briantroy - 6-12-2011 at 12:30 AM
A quick story about a few people and a few events encountered while travelling through Mexico.
About a handful of winters ago I found myself in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico on a sunbathed rooftop patio, drunk, with a copy of “The Beat Reader”.
That afternoon I discovered the man immortalized by Kerouac in “On The Road”, Neal Cassidy, had died of exposure in the mountains in which I was
encradled; the valley I found myself amazed to be part of his history and drunkardnesss.
Sitting at the home of my prestigious host I surveyed the hills around me. I could envision Neal stumbling over the horizon and into the barrenness.
He carried a bottle of tequila in his hand and a pocketful of mushrooms.
San Miguel had been established as a colonial city by the Spanish because of the rich silver deposits. Under the Spanish whip the native sons had
toiled and died. Cassidy also died in these hills, and he felt each whip and he dies of exposure for the cause of an artist. And it is an appropriate
place for such a thing to happen.
I rented a room from a family and lived nicely for a month in this city. I attended a language school, enjoyed the nightlife to an extreme, and grew
tired of it after 3 weeks. As the end of the month approached I was ready to move on to my next destination, the tiny town of Pitiall, and a girl I
had met two years previous.
A few days before I would have left on a bus I came across two Americans who, oddly enough, hailed from my hometown of San Diego, USA. They were
heading toward the coast and would be able to take me as far as Guadalajara. I would be sitting in the back of the pickup with luggage and surfboards,
but it had a shell and I had only to pay for the tolls on the road. I gave them my address and, despite my reservations, they showed up on the
appointed day. I thanked my briefly adopted family, jumped in the truck, and off we went.
Dave and Dan had only been in San Miguel for a few days. It was just a stop over on their longer expedition through Mexico. While not brothers, they
shared the same build, complexion, and attitude. One could have guessed them for paternal twins. So much did they resemble each other that I never
learned which was Dave and which was Dan.
My memory is of a single individual comprised of qualities from each. While their blonde hair and shorts immediately gave them away as American
surfers, they both had an obvious appreciation and respect for Mexican culture and seemed to be enjoying their trip very much.
They spoke fluent Spanish, heavily accented, and after a few hours on the road they invited me to join them on their journey. I was tempted to change
my plans as they seemed liked fun guys, but the thought of seeing my friend, Esmeralda, quickly erased the enticement.
The ride was about 6 hours and everything went very smoothly. The weather was great and we spent the time talking about where we were heading and why
we were heading there. They had been on the road for three weeks, the first two spent surfing down the pacific coast. A large storm had spoiled their
plans so they changed gears and had come inland for a week.
They would be stopping in Guadalajara for a couple days before moving on to tour the Tequila region. After drinking their fill they would head back to
the coast and on with their surfing odyssey.
We found a hotel near the center of town. I had been to Guadalajara as a kid but had forgotten how large a city it really is. It seemed an endless
sprawl of buildings and houses with a park or a plaza every few blocks.
I knew I could enjoy myself here if I had the time. Its metropolitan hustle and bustle got my blood pumping. I again thought about calling Esmeralda
and telling her I would be few days late, but I was too anxious to see her and put it out of my mind.
The room was modest and clean, worth what we paid, and after having a roll-away bed brought up for me, we unpacked our backpacks and decided to shower
before going to dinner. DaveDan, the name I was now calling each of them (I had tired of getting their names wrong) decided to shower first.
While we waited our turn, the other DaveDan found a few magazines hidden on the top shelf of the closet. I had never considered the there to be
anything like hardcore gay Mexican porn, but there it was before us. It was printed on cheap paper and reminded me we were in a big city and lots of
chit happens in big cities.
We had dinner at Tlaquepaque, an artisan’s center in the suburbs with a central plaza surrounded by restaurants. The food was mediocre and I suspect
this area catered to tourists, but the mariachis roaming the plaza made it worthwhile. We watched all the pretty girls and drank in the bar until late
in the night. The cab had only to stop once during the ride home for DaveDan to vomit in an alley.
The next morning I gave DaveDan the phone number at Esmeralda’s house. They drove me to the bus station and said they would call if they made it my
way. I bought a ticket to Puerto Vallarta, the closest city to Pitiall, and found I had a couple hours to kill before the bus left. I saw a grocery
store not far away and decided to pick up a few things before leaving.
I found it interesting that employees handling meats in major grocery stores wear surgical masks. I went to the meat department and had a masked woman
fish me out a couple pickled pigs feet. I had recently acquired a taste for these things. With a bag of nuts, some candy, and a bottle of Presidente
brandy, my shopping was complete and I headed back to catch my bus.
While it wasn’t exactly Greyhound, the bus was comfortable enough and though worn at the edges seemed perfectly safe. We pulled out right on time and
half full. I sat in the last row and noticed only one other man sitting nearby; across from me and one row ahead he leaned back in his seat and
smoked.
A solitary television mounted behind the driver came to life and an old black and white movie started. It was a Cantinflas film about a magician.
Cantinflas made about 50 movies between the '40s and '70s and is a legend in Mexican cinema. He is a kind of slapstick Jerry Lewis act with most of
his films in the same style and time as Abbot and Costello. It was a 6-hour trip and the movie would be played 3 times.
