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chapter 25
The next morning there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was the kind of day that makes you want to get out and explore new worlds, a perfect day for our trip to Colima.
In addition to the afternoon bus, there was also one at six in the morning. But we'd slept in and missed it. After all, we were on vacation, and an important part of being on vacation is having fun. Getting up before six a.m. is not fun.
Cuauhtémoc had also slept in this morning. MacClayne was sitting on the edge of his cot studying his Spanish phrase book and I'd just returned from shaving at the pila when the sleepy-eyed rooster finally stepped out of the blanket lean-to I'd fashioned for him and crowed to belatedly announce the day.
"Huevoncito," I chided the bird. "Do you know it's eight o'clock?"
MacClayne looked up from his book, grinned for a moment at the bird, and then said to me, "¿Estás listo?"
"Sí," I replied. "Listo."
"Entonces. Para Colima."
The restaurant with the elegant brick-and-stone facade was open for business. But first we'd go to the market.
We crossed the plaza, expressed our disapproval once more of the ugly concrete church and were selecting oranges at the produce market. I was holding up a beautiful golden specimen for Cuauhtémoc to give his peck of approval to, when a dreadful screeching assailed us from the plaza. Music?
We looked around, but saw nothing at first.
"Is that a record or is it Mariachis?" MacClayne said.
"It must be live music," I said. "No record could be that awful."
Cuauhtémoc let out a low, deep, extended squawk, his equivalent of a groan. Then we saw it. A band was marching down the plaza, followed by a wedding party. The band was the most out-of-tune bunch of musicians I'd ever heard. They were so bad that they were downright entertaining, and we paused to listen. When they reached the other end of the plaza they disappeared into the ugly cardboard church.
We finished our orange buying and headed back to eat breakfast. Inspired by the off-key music, MacClayne recalled a social event he'd once attended where the musicians were as out of tune as these, but there'd been so much booze that nobody seemed to mind or even notice. As we reached the restaurant he broke off his story and we paused once again to admire the stately facade.
We entered and sat down at the long banquet table. Today the high-backed chair didn't seem to be available, so Cuauhtémoc had to perch on the bench beside me. The poor bird strained and stretched to peek over the top of the table. It was certainly a lesser position than the one to which he was accustomed, but he put a good face on the matter and bore it with dignity.
The pork cutlets were as good as the day before. We ate leisurely, and had coffee afterwards, followed by refills. After all, we didn't know for certain how soon we might reach another place where we could again drink coffee, so we indulged while we could. At last Cuauhtémoc hopped up on my arm; it was his way of letting us know that it was time to hit the road.
We began our hike up the hill towards the turnoff, but before we reached it we heard a vehicle approaching from behind. It was a large truck with a canopy over the back, and it stopped for us.
Cuauhtémoc hopped in the back, then MacClayne and I climbed in after him, and found ourselves packed in among a large number of people, many wearing white shirts and even neckties. Several girls wore colorful dresses. Bridesmaids? This had to be the wedding party we'd seen in the plaza, the one with the incredibly awful music. A few boxes served as seats for some; most sat on a canvas which covered the metal floor. There were several cases of beer, and the fellow beside me was reaching for a can. His lips were swollen and his eye was blackened, but there was something very familiar about him.
It was Martín, of course, and he appeared to be as drunk now as he'd been in the restaurant the day before. He peered at me for a moment, then muttered something I didn't catch.
"Buenos Días," I replied, and glanced at the road behind us. A cloud of dust was rising in our wake.
We'd passed the junction and were now on the main road, coasting down a steep grade. That much I could tell by looking out through the open back; I couldn't see what was up ahead because of the tarp that covered the top, sides and front. The truck was picking up speed and bouncing violently. Suddenly it slammed almost to a halt, and I grabbed the tailgate. Others clung to whatever was nearest them; most went sliding forward, then to one side and were squeezed in tightly against the bridesmaids who sat towards the front. The trailing dust cloud suddenly caught up and poured in from behind.
Peering back through the dust I saw we were rounding a sharp curve, now at a crawl. A moment later we were again gaining speed, bouncing and lurching from side to side. But we were unable to outrun the dust.
The tarp was no doubt intended as protection in case of rain. Unfortunately, the open rear end sucked in the dust, which swirled about, filling the air and covering everyone, even the bridesmaids in their colorful dresses.
How could there be so much dust after so much rain?
"The stoor!" I said to MacClayne, shouting to make myself heard above the din of the bouncing and crashing. "Is this enough to make the crows fly backwards?" MacClayne grinned and said something in reply, but I couldn't hear him.
I was sitting in something wet. It was beer from a can that someone, perhaps Martín, had dropped.
There was another sudden braking; this time people were partially prepared for it. As we slowly rounded the bend, the bouncing and crashing momentarily ceased. Martín tipped his can back and took a swig, then turned to me.
"Ya no tomo." Slurring his words thickly, he told me he no longer drank.
We again gained momentum, bouncing and crashing loudly. People were coughing from the ever-thickening dust, but Martín continued to talk, his throat well lubricated. I caught only words and phrases, but enough to get the drift: He loved his dear Inez. No sacrifice was too great for Inez. Inez's happiness meant everything. For Inez, he'd even given up booze.
