Headthegong.com

I’m sitting in a corner of the room, surrounded by all our belongings. Some guys are putting in the floor tile today, so my world has shrunk to a six by six foot pile of stuff while they work on the rest of the room. Presently, the workers are taking a little Pepsi break, chatting about this and that. The word chinga tends to come up a lot. Undoubtedly, they must be curious why I choose to remain in the room while they work. However misguided and ultimately self-defeating, I tend to view most others here as potential criminals, out to fuck me over as soon as the opportunity presents itself. People have families to feed, and here’s my stuff all laid out like a five-finger discount flea market. I remember a line from Fight Club: “The things you own end up owning you.” This couldn’t be more true for me right now. I am attached to my things with shackles.

At this point, I’m against putting in the tile, as a way to protest the cost being jacked up at the last moment and because the process promises to be a major inconvenience. They say “no hay problema, muy rapido,” half the tile in today and the other half tomorrow, but experience tells me to expect otherwise. The room is my safe haven, where I have established at least enough privacy, order, and control to maintain sanity. I can feel the shackles chafing.

Of course, when it’s all said and done, it will be nice to have tile, as the floor figures prominently in my plan to take over the world. It’s a simple plan really: To resurrect every stinking, rotting intention that lay buried in the dung-heap of apathy, excuses and half-assed efforts I spent a lifetime compiling in the U.S. Every last little desiccated seed will be resuscitated and nurtured to fruition. Among other things, this means a book will be written; a language learned; an instrument mastered; and a body and mind recalibrated, re-inhabited and renewed.

High up on the list is to establish a formal meditation practice. I say “formal” because while I have been informally and inconsistently trying to live the mindful life for over a decade now, I have yet to summon the levels of focus, commitment and discipline to match my intentions. Along with Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, I’m currently reading Full Catastrophe Living, by Jon Kabat-Zinn. About the level of commitment necessary, the author quotes psychologist Carl Jung: “The attainment of wholeness requires one to stake one’s whole being. Nothing less will do; there can be no easier conditions, no substitutes, no compromises.”

I love this kind of “balls out” sentiment. Miller strikes a similar chord, vis-á-vis art: “Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite”. My bandmates and I used an inside catch-phrase to capture this carpe diem vibe, demanding of ourselves and each other that we “head the gong.” Those of us who grew up worshipping the rock band Led Zeppelin know well that drummer John Bonham, who died young of a drug overdose, used a gong as part of his drum set-up. Anyway, the guys and I went out to see a Led Zep tribute band one night, and as the drummer wailed away during the famous ten-minute Moby Dick drum solo, we couldn’t help notice that he held back a little toward the end. “Dude,” I said to my friends, “if you’re going to do Moby Dick, you gotta go all the way, you gotta throw yourself head first into the gong. Yeah man, you gotta head the fucking gong!” Throw in a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and there you have it – a defining moment in the too-short four year life of the band.

I’ve often told myself I would one day put into print the “Head the Gong Manifesto”, making explicit to myself and the world precisely how I intended to live, should I ever find the requisite strength and courage. Well, here’s the gist of it, in slightly greater detail than above: I’m going to meditate everyday; write the book I’ve been not writing for the last ten years; finish up and properly record every song idea in my cassette archives; learn Spanish, then Chinese; study a martial art; step up my exercise regimen with daily stretching and calisthenics; learn some cover tunes and refuse to shy away from opportunities to perform; rededicate myself to the study and practice of Somatic Education (a form of neuro-muscular/body work); find a way to teach for a living…

I’m sure more will come to me. And I’m off to a good start, I must say – writing like a madman, Spanish improving by the day, soccer practice every night, a few days into formal meditation practice and a solid floor exercise routine. It’s amazing what not having a job (or kids) can do for the daily schedule.

*

Yesterday’s soccer practice. My pulled quad muscle was still troubling me. Trouble was, every time I kicked the ball with my right leg, I felt a good deal of pain. In my broken Spanish I tried to explain to my amigos that I might have to sit this one out. At the last moment, I decided to press on. Didn’t want to look like a candy-ass, what with all the machismo in the air. The previous practice I came up with a mantra to help me stay mindful of my rickety frame: “Stay in your legs, stay with your breath, and go get the ball!” Unfortunately, as we lined up for the scrimmage yesterday, the mantra slipped my mind. Not two minutes into the game, the ball squirted my way and my adversary and I raced to take possession. Our legs collided in a most inauspicious way, causing my left knee to twist violently out of place. I distinctly heard a crackling sound at the moment of impact. The pain was blinding, and I quickly hopped off the field saying “muy malo, muy malo!” (very bad!)

