Category: Esperando el milagro

[A writing project in gestation…]

My name is Hal, but there’s a lot more to the story. There’s always more to the story. My mother was in labor for a long time before setting me loose upon the world. She was so relieved that I finally came out, she yelled “Hallelujah!” at the top of her lungs. My parents were all set to name me Robert, after the late Robert Kennedy, whom they greatly admired. But my Dad thought it would be funny to tell everyone my name was “Hal, short for Hallelujah” and somehow that’s what ended up on my birth certificate. I guess the joke wore thin after a while, because I grew up as Bobby. At the age of twelve I shortened it to Bob, and it’s only today, at the age of 36, that I’m trying Hal on for size. Something in the scroll—a surprising little synchronicity that I’ll delve into once I finish the transcription—has inspired me to make the change. I’m hoping that by the end of these nine months I’ll have the guts to go all the way, to become who I’ve always been. Hallelujah!

Keep in mind that as far as everyone else is concerned, I’m still Bob. Like every guy on every radio commercial. Like the guy on TV with the perma-smile who just had his maleness enhanced. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of many Bobs I truly admire. Dylan? Marley? I hear DeNiro’s friends call him Bob, but on the big screen he sticks with Robert. Here in the pueblo they call me “Bob Esponja,” in reference to the Sponge Bob cartoon, which mesmerizes kids here just like it does back home. My wife had visited the pueblo a few times prior to this extended period of fieldwork, so everyone knew my name long before my arrival. Had she told them my name was Hal, perhaps my nickname would be Jalapeño by now. As it stands, Hal’s public debut will have to wait for the next fresh start, the next incarnation. There’s always next time.

If all this seems a little willy-nilly, you have to understand I’m not sitting in a coffee shop in Cancún, sipping a latte and tapping this shit out on my laptop over free wi-fi. Whatever I write is scratched out feverishly while I have a moment of privacy, because there’s no telling when I might enjoy another one. Opportunities to then transcribe stuff onto my wife’s computer are few and far between, as she is muy ocupada (very busy) with her research. Access to the internet is anything but easy. The memory stick must be brought to town, to the one home/business (usually closed) with a dial-up connection, or to a town much further away. Given these hurdles, it’s hard to see the wisdom in documenting this adventure via a blog. I could keep this all to myself I suppose, locked away in my private journal. But talking to myself doesn’t inspire me to dig deep or to take risks. Journaling for me is like masturbation. The scripts are safe and familiar, but there’s no real contact, nothing really at stake. There’s also no romance, no passion, no communion, for nothing is truly given or received. I want to write as if my words might actually touch someone emotionally, as if someone might actually hear my voice in their head or see me in their mind’s eye. I want at least the possibility of human connection, so that I’ll be sure to give my best, to attend with the utmost care. I am like the protagonist in the scroll story (as you will soon see, I swear!) in that I need to imagine a dear reader in order to carry on. He needed one to stay sane. I need one, you, to get the creative current flowing, to complete the circuit as it were.

Hopefully the meaning of all this will become clearer, to you and me, as things unfold and I get more accustomed to life here in the pueblo. As I mentioned, for the time being I have very little privacy, as the room we expected to move into upon our arrival is not yet fully constructed (despite prior assurances to the contrary). Until the doors and windows are put in, we will continue to stay in the main part of the house with our host family. The room we’re in now is not quite like the honeymoon suite in Key West we stayed in a few months ago. Think back to the public restroom at the last campsite you visited. The one made entirely of untreated cement. Walls crumbling. Floor always dirty. And the bugs… And the unrelenting humidity… This is, for now, home.

