Dead Awake: The Last Crossing (2 page)

“
Fives o’clock, I come to
get you,” he said, then left content as I nodded my
endorsement.

The lady approached, very
mild and pleasant. “My name iz: Argentina Molina de Senger Blanca,
or Blanca is okay.” She stood a moment so I could repeat her name
back to her, then she went on. “I can make ready for yous to eat in
five minutes after you like your room.”

She took me to the room
again and explained that she would cook three times a day for me at
any time I liked. If for any reason I didn’t like her schedule, I
could tell her when I wanted to eat and she would change it for me.
She also said that she would do my laundry and clean up for
me.

What a great deal I had
found! This definitely was turning out to be far more than I
expected. A better look at my room left me satisfied, once again.
There were no luxuries, but it was very comfortable. The walls were
made of adobe. There were probably a few spiders, even scorpions,
living in it, but it was kept clean enough that I didn’t think they
were going to be a problem.

I put my suitcases on the
bed and began to situate myself. A little while later Blanca came,
bidding me to eat. She said she had prepared something to help me
“strengthen up”. I’m not sure if she said “fatten” or “strengthen,”
because she mixed Spanish into her sentences; and I couldn’t
remember the translation of the verb she used.

In either case, it was real
good and I think it was meant to make me fatter because it must
have had at least 20,000 calories. It had everything from guacamole
to red meat in it and was completely saturated with fat. She also
made some sort of fried flour bread, very greasy, on which she put
some meat and melted cheese, then she sliced a tomato and gave it
to me plain. It was a different style of eating, but very
satisfying. We sat for a while and got accustomed to each other.
She asked normal questions: what I liked to eat, what kind of food
I was used to in the states, and all sorts of questions about the
states; all of this until the taxi man returned.

I looked at my watch. He was
punctual, I thought, and looked more exited than I was. “Well, are
you ready don? I back for you.” A great smile slid across his face,
a very happy man, yet I couldn’t help but notice the decaying state
of his teeth.

We got into his taxi and
drove on the dirt roads that filled the island. There were paved
roads as well, but these were few. Most of them were by the airport
and through the main part of the island; but we weren’t going
there. We were going to “more interesting parts,” as the taxi-man
stated, so we had to drive through a little bit of bumpiness. I
guess that’s why his car was in such bad shape. Any newer car would
have been hammered through such conditions. Most of the islanders
didn’t have cars either, nor were there more than a handful of
buses, so there wasn’t a great demand for asphalt
anyway.

On the way, we passed one of
those buses. Just looking at it was more exciting than any of the
explanations my tour guide/taxi-man was offering. He mumbled all
sorts of stuff about the landscape and its folklorist traditions;
but the locals were already providing much more entertainment. The
bus was loaded to twice its maximum capacity. There were people
hanging from open doors, with all sorts of junk piled up on top,
making the bus twice its original height. Livestock was everywhere:
on the top, inside, and hanging from every window.

There were also two fellows
hanging from the rear bumper, probably stowaways trying to stay on
through all the bumps. Chickens were being pulled in by their
owners. I imagined they must have been trying to stick their heads
out for a fresh breath. How could anyone breathe in there? I
thought. It was a sardine can! It was worse.

I laughed, interrupting the
taxi man’s ongoing ramble. The bus driver had stopped and was
chasing the men who had been hanging on the bumper. They ran a few
steps, and then got right back on the bumper when the bus started
going again. The bus itself was a death trap. It wasn’t going much
faster than a fast run. Anyone could go faster on a
bike.

The bus stopped again and
the two were off and running. The bus driver began yelling all
sorts of foul Spanish to them and it was obvious now these two
hadn’t paid. I didn’t blame them. Who would pay for a ride on that?
They were probably safer on the back than inside. We passed up the
bus and the taxi man, whose name I finally found was Oscar Hugo
when he made some reference to himself in third person, continued
giving the spoken tour of the land. On and on it went, like a
never-ending sermon. I didn’t find any of it interesting until he
pointed out what was going on up ahead.

A dozen or so villagers were
carrying a wooden statue dressed in all sorts of curious clothes,
while another thirty of them held a tight formation around it. Most
of them were holding up candles and yelling out some chant into the
wind. They were having a procession to a famous local Saint, “El
Gauchito Gill”; and it was all pretty strange to me, never having
seen anything quite like it before.

The taxi man proceeded to
tell me the story of this “El Gauchito” who had lived on the island
and who had become a local folklore legend, eventually reaching the
status of sainthood. I was interested because I had never heard of
“El Gauchito” in any of my doctrinal courses. He was more than a
saint – he was an island god.

I saw the carved statue of a
man that looked like a cowboy dressed in leather riding pants and
the usual button-down flannel. The most distinct feature of his
garb was a long red scarf, wrapped around his neck, that hung over
the wooden tablet by which he was carried. He held a long machete
in one hand, and a clenched fist on the other. There was also a
pronounced wooden cross behind him that, I was told, was a symbol
to him being a martyr.

We returned to the hotel
hours later, after more touring and a stop for supper at a local
bayside restaurant. I threw in a nice tip for Oscar. He drove away
happy, as his taxi puffed and coughed like a sick child. The next
couple of days were relaxing. I spent them at the beach and enjoyed
the waves that had been calling me. It was a fabulous place. The
people were all the same, all so friendly and cordial. It soon
became apparent that God, the God I knew, was giving his blessings
to the people in this place, the place where I felt so at
home.

CHAPTER 2

False Desecration

One clear morning on my way
to the beach, I ran into a couple of little boys who offered to
help me find my way to wherever I was going for a couple of
pizarros. A handsome pair, they introduced themselves as Julio and
Hector. I rubbed their heads sympathetically, for they both had
buzzed hair that was fun to rub. Impatiently they both kept on
pushing for the pizarros. “Common, just two,” they
begged.