On the sidelines I fell back into the grass and stared up at the sunset sky. Curiously, there was not a thought in my mind, just a sense of absolute resignation. A pack of children quickly surrounded me, peppering me with unintelligible questions and finding much humor in my predicament. One of them pointed at a cloud floating by, saying it looked like a tortuga, a word I recognized as turtle. And it did look like a turtle. That much I could hang my hat on.

My “ambulance” arrived after the scrimmage. It was bicycle with a little carrier thing on the back. I climbed aboard and held on for dear life, wincing with every bump and jostle as we headed back to the river, which had to be crossed in order to get back to the car. My amigos had to carry me across the felled street-lamp beam that served as a bridge.

When I got back to the house, our hosts tried to drag me to some local healer for a “massage” that would make me good as new, but I put my good foot down and insisted on a healer with a diploma on the wall and access to an X-ray machine. Having been through this whole rigmarole before (torn right ACL; broken left tibial plateau), I consider myself somewhat of an expert on busted knees. I wanted to ice and elevate overnight, postponing till morning the extremely bouncy car ride along the road/minefield to Santiago. Juana, of course, tried to explain why ice was bad and that what I really needed was a hot avocado leaf, or some shit like that. At that moment, I realized I was fucked. Mary Alice was frantically trying to translate the back and forth, and the best we could do was get them to take us to a doctor immediately, as for some unclear reason Jesus couldn’t make the trip in the morning. Besides, we were told, there was no way to get ice at 9:00pm.

The long, bumpy ride to Santiago was a chance to test my newly acquired meditative powers. “It’s only pain” became my new mantra. We arrived at the clinic and I was able to get some X-rays taken. I sat for a few minutes, waiting for the results and wondering why they didn’t cover my groin with a lead mat, like they do in U.S. radiology rooms. No importa! I was also hoping for a fracture, as that result would be clear-cut, conclusive, and unlikely to require surgical repair. The X-rays showed otherwise, however, revealing only a congenital floating kneecap fragment (which greatly confounded the initial diagnosis). The trauma specialist then examined my knee and reached the tentative conclusion that meniscus and/or ligament tears were causing the pain and swelling. He also told me I have the knees of a sixty year-old and recommended I give up sports entirely.

As the nurse injected some unknown substance into my ass, I slowly slipped back into self-pity mode as “I’m fucked” jumped back to mind. Aside from translated conversations, my entire social life here consists in playing hacky-sack with the kids and soccer with Jesus and his amigos. Lately, guys wave to me in the street, asking if I’ll be at practice later, whereas before there were mostly hushed comments, giggles and stares as I walked through town. Not two hours before the injury, I spent a poop-load of pesos on gear, photos, and registration fees. All outside of “the budget” and all down the crapper now, not to mention the mounting medical expenses.

My thoughts went on like this the whole ride home. Poor Bobbo. Can’t even walk into town to use the internet or buy groceries. Just when I was getting my shit together, it’s back into the belly of the beast. And things just got worse from there. The tiling process was not proceeding as scheduled. For two days, the men worked from morning until well into the night, so I could not relax and recover in my own room. A day and half had passed before I could get any ice for my knee, so it looked like a grapefruit and I sat in our hosts’ living room in agonizing discomfort for hours and hours.

I was able to suck it up for the first twelve hours or so, and even had a nice moment or two. Jesus’ brother Manuel, who had helped carry me across the river, stopped by to see how I was doing. Manuel played soccer in old, beat-up sneakers because, according to Jesus, he couldn’t afford cleats. Realizing my soccer days were over, for a while at the very least, I asked Manuel if he would accept my brand new cleats as a gift. He seemed touched, and the good feelings buoyed me along for a few hours or so. But the overall misery level – from pain, extreme discomfort, exhaustion, lack of privacy, worry about my health, etc. – eventually crossed the line as the hours ticked away and it seemed like I’d never get back into my room and into bed.