This morning has brought only minor nuisances so far. 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, so all is well, for now. Yesterday was rough, though. I woke to news that one of the family dogs was dead. I understood only “perro” (dog) and “muerte” (dead). Later, Molly translated: One of the neighbors, an older woman who apparently is not fond of dogs, allegedly fed several of the local mutts some poison-laced table scraps. In one sense, it seems to me it was a mercy killing, as the dogs here are mangy, underfed if not starving, and they prowl the streets looking like dog-zombies. On the other hand, I find the matter-of-factness of it all to be a little unsettling. In the States, cruelty to animals—a la Michael Vick’s dog fighting ring—is criminal conduct met with public outrage, but here in the pueblo a mass execution of dogs by a neighbor is “No importa” (no big deal).

Later on, after lunch, we all noticed a creature of unknown stripe scampering atop the wall. Straining to follow the ensuing conversation, I heard the word. It needed no translation. La rata. Molly 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. At home, my bedtime routine is a chance to unwind, to be lulled into a nice pre-slumberous daze. Here, I get ramped up into a state of hyper-vigilance, like I’m getting ready for battle. Last night I laid awake for hours, 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.

But 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. So forget about reading or writing once the sun goes down. The price of turning the light bulb on—the attraction and/or revelation of several species—is too much to pay. Also, you’ll be well served by falling asleep as quickly as possible, as your hearing can be a liability as well. Last night, I heard too much. We were not alone in our dark, dank, windowless room. Before turning in for the night I pulled the bed frame about six inches from the wall, to provide a little buffer zone between human and non-human life forms. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, I covered myself completely with the sheet so my face was the only thing exposed and vulnerable to attack. Just as I was about to fall asleep—you guessed it—something set up camp on my face. It turned out to be a praying mantis (mantis religioso). If it was praying to be frantically pummeled with a flip-flop, then it received a prompt answer from above. The whole family—all five of them piled onto two pushed-together beds in the next room—thought it hilarious I was so rattled by such a thing. Cockroaches, rats, lizards, scorpions—to them they’re all no importa. And here I am finding it almost unbearable that a thin curtain is all that separates me from the humans in the next room.

Juana, the mother of the family we’re staying with, has been ill. The bathroom is attached to the room Molly and I are staying in, so everyone must pass through in order to use it. This, in and of itself, has its obvious disadvantages. A few minutes ago Juana passed through to vomit in the toilet. Again. Yet, Juana continues to prepare the food for everyone. No importa! Last night they served us tamales that I had to choke down. The meat was gamey and every bite was full of tiny bones. I silently wondered if it was la rata, chopped up and fried, fur and all. I politely declined seconds and went to bed hungry.

Then 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 time’s sake, and you could pay a steep price. You have to rinse everything with bottled water, so your mouth never quite feels clean and your toothbrush never gets rinsed well. Yes, old habits can be hard to break. For instance, you can’t put any paper 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, I heard someone refer to the toxic agent as “the amoeba.” Now, I imagine it everywhere, clinging to every glass, swimming on every surface.

Yep, I’m adapting every day, and my priorities are shifting. At this point—just a couple of weeks into the adventure—the main thing is to live. As in survive. As in not die. Privacy, writing, playing my guitar, mind-blowing personal transformation—for now, these things are no importa, gravy to be enjoyed later on, once we move into the new room. Yes, once we get into that room, things will start cookin’. Until then, there are bugs and old habits to kill, a language to learn, skin to thicken. And don’t worry, I won’t forget about the toilet paper. If there’s one thing I’ve learned thus far, it’s to never forget about the toilet paper.

[A writing project in gestation…]

“Man builds on the ruins of his former selves. When we are reduced to nothingness, we come alive again. To season one’s destiny with the dust of one’s folly, that is the trick.” – Henry Miller

*

If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re a rapist or a murderer. Then again, you might just be a drunk checking in for the night. Most likely though, you’re the guy with the blank stare who shoves the food under the bars twice a day. In any event, you probably won’t understand a fucking word of this.