One of them tried reaching
into my pocket to get the money himself – a brave little man. He
sure didn’t have anything to do with being shy. Hector had some gum
that he offered to sell me; again the price was two
pizarros.

I thought they were silly
and cute so I gave them the money, which I thought would have sent
them on their way, but they had other things in mind. They both
decided to follow me to see what sort of fun I might bring. I had
already provided them with money, so things could only turn to
their advantage. Imagine their delight when they discovered that it
was the beach where I was headed.

The boys threw off their
shoes and ran to the water. Julio stopped midway and came back to
pull me in with him. He didn’t know I was already in love with the
water and didn’t need any coaxing. “Vamos,” he said, “Andale. Vamos
al agua.” I took off my shirt and we ran into the water, as I
became one of the kids again. It was fun and I soon forgot what
being an adult was all about. As I splashed the children and held
them over my head, they yelled and kicked to escape. The game was
that I was the giant and they were my adversaries, trying to kill
me.

In the States, playing with
kids that weren’t mine might have landed me in jail as a kidnapper;
but here no one needed two proofs of ID and references. On the
island there seemed to be a natural trust, void of the fear and
calamity one would normally have in the city. No one was told to
watch out for strangers because here everyone was a good neighbor.
I have always enjoyed trust; a thing so rarely acquired back home,
but here so freely given.

After the water games, I
dried myself off. Without asking, the kids cuddled themselves
around my legs and took a piece of the towel. They had enough of
the beach and were off to go somewhere else, probably home. Julio
wanted me to go with them. He said he wanted to show me to his
parents, so they could like me. He tugged my arm and asked me to
follow, but I told him that I could not. Anyway, how could I go to
their parent’s house and introduce myself as their kids’ friend? It
was too weird, even for me.

As the kids scampered out of
sight, I made my way inland, several miles up the coast. On my
walk, I observed the locals and the scenery. There were many pretty
girls on the island. It made me wonder what they ate; so perfectly
thin and built. Some of the ladies carried baskets on their heads,
with perfect balance, but it was mostly the older ones that did
this. This observation ran a thought through my head. Maybe the
younger ones, without the baskets, were single and the older ones
were married and were carrying food from the market to their homes.
If so, that would make it easy for me to know which were
available!

I enjoyed the art of girl
watching, without worrying to look at my watch. As I kept walking,
I tripped over a little mat full of objects lying outside a round
hut. I looked down at what I had tripped over and my attention
shifted gears from girls to gifts. This was some strange stuff.
Whoever owned the shop certainly wasn’t playing around to please
the tourists.

I bent over and tried to
straighten the mess I’d made. It was going to be interesting to see
what other things this vendor had to offer. The hut itself was
about six feet wide by ten feet long and had a slanting roof on one
side that also became a wall. It was like an igloo, but with a
partial ceiling, made of clay and straw. The walls were rounded,
but they didn’t close up at the top. There was cloth used to extend
out over the opening to form a porch held by two scrawny sticks. It
seemed to be built from whatever materials were at hand.

I had always liked rare
artifacts, even though I had never had the time to really get into
true collecting. Once in a while I would find things to add to my
humble collection, things that I was proud of, although I scarcely
had the opportunity to travel. Finding something in the States
wasn’t as exciting as finding something in its original
land.

I went through the opening
of the shop, pushing some hanging beads aside. There was incense
lit and many candles flickered. A small man was sitting at the end
of the hut. He was staring straight, but his focus seemed to be
directed toward me, as if he had been expecting me. He did not
offer any help, nor show me any of the merchandise, as I expected.
He only sat and stared with an intimidating constant fixation. I
looked around, for a moment, to find something to buy, supposing I
was to look around first, before he’d pay any attention to me. The
items must be selling themselves, I thought: “A pressureless
environment.”

Immediately an object caught
my attention. It was a dagger that was impaled in some gray mush on
top of a small table. I went to examined it closer and found that
the carvings were authentic, not cheap cuts to sell to the
tourists. I wasn’t a real collector, or an expert on these matters,
but it seemed I had struck gold! Possibly each item inside the shop
was authentic and used in ritual.

Upon further examination, I
saw that the knife had a fine blade with a hilt carved out of some
hard clay or workable rock. I couldn’t see the entire blade because
it was submerged in the dark clay, but what I could see was
fascinating.

The hilt itself was the head
of some dark demon, smiling with a devilish sneer. The style of art
was unique to any other I had seen. Carved on it were three stems
of life, feeding the neck of the fiend, which grew to fit the grip
of a clasping hand. The effect would make one’s fingers appear to
become part of the creature, to join in the deed when the knife
sunk into flesh.

I was sold! By the look of
the gems that were placed in the horn, I was sure I was going to
have to put in a second mortgage for the knife. But it was worth
it. I had to have it, no matter how much the man wanted for
it.

I wanted everything but
couldn’t do more than pick at a vault full of treasures, if I
wanted to be able to stay on my vacation for its duration. It was
at that moment when I wished, once again, that I was made of
money.

The man did not seem to
notice my fascination towards the blade. A more conventional sales
approach would have been to show me the blade and tell me a little
about its symbols, but he did nothing of the sort. Perhaps he
wanted me to help myself, so I decided to do that very
thing.

I focused on the knife, so
masterful and precious, and slowly moved to grasp it tightly. Its
feel made me shiver. I felt the material underneath the blade
quiver, as would the liver of a cow when touched. The carvings felt
like skin on top of living muscles. It came out easily, without any
resistance. That was the first time the man really seemed to catch
sight of me, though his eyes had been fixed on me the entire time.
There was alarm in his stare. I didn’t know what he meant by it,
but too late – the knife was already in my hands.