It was about 10pm, the day following the injury, and I sat there in the middle of the living room surrounded by everyone and all the stuff from our room. I couldn’t keep up the “I’m okay” act any longer, so I pulled my cap down over my face and asked Mary Alice to instruct everyone to please leave me alone. I tried my best to disappear, to completely dissociate from my body, which at this point was in uncharted realms of discomfort. Kids would periodically come by and look under my cap to see if I was awake. I just played dead. Every now and again I’d notice mosquitoes landing on my legs, nourishing themselves on my vital fluids. I imagined I was buried alive in a form-fitted casket, observing the pain and restlessness in my body from a place of near total detachment. I felt as vulnerable as a newborn baby – immobile, uncommunicative, completely at the mercy of others, waiting, hoping for mercy to be shown.

At some unknown hour of the night, Mary Alice roused me and informed me she had successfully pleaded with our hosts and the workers to make a small space in our room where the bed could be re-assembled and my lifeless carcass deposited. I lied there with my hat over my face until the workers at last left for the night. They explained to Mary Alice that they had needed to finish the room, no matter how long it took, because they had another job tomorrow morning they could not afford to miss. The bathroom tile would have to wait until that other job was completed. At last there was privacy enough to let the sobs come. They were necessarily stifled sobs, of course, as our host family was but a few feet away behind a thin curtain. The tears flowed under my cap for a long time. I felt like everything that had been holding me together had been stripped away.

*

Two days have now come and gone, and I am once again in my familiar spot next to the window, leg braced and propped up on the bed. Mary Alice has gone to the store to stock up on the bare necessities. Grocery shopping used to be my job, along with cleaning dishes and the assorted odd jobs that require a man’s strength. Now, and for at least the next few weeks as we see how the knee heals, everything falls on my wife’s shoulders. Without modern conveniences, chores here are rather time-consuming when able-bodied and aided. Now, everything is just one big pain in the ass after another. And, as far as my wife is concerned, I am just one big pain in her ass. I can’t argue with that.

I hate being dependent on anyone, especially on our hosts, and on Juana in particular. Since I arrived, the sound of her voice hits me like nails on a chalkboard. Everything she does annoys me to no end, no matter how helpful she tries to be. This is all me, one hundred percent my issue, but under stress I have a hard time keeping it in check. The other night, while our stuff was being put back into our room, we noticed our water jug was empty. Mary Alice is not strong enough to confidently lift a full twenty-liter jug into the dispenser, so Juana swooped in to the rescue. She got the job done, providing me with convenient, bedside access to life-giving agua. Yet, all I could think was: “Did she just spill water all over my books?” and “She didn’t clean off the top of the jug before she put it in, did she?”

I smiled and thanked her just the same, as always, but as soon she left I disgustedly inspected her work. “Ah ha! There’s a bug swimming around inside the container! Inside the jug, contaminating my clean water! It was probably crawling around in the dispenser as she put the jug in. I should’ve tried to do it myself”, I thought. I pointed the bug out to Mary Alice and she rolled her eyes at me in disgust, weary as she must’ve been of my perpetual state of dissatisfaction.

I know this is all taking a severe toll on her, and I am doing my best to be mindful of how my reactions are affecting her. Today, things are better. Difficult, yes, but better. Routine trips to the bathroom can still turn into thirty-minute chores. Crutches still slip and slide on the wet tile. I need help to wash my feet. I toss and turn all night, searching for comfort, but succeeding only in disturbing my wife’s sleep.

But I’m back writing again, and today I found a way to fix my own breakfast. I’m even washing dishes again. A little while ago we needed to replace the water jug again, and I thought about it doing it myself, but only for a second. I tried to coach Mary Alice through it, but we needed help, Juana’s help. And again, she got the job done. Water splashed all over the floor, but this time we all laughed. Mary Alice noticed the little bug lying dead inside the empty jug. Then it occurred to me. Bug. That’s what everybody calls me here. That’s how they pronounce “Bob.” I corrected them a few times in the beginning, but the habit had already stuck. Besides, I thought at the time, being called “Bug” might make for an interesting story down the road, maybe even providing a touch of irony at just the right moment.

