civilization such as the ‘Western’ or ‘American’ reached the point that mj lorenzo felt it had reached as of 1994 (including all of the negative things the Dr. said about it in this dairy), that particular civilization could still pull itself together and deal with the challenge, perhaps with the right leadership from a kind of ‘culture hero’ that Toynbee described, or by some other self-saving means. But Dr. Lorenzo, though he knew Toynbee’s thinking in this area, was too depressed at that moment, in 1994, to consider it worth remembering or mentioning in this diary, and therefore stressed the negative, repeatedly predicting that Western civilization would fall, as so many other civilizations had, and just like the Roman, the classic example. Later, once completely recovered from depression, his hope for Western (sometimes called ‘American’) civilization returned.

   The student of mj lorenzo lore should recall that Hooked on Cocaland was perhaps the Dr.’s very most negative work, and as such was, and remains, quite atypical of his usually bright outlook and output; because, it was partly the result of a severe psychotic depression, i.e., a very, very down mood and a set of obsessive, repetitive thoughts that were pessimistic and self-defeating, quite a few of the ideas even delusional, meaning, in plain street Spanglish, ‘cra-zee loco’. He himself admitted this eventually and apologized to the public for Hooked on Cocaland during a late-night TV talk show on New Year’s Eve, 1999. His most dedicated critics, for the most part, accepted and advertized the apology, but his readership rejected it, chastising him in The Rolling Stone and elsewhere for putting himself down (by apologizing) ‘one more unacceptable time’, and for underestimating the value of his controversial art in its original raw state 'one more unacceptable time'.

 

[10]  Beer label decalled to yellow notebook paper: see the illustration accompanying the ‘Editors' note to reader’.

 

[11]  Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor did star together in the movie ‘Giant’ (1956), about a Texas oil family striking it rich. Elizabeth Taylor had a number of close gay friends, some famous in Hollywood but still in the closet about their sexuality, like Rock Hudson, and she protected their secret. As she got older she supported publicly the causes of the GLBT community more and more. The off-the-cuff analogy demonstrates not only Robbie's intelligence and knowledge of USA popular culture, it proves his natural instinct for brilliantly apt analogies.

 

[12]  It took mj lorenzo 22 years to realize the likeliest meaning of Robbie’s statement here, even after having read it and wondered about it a thousand times over many years. The Dr. explained to Sammy in the fall of 2016 that it finally hit him that Robbie seemed to have been saying that when Ibrahim and Gustavo would party in outlying towns, in the countryside surrounding Santisima Cruz controlled by ELN guerrillas, who apparently were their friends, the latter would send the boys home after a certain amount of partying and drinking, not because they were drinking too much or getting out of control or inappropriate, but because of the hour. Because the boys were friendly with the guerrillas, and therefore, in a sense, represented them, or were a symbol of them, an extension of them, a potential good advertisement for them; and it would “sully the reputation” of the guerrillas (as it did when other guerrilla-friendly boys killed some cattle) if the brothers stayed out past an hour that the Castroite ELN revolutionaries deemed decent for a revolutionary or for a revolution-sympathetic youth. This is our latest understanding of these brief and mystifying statements from Robbie about how or why the guerrillas would routinely send the two late-night-partying brothers home; though we would be open to further correction if someone with true knowledge of the situation were to explain it further, or better. Robbie’s knowledge of his hometown was often incomplete, since he had not lived there for many years. And mj’s ability to hear those explanations was questionable and scattered, given his befuddled and intense emotions regarding such matters; as illustrated by the conversation here, where he changed the subject to safety issues exactly when Robbie was explaining why the boys were sent home, instead of 'doubling down' and intensifying his queries to get the full and detailed picture of why they were sent home. A good, experienced reporter would have ‘doubled down’ on the ‘sending home’ matter, because mj lorenzo, for his safety’s sake in the future, seriously needed to know exactly what kind of relationship the boys had with guerrillas whom the Dr. considered possibly capable of kidnapping him and therefore potentially inimical to his well-being and even survival.

   The Dr. told Sammy that he was beginning to comprehend, if this latest interpretation were correct, that the ELN guerrillas with whom Victoria and the boys were friendly, reminded him of his Calvinist Puritan, Quaker, Baptist and Huguenot ancestors, who had taken their sacred Calvinist cause so seriously that they barely had allowed partying at all, let alone half the night long; and some of whom had even killed the English king, they were so dead serious. This reminded him of the related fact that the most famous hero of the ELN was Camilo Torres, a young idealistic priest-guerrilla tragically killed in his first gun battle; and that others of the ELN were likely to have been just as religiously Catholic as Torres. More on Camilo Torres will appear in the last chapter, which covers the diary entries for October 17, 18, 23, 24, 29 and 30. The Torres material is in Subsection 122, q.v. Torres interested mj lorenzo so much that on a subsequent trip to Colombia he went out of his way to track down the seminary where Camilo Torres studied to become a priest. In Focus: Colombia states this about the ELN and Camilo Torres:

   “The years of violence [La Violencia, roughly 1948-1964, an undeclared civil war between the two major political parties, Conservatives and Liberals] spawned several of the various guerrilla groups which have since become a feature of Colombian political life. The Communist Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) had its origins in the Liberal self-defence guerrillas, while the Castroite Ejercito de Liberación Nacional (ELN), the other big armed group still in action today, was a later creation of radicalised middle-class youths dazzled by the Cuban Revolution of 1959. Their icon was Camilo Torres, a young seminarian of good family who despaired of reforming Colombia’s tradition-bound society by peaceful means and took to the hills with a handful of followers. He was promptly killed in his first encounter with the army, but the ELN and his legend live on to this day.” Pg. 23. See Bibliography, under Harding, Colin.
   In 2016 the Colombian president, Juan Manuel Santos, finally achieved a peace accord with the FARC guerrillas and was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize as reward. As of mid-2017 peace talks were still under way and progressing with the ELN, the guerrila group with whom the people of Santisima Cruz had been dealing for so many decades.


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

outline                  detailed table of contents

first page of diary         image index   1   2

glossary                  bibliography


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

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

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

about Sammy Martinez'  'Introduction'  to the present work

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




Back pages feature April 2017:

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

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

why he risked chasing away readers

by recently adding to this website's home page

-- not 1 -- not 2 but --

3 hokey Bible verses