About an hour outside of town the Agave started. Small patches at first and then huge farms with the bluish cacti growing for as far as the eye could
see. DaveDan would be touring this area and tasting the fiery liquor made from the hearts of these plants. As I looked out the window the man smoking
stood and took the seat across from me. He introduced himself as Luis and offered me a cigarette.
Luis was in his early forties with graying hair combed straight back. He wore slacks, a dress shirt unbuttoned at the chest and carried a briefcase
with worn handle and the vinyl peeling from the corners. What struck my attention first was the large Star of David hanging from the chain around his
neck.
I had never met a Jewish Mexican and immediately inquired about it. He told me he had been doing business in Guadalajara with Jewish businessmen and
felt it appropriate he also wear the star. Now, I have thought about this over the years and I’m still not sure what make of it. The way I see it he
could have been wearing it because:
1.What he said was true and he just never bothered to take it off the whole bus ride.
2.He was really Jewish and was afraid I would be offended or think differently of him.
3. He was not Jewish, had not met with Jewish businessmen and just felt like wearing a Star of David. Whatever the reason, he turned out to be a
pretty nice guy.
The bus would stop about every fifteen minutes or so in little pueblos to drop off or pick up passengers. These were all agricultural towns with the
field workers traveling home after work. In each of the dirt lots a crowd of children would be waiting with snacks and coolers filled with frosty
drinks. They would rush to the windows holding up their goodies and you had only to slip them a few pesos without ever leaving your seat.
Luis and I grabbed a couple Cokes and after drinking them down an inch I refilled them with brandy from my backpack. We started swapping stories and
found he would be getting off at the stop before mine. He opened his briefcase and I saw it was completely empty save for a stack of business cards.
He handed me one and I saw a color photo of a restaurant he told me he had just purchased. He had in fact been arranging for supplies for the
restaurant while in Guadalajara. I told him I was on my way to see a friend and wanted to take her out for a nice dinner and he assured me his place
was the perfect setting.
Outside the terrain changed from high desert to semi-wooded and then we began a descent out of the mountains and into the jungle. Predator had been
filmed in this jungle and if I hadn’t known better I would have thought it to be Central America or Africa.
The brandy was gone and the Coke-wielding children along the 200-mile stretch of highway were a little richer when we reached his stop. We said our
goodbyes and I watched as the driver opened the luggage compartment on the side of the bus so that Luis could take his bags.
There was no station here, no children with snacks. The driver had just stopped on the side of the road and the passing cars would honk in frustration
as they sped past. At first I thought Luis had over-packed for his business trip and then I realized his clothing was not in the heavy garbage bags
being handed to him. I saw pink water running from the corners of the plastic.
“Hey Luis, what the hell is that?”
“It is meat for the restaurant.”
We pulled in 15 minutes late and Esmeralda was not at the bus station. I would wait another half-hour before she arrived. It was a sign of things to
come. We never went to Luis’ restaurant and I never heard from DaveDan. My time in Pitiall was miserable and not at all what I had hoped for.
Looking back I should have stayed in that truck and learned how to surf that winter. But I couldn’t have known what was in store for me in Pitiall and
how things would get all messed up with Esmeralda. But, I had a good time overall and, unlike the near-immortal Neal Cassidy, I had made it out of the
hills surrounding San Miguel.
[Edited on 6-12-2011 by briantroy]
[Edited on 6-12-2011 by briantroy]
[Edited on 6-12-2011 by briantroy]
nice piece
volcano - 6-12-2011 at 05:36 AM
really nice piece.....brings back memories of my vagabonding post college all over Central America
Osprey - 6-12-2011 at 05:48 AM
Maybe we were expecting a photo of a nice watercolor. You say this piece is non-fiction and if that is so, it's a literary work and a good one. Hope
you'll remember more, post more of those remembrances because we need all the color and adventure we can grab in these troubled times. Your words echo
the Kerouak works I grew up with, drudging my way through highschool while needing so badly to be "On The Road". Since I never really got "On the
Road" like the Dharma bums and others, I turned to fiction and I have to satisfy myself with remembering things that never happened.
wessongroup - 6-12-2011 at 07:04 AM
Thanks ... isn't it the truth... it never comes out as one expects... but, fun ... glad your memory is working full time... and ya got out and did
something... good for you...
Mike99km - 6-12-2011 at 09:01 AM
A very nice bit of writhing. THANK YOU! I hope to read more.
MMc
Iflyfish - 6-12-2011 at 09:27 AM
What a great read.
Your work gives me flashbacks of dusty roads, bone crunching bus rides, trains through the back country to Manzanilla, love and lust in the mountains,
drunken nights with mariachi bands in mariachi square pistolas reporting to the beat of the band, the sweat smell of skunk wafting through the bus
window in the stucco surrounded dusty courtyard/bus depot, the swirling dancers and flushed faces awhirl in the moment at the cantina, the dank smell
of pee in the pulquira and the magnificent beauty of the Mexican countryside.
Thanks for sharing this wonderful excursion. Osprey is right.
Iflyfish
Woooosh - 6-12-2011 at 01:08 PM
Another great surf adventure spoiled in advance by a beautiful young woman. Bros before ho's? lol
BajaBlanca - 6-12-2011 at 09:22 PM
great writing....and sorry about Esmeralda ....
briantroy - 6-16-2011 at 01:06 AM
Thank you for your compliments. I am amazed at how different people take away different things from this little story; I have always felt the bones of
a writer are made of thier ability to do such. Your approval gives me courage to post more...Thanks!