It’s a quiet, comfortable evening here on the Pueblo. There’s a breeze blowing through the window – a real treat – and Mary Alice and I have settled into our pre-bedtime “routine.” I had to use quotation marks because our routines change frequently with the ever-changing circumstances. We don’t have electricity in the room per se, just an extension cord coming from their living room. There’s a light bulb hanging from a nail on the wall across from our bed, enough to get around but not enough to read by. So, for the past few nights, after we take showers and brush our teeth and whatnot, we play on the computers and/or listen to the iPods.

The bed is a multipurpose piece of furniture, serving as a place to sleep as well as acting as the sofa and general “thing to throw shit on.” I pulled it about a foot away from the wall, as I’m a little jumpy about creepy crawlies. I had another run-in with a big, furry spider, this time in the front pocket of my backpack. It’s ridiculous how much of a sissy-man I am about such things. At the “internet café” I kept freaking out over a bee buzzing around the place. The locals looked at me like I was off my rocker, but I simply couldn’t repress my reactions. Something buzzes or crawls by me and I jump up, dance around a little, then reach for the flip-flop.

About the internet access here: I appreciate greatly that it exists at all. It’s a slow dial-up connection, but it gets the job done – when you can get in the place. There are no “hours of operation.” You go into to town and hope the place is open. So far, more often than not, it’s no-go, or if it is open, the terminals are occupied by teenagers doing their homework or checking their MySpace pages. This is all an exercise in patience, and as such, it can do me plenty of good. What would take ten minutes at home, with our high-speed wireless set-up, takes about an hour, if it can be done at all. There is nothing to do about it but wait and breathe, and occasionally leap out of my seat at the passing by of an insect.

Tomorrow, Mary Alice will “present” herself to the local government officials and begin some legwork on her research project. That’s the plan at least, which means there’s about a fifteen percent chance it will actually happen. Such things used to trouble me more, before we got our refrigerator. Now, there’s a growing sense of peace. This morning we had cold milk with our Raisin Bran. Heaven.

The widespread poverty presents us with daily ethical dilemmas. We have a limited supply of money for food and basic necessities. Grant money. Our own meager savings is paying for storage back in the U.S. We simply can’t afford to support our host family. That was never part of the deal. We can’t do it, or we’ll run out of money, forcing us to return to the U.S. before Mary Alice can complete her project. We had to stop “sharing” most meals, because night after night we ended up paying for all the food (despite clear, repeated agreements to split the cost). Aside from busting our budget, this created a very awkward dynamic. The situation became simply untenable. But the fact remains: some nights, they don’t eat. I go to reach for seconds, because I’m truly hungry, but I know they were unable to scrape up money for their own supper this evening. Tonight, it turns out we had enough to offer them some leftovers, but this hasn’t always been and won’t always be the case. I’ve gone to bed hungry a few nights since we’ve been here, and it’s not a pleasant experience. But we can’t feed them every day. We can’t do it.

Mary Alice is “working it out,” as she has countless times already since we arrived.

Shit. How on earth is she going to work this out.

It’s Monday morning and we’ve been here five days. This is hard. Much harder than I expected. In fact, that’s the hardest part: expectations are rarely met. They’re even difficult to form.

Let me paint you a picture: Think back to the nastiest campsite restroom you ever encountered. The one made entirely of untreated cement. Walls crumbling. Floor always dirty. And the bugs… And the unrelenting humidity… This is, for now, home.

Last night was okay. I was dive-bombed by a flying cockroach while sitting on the toilet, but he met his fate on the bottom of my flip-flop. Saturday was rough, though. I woke to news that one of the dogs was dead. I understood only “pero” [dog] and “muerte” [dead]. Later, Mary Alice translated: One of the neighbors, an older woman who apparently is not fond of dogs, fed several of the local mutts some poison-laced puppy chow. It was a mercy killing, as far as I’m concerned. The dogs here are mangy, underfed/starving, and they prowl the streets looking like, well, like dogs that have been dead for several days.

So, while Michael Vick staging dog-fights is a career ending, jailable offense in the states, here on the Pueblo a mass execution of dogs is “No importa” [no big deal].

Prior to our departure, the family we’re living with told us that our room – the construction of which Mary Alice had already paid for – was ready for us to move into. When we arrived, however, we couldn’t help notice the absence of doors, windows, sink, toilet, etc. “It’ll be ready by Saturday” was the response. Well, like I said, it’s Monday and still no-go.