Jesús pointed to the fourth-from-the-last word with a smile. He worked at a KFC in South Carolina for two years, long enough to spot the eff bomb even when concealed within the gerund form of the verb. He handed me the roll of toilet paper and bid me adios. He was off to meet someone who maybe knew someone who knew about a job out on the oilrigs. The roll of papel higiénico was just as he had described it a few days earlier. Black ink. Covered from the first sheet to the hollow tube with English. “Bathroom graffiti” was my first thought when I heard about it. Apparently his nephew, who lives in a tiny coastal town, found the roll months ago in an abandoned, forest-hidden building while he was foraging for scrap metal. It had become quite the little conversation piece. When word spread that Jesús was putting up a couple of Americans, the roll made its way to our little pueblo for official verification and translation. One square in, and the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck. What we were all expecting, I suspect, was a few moments of hilarity while I asked my wife how to translate the blowjob solicitations and racist diatribes that would surely dominate the narrative. In truth, silly as it sounds, one square in I felt as if I had just been given a map leading to buried treasure, or an ancient scroll that foretold my destiny. So it was with heightened anticipation that I ran my fingers around the roll until I found the edge again. Sitting in a white plastic chair with my feet up on a white plastic table, the whole strange story unspooled before my eyes.

Or at least it was one chapter of the whole strange story. Perhaps the rest was scratched into tree bark, or written in the sand on a secluded part of the beach. More likely, the rest of the story was written on other rolls that were either lost, destroyed, or—I shudder to think—used. My best guess is that it’s a work of creative fiction, perhaps written as a lark by someone on vacation, or by a graduate student, or the spouse of a graduate student (like myself). Students have been coming down here for years to study the Mayan artifacts, and I can’t be the first gringo to come down here with a notebook and the intention to write. The toilet paper thing is a nice twist though. I certainly don’t think the thing is an actual cry for help, that someone really woke up in a prison cell with a head injury, not knowing what they did or how they got there. I mean, amnesia? Come on now. You’ll see when I have time to transcribe the rest of it. It’s probably a short story, either incomplete or abandoned. As fiction it is, in truth, pretty unremarkable. But the fact that a roll of toilet paper covered in English handwriting has somehow found its way into my hands? Now that’s pretty remarkable. Extraordinary, really. I haven’t been in the pueblo two full weeks and already I have something extraordinary to post to my travel blog. Just what I was hoping for.

I’m also hoping that these nine months will be more than just a break from having to go to work every day; more than a chance to catch up on some reading, writing and guitar playing; more than an opportunity to learn Spanish and experience Mexican culture. Those things are enough to make it all worthwhile, but still, I’m hoping for something else, something big, something totally awesome that will change everything. The Scroll of Charmin, regardless of its origin or authenticity, is, by its mere existence, pretty fucking awesome. I can’t think of a better way to begin this trip.

[A snippet from a writing project in gestation, which will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read these other snippets: Square one, No importa, New tables, Belly of the beast, No turning back, Memories, dreams, reflections, El campo de pueblo, Wait and see, & Bug in the Jug.]

Know what I like? Roosters. Wait, no – I wish death to all roosters. That’s what I meant to say. But I do like mornings here on the Pueblo. The sun is shining. The roosters are roosting, or whatever the hell it is that roosters do. Molly is off interviewing local health care providers for her research. The kids are at school. Jesús and Juana are off doing whatever the hell it is they do during the day. Sweet solitude.

One good thing about having been crippled so many times in my life is that I’ve developed an impressive array of compensatory skills. A few years ago I broke my leg, and of course was obliged to continue functioning at work despite being crutch-bound. This meant operating the clutch on my VW Bus, a problem quickly solved with a mop handle, some duct tape, and a total disregard for safety. My right hand shifted gears while my left hand operated the clutch, which left the steering wheel in the hands of the Good Lord, as it should be. I was working in a group home, taking care of six guys diagnosed with schizophrenia. I cooked, cleaned, shuttled them around town, occasionally arranged for emergency transportation to the hospital for “re-stabilization” – that sort of thing. The most challenging part of the job, from a one-legged perspective, was preparing the meals. I eventually got to the point where I could carry multiple pots and pans to and from the kitchen, using just my armpits to operate the crutches.

