HOOKED
ON COCALAND
Here and Home:
good riddance paradise
forever
(concl.)
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]
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
"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
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
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
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.
‘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
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
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
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.
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
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.
“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
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.
“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
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.
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
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
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
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
"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
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.
participant
in
Barranquilla’s 'Carnaval'
102.
And then
– I read that
once somewhere –
the life of a
hedonist is the best preparation for becoming a mystic.
People like
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
Augustine
blamed
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
“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
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
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
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
it wasn't my
fault, sammy, my jockeys had loosened from two days of wear,
starting on the bus to
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
“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
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. '
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
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.
“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.
a
Barranquilla carnival mummer
103. HOW TO PICK THE
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
"Pelicano is
acceptin'
"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 ‘
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
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”
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
"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
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
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.
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 arepas. Robinson 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
what
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
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 gringa. take her to
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
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.
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.
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
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
"Three and a
half hours," i say. "And
the flight from
i didn't have
to add that.
how could it be
so far from
"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
whereas the
Angel looks at
Efrén, as if for help: can't somebody please make the
yes, of course.
if they could shrink the
should i share
this with Angel, sammy?
here's what i
would say.
for half a
millennium Romans studied the
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
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
while i've
amused myself with the Fall of
all's well in
Cocaland.
and now we'll
be leaving in a few minutes.
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
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 bordelos. i saw a beggar in filthy
rags on the sidewalk in decrepit downtown
these things
are good.
arrives
Daniela's father, who will taxi us to the airport. departure drama picks up. he gets a tinto. i 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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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 bobito. just 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
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
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
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.
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
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
"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 mamagallo. misleading 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
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
"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
"Where in
"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
she said again,
this time in English, that she was from
"I know," i
said. "But I thought
you said something about Santisima Cruz," i tried again.
"No, I frah
i know she said
something about danger in
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
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.
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'."
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
naturally. how many Jews, at the time
of Christ, enjoyed Romans pushing them around
but i want him
to admit that Santisima Cruz is more
anti-American, and hence dangerous, say, than
“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
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
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
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
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
now we're
getting closer.
i ask Robbie
why
he says, "Well,
because my mother and
"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
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
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
They hand in hand with
wandring steps and slow,
From
John Milton
final lines
1667
“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
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
[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,
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
[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
“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
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.