Back to Saturday. The dog’s dead. Later on, after dinner, we all notice a creature of some stripe scampering atop the wall. I hear the word. It needs no translation. “La rata.” Mary Alice and I, of course, were the only ones concerned. So it is with many things. Take the bathroom, for instance. There’s no mirror (I haven’t figured out how to shave yet). The floor is always a lake of mud. Bugs crawl and swoop at you constantly. Your towel never gets dry. YOU never get dry. Never.

Saturday night I laid awake all night, waiting for la rata to come, waiting for the snoring to subside, waiting for the dogs (the ones still living) to stop howling. Waiting for my skin to thicken.

I’m already adapting. Take nothing for granted, mi amigo, and rely not on what you know. Habits must be deconstructed and formed anew. I’ve learned: Don’t look at the walls. If you do, you’ll see the lizards, the cockroaches, perhaps even “la rata.” Also, try to fall asleep as quickly as possible, as your hearing is a liability as well. Saturday night, I heard too much. We were not alone in our dark, dank, windowless room. I covered myself completely with the sheet so my face was the only thing exposed and vulnerable. Just as I fell asleep – you guessed it – something set up camp on my face. It turned out to be a praying mantis (“mantis religioso”). I hope it was praying to be pummeled with a flip-flop. The whole family thought it hilarious that I seemed so rattled by such a thing. Cockroaches, rats, lizards, scorpions – to them they’re all “no importa.”

By now you must be thinking, “Spoiled rotten American, whining about living at a standard higher than the majority of humans on the planet.” And you’re right. I’ve seen how the other half lives, and I find it wanting. But there have been some pleasant surprises. The kids, for instance. At 14, 12 and 9, these kids do not seem to be at all troubled by the limitations of life on the Pueblo. I introduced them to the “Hacky Sack,” and we spent hours playing in the cramped front room, using the front doorway as a goal. Everything I do amuses them to no end. They especially like how I can make musical noises, like a beat-box or a trumpet sound. They squeal with laughter and implore me to do it again and again.

They seem to have no clue what it means that I can’t speak or understand Spanish. They expect that if they speak slowly enough then surely I will get the picture. Most of the time, I end up pretending to understand. I nod, smile, and say “si,” so we can all just move on.

I’m rambling now, I know, but this is the first time I’ve had the chance to write. With no livable room yet, privacy comes only with bedtime, but the price of turning the light on – the introduction and/or revelation of several species – is too much to pay.

Another flashback: the buses. I’ve been here not a week, yet I’ve spent at least twenty hours on buses. We took the red-eye from Mexico City to Santiago, the nearest semi-big city to our little pueblo. The idea was to sleep the whole way. A fine idea, but… I had been fuming about getting ripped off by the taxi driver who brought us to the bus station from the hotel. Apparently, he saw how much money I had in my wallet and suddenly raised the fare rather significantly. I hated traveling with all our stuff – eight pieces of luggage. I felt like a walking, no-Spanish-talking, bulls-eye. A target for criminal acts. Not a pleasant feeling.

The first-class bus from Mexico City to Santiago was decent. We shoved off about midnight. I slept very little, and the sights and sounds were as in a dream. The outskirts of Mexico City were like something out a science fiction movie. Both sides of the highway were lined with shacks and shanties, hardly suitable for human habitation, extending outward as far as the eye can see. Throughout the night, the roar of the engine was punctuated by loud snores and the occasional fart. At about 2am, we passed through an area where the fog was thick as marshmallow. I was looking down the aisle out the front windshield and I could see nothing, absolutely nothing but about ten feet in front of the headlights. Yet, the driver carried on at a high rate of speed. Surely the laws of physics are not subject to cultural interpretation. If there was a stalled car or anything blocking the road ahead, we would surely have wrecked and been killed. But again, I appeared to be the only one concerned. Same for the taxi rides in Mexico City. High-speed suicide missions, every one of them. I feared for my safety continuously. Brake lights ahead meant “step on the gas and veer to the other lane at the last possible second.” As far as I could tell there were no traffic laws – or at least no enforcement of them.