This morning I only went so far as to employ the “one armpit technique,” in order to prepare and clean up after breakfast. It’s nice to be back in a routine of sorts. Breakfast (Raisin Bran), coffee (cold Nescafé), and a bit of reading while the bowels prepare for take off. Sipping my Nescafé, I hear a knock at the door. It’s the tile guys. Rumor has it they’ve been too hung over to work the past several days. They want to do the bathroom now, and even though it will mean keeping the “cargo on the runway” for several hours, I’d rather they get it over with, as this promises to be the last major disruption, vis-à-vis the room. Presently, the entire bathroom becomes a muddy, mosquito-infested swamp after each shower. Last night, coming out onto the bedroom tile, one of my crutches slipped out from under me and I fell (onto the bed, fortunately). Hopefully, they’ll slope the tile so that the shower water runs down into the drain. I don’t want to insult their collective intelligence by explaining this to them, yet I don’t think I can resist doing so (by way of miming).

I’m trying to learn to let things go. Kabat-Zinn lays out the seven foundational attitudes of mindfulness practice as follows: Non-judging, patience, beginner’s mind, trust, non-striving, acceptance, and letting go. So far, I’m getting straight F’s across the board. Non-judging? Hello! Juana, anyone! And so it is on down the line. One thing I find amusing about this whole mindfulness deal is that here I am getting this heavy emphasis on staying in the present, when all the while I’m constantly struggling to express myself in Spanish, due to the fact I only know how to conjugate verbs in the present tense. So, for me, there really is no past and no future. There’s only now, Bobby, there’s only now. And even in the now there’s not much more than “Good morning,” “How are you?” and “I need to use the bathroom, please.”

The toxic fumes of burning garbage drift through the large window directly behind me. Here on the Pueblo, what garbage is not littering the streets is heaped into pits or piles and burned, and our neighbor Rosa typically torches a pile around this time everyday. Everything, from plastic Coke bottles to soiled toilet paper, is set ablaze not fifteen yards upwind, creating a steady flow of lung-coating, eye-burning, stomach-turning smog lasting an hour or more.

The chickens here are “free range,” and they roam from yard to yard feeding on trash heaps. I just threw some leftover chicken bones on the pile the other day. I wonder what chickens think of the taste of chicken. “Mmm, tastes like chicken!”

Despite the beauty of the natural surroundings, if nothing is done about the poverty and total lack of infrastructure, this pueblo will be one big garbage pit in a few years. I can hardly fathom the health problems that must result from the unsanitary conditions. Sometimes I wonder if my nine months here won’t be unlike living in the womb of a crack-addict. Back home, I was more health-conscious than most. No hydrogenated oils. No high-fructose corn syrup. Everything organic, when feasible. My coworkers seemed to get a kick out of it, me with my daily organic spinach salads and PB&J’s made with twelve-grain bread, all natural peanut butter and pure fruit jam. Here I use Skippy and Wonderbread, and I scarf it down like it’s manna. And sure, Coke and Pepsi might be dissolving my teeth, but at least there’s no worry about “the amoeba.” Besides, all the supposed health benefits of mindfulness meditation should balance things out, right?

There’s only now, Bobby. There’s only now.

[A snippet from a writing project in gestation, which will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read these other snippets: Square one, No importa, New tables, Belly of the beast, No turning back, Memories, dreams, reflections, El campo de pueblo, & Wait and see.]

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 metal basket clamped above the rear wheel. 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 town. 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 San Pedro. 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 fairly well fucked. Molly 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 Jesús 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 San Pedro 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 butt-cheek, 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 Jesús 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 to join the league. 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 now to use the internet or to 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 following the injury, 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 upon hours.

I was able to suck it up for the first twelve hours or so, and even had a nice moment or two. Jesús’ 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 Jesús, 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 Molly 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, Molly 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 Molly 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. Molly 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 Molly 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. Molly 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 Molly 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—these wooden things that must be a hundred years old—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 Molly’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 Molly 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. Molly 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.