Another strange thing: the litter. The sidewalks and streets of the Pueblo are strewn with garbage. Yesterday, when I finished my peanut-flavored popsicle, I started looking around for what to do with the wrapper. One of the kids took it from me, crumpled it up and threw it out the window, in plain view of the adults. Again, “no importa.”

More about the buses. Every time they stop at some little town, street vendors swarm aboard, peddling their wares. “Cacahuates, cacahuates, cacahuates [peanuts]… Refrescos, refrescos, refrescos [sodas]…” And occasionally, a borracho [drunk] will stumble aboard to beg for money.

Juana, the mother of the family, is sick today. The bathroom is attached to the room Mary Alice and I are staying in, so everyone must pass through in order to use it. This, in and of itself, has its obvious disadvantages. Anyway, Juana just passed through to vomit in the toilet. Yet, Juana continues to prepare the food for everyone.

Knowing Spanish seems to be insufficient for crossing the great cultural divide. Mary Alice is a highly competent speaker of Spanish, yet even simple matters must be negotiated according to some mysterious rules of engagement. I’ve been a little sick myself, with some diarrhea and nausea. Juana insists it has something to do with an improper combination of “hot” and “cold” food and beverages. “Hot” and “cold” refer not to temperature, but to some sort of indigenous medicinal system. It seems obvious to me that I’m probably sick from the total change in nearly every aspect of my life. Either that, or else I just caught what she’s got. What can you do.

It’s eat or die, just like it is everywhere else. Or is it eat AND die? Time will tell. The other night they served us tamales straight from the bowels of hell. The meat was gamey as all get-out, and every bite was full of tiny bones. I imagined a mouse, chopped up and fried, fur and all. I choked it down, declined seconds, and went to bed hungry.

Then, of course, there’s the water. Everybody knows you can’t drink the water in Mexico. This is trickier than it sounds. Rinse your toothbrush off in the sink just once, for old-times sake, and you could pay a steep price. You have rinse everything with bottled water, so your mouth never quite feels clean and your toothbrush never gets rinsed well. But old habits can be hard to break. For instance, you can’t put any T.P. in the toilet, or else you’ll clog the works. So, everything goes in the trash basket next to the john, no matter how nasty.

I find myself washing my hands constantly, although I keep thinking to myself: “If this water is poisonous, won’t it get in through my pores, or though my eyes or mouth when I shower?” In Mexico City, a native referred to the toxic agent as “the amoeba.” Now, I imagine it everywhere, clinging to every glass, swimming on every surface.

Yes, I’m adapting every day, and my priorities are shifting. At this point – a mere week into the adventure – I simply want to live, as in survive, as in not die.

Thursday we took a bus to a town called Coatzacoalcos. A classmate of Mary Alice’s – a native Mexican – fell ill and is being hospitalized there. I know the guy from the various Anthropology functions in Lexington. We were told the bus ride would take two hours. At that point, we hadn’t yet learned the “expectation formula” that is in effect here in the Pueblo. The trip took five hours and there was no return bus, so we were stranded in Coatzacoalcos. This necessitated a stay in a hotel, which was more than cool with me. Can you say “air conditioning.”

Anyway, we eventually found the hospital, which was like none I have ever seen in the states. The waiting room was swarming with sick people and their families. Of course, there was no a/c, and the smell of piss and shit from the restrooms created a decidedly non-salutary ambience. When we got in to see Hugo, I nearly burst into tears. He looked like he was at death’s door, eyes rolling around, unable to talk. Mary Alice thought he could understand us, but I wasn’t so sure. Apparently, the doctors still haven’t a clue what’s wrong with him. Allegedly, he fell unconscious while digging for artifacts, slipped into a coma, and only regained semi-consciousness after several blood transfusions.

While I feared for his life, I also couldn’t help thinking: “If they don’t know what’s wrong with him, how can they be sure it’s not contagious?” Even now, several days later, I catch myself wondering whether or not my headaches might not really be a symptom of bacterial meningitis. Then I just tell myself: “No importa.”

I’ve been meditating on the word “freedom.” Here’s what I’ve come up with. Freedom is clean water. Freedom is having a refrigerator [Apparently, their old fridge broke. So, the leftover fish we’re having for dinner has been sitting out all day in the ninety-five degree heat. Is salmonella subject to cultural interpretation too?]

Freedom is understanding and being understood.