Martín paused to take another long draught, then hung onto both tailgate and beer can as we braked to another near-halt. The beer in which I was sitting had soaked into my trousers.
The road behind us continued to twist and turn through endless hairpin curves as Martín rambled on, pausing only for draughts of refreshment. He'd never touch alcohol again, he assured me, not for as long as he lived. On this occasion, however, he'd found himself obliged to temporarily suspend his pledge. It was traditional to get drunk at wedding feasts, he explained, and sobriety would be an insult to the bride.
I hadn't heard of such a requirement before, and I glanced around see to how traditional the others might be. Although a couple of guys had beers in their hands, several people were drinking sodas, and everyone within hearing distance was grinning broadly. It appeared that poor Martín was almost alone in his effort to uphold the honored traditions of Michoacán.
"Hasta los gallos toman," he declared, saying that even the roosters get drunk, and reached for yet another beer.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc, but the bird wasn't there. I looked at the dust cloud behind us and pictured him somewhere back on the road. Not again! Panic shot through me.
"¡Mi gallito!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. Somehow I had to get the truck stopped so I could get out and search for him. "¡Mi gallito!" I shouted again. All eyes turned towards me.
Then a bridesmaid in a beautiful red dress held up the bird and said something. I only saw her lips move, but people near her smiled and chuckled as they passed the bird back to me.
"¡Travieso!" I scolded him when he was finally back in my arms. I vaguely noticed that the truck hadn't braked to any sudden near-halts for a while now. The bouncing had also diminished, and the engine was roaring; we seemed to be cruising along on a flat surface.
Moments later the truck came to a full stop, and someone told us this was as far as they were going on the road for Colima. MacClayne and I got out and watched as the vehicle turned off onto a very narrow road that was hardly more than a trail. It disappeared into the brush, the omnipresent cloud in its wake.
It was strange to be standing there without motion or noise in the dusty silence; I struggled briefly to regain my land legs. Cuauhtémoc calmly shook off the dust; it didn't bother him. He even took dust baths from time to time.
MacClayne and I exchanged further comments on the "stoor" and brushed off our clothing as best we could. One leg of my blue jeans was soaked in beer and now coated in mud. Even the leaves of the bushes around us were brown with dust.
"The guy sitting next to you was one we saw in the restaurant, wasn't he," said MacClayne. "He would've been at home in the Falkland Islands."
"With the drinking, you mean?"
"Yes, the one thing to do on the islands was drink. Did I ever tell you there was more alcohol consumed per head of population on the Falkland Islands than anywhere else in the British Empire?"
"I believe you have," I said and smiled to myself. Being the storyteller that he was, he no doubt told these things many times and forgot where, when and to whom he'd told them.
We began walking down the road. Dense brush with an admixture of thorns closed in on both sides; we were going through a tunnel of vegetation. We'd been dropped into a briar patch. In contrast to the steep hill we'd been descending, we were now on the floor of a narrow valley, wedged in between mountains. Soon we came to a tiny rivulet which was barely moving; the water lay green and slimy. The soft ground was dented with hoof marks and covered with cow crap.
"I don't think I want to wash my face in that," I said.
MacClayne shook his head in regretful agreement. Perspiration streaked the brown dust on his face, and I imagined that was how I looked too.
I caught a faint whiff of alcohol. My muddy, beer-soaked trousers? Or fermenting vegetation perhaps? Cuauhtémoc sat on my arm, but he was unusually quiet, and the peaceful look on his face was suspiciously serene. Then he hiccuped.
So that was what the bird had been doing during those brief minutes when he'd been out of my sight in the back of the truck!
"¡Pájaro de mi alma!" I exclaimed. "Don't you know that you could die of liver ailment?"
The bird gave another hiccup. Otherwise he appeared content, and liver problems seemed far from his mind. MacClayne was saying something. "Pardon?" I said.
"Not exactly the New Jersey turnpike, is it?" he said. We'd been walking for some time by now and no vehicles had passed.
"I guess not," I said.
"Is something bothering you? You seem preoccupied."
"Just thinking," I said. "Is it true that drinkers die of liver ailments?"
"They don't generally live to an old age."
"Exactly what do they die of?" I asked. We were stepping carefully around the edge of a large mud puddle that covered almost the entire width of the road.
"Alcohol is slow poison to every organ in the body," he said. "And most drinkers smoke. Cigarettes kill more alcoholics than booze."
I wondered if I should at least be glad my bird didn't smoke.
"Why do you ask?" he said.
"My rooster drinks too much."
"Just don't give him any."
"It's not that easy," I said.
"Well, I'm sure he's not hiding bottles."
"No, certainly not," I said, and forced a smile. MacClayne had no idea how adept the bird was at scrounging drinks, and since he probably didn't know what had happened in the truck, I didn't feel like telling him.
"How did he get started?" MacClayne asked after a pause. "It does seem unusual for a rooster to have an alcohol problem."
"It was probably the guys he lived with during his career as a fighting cock. They were heavy drinkers and when they drank, they shared with him."
"People who are cruel to birds are not going to be concerned about their health."
"What do you mean cruel?"
"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Anybody who uses fighting cocks has got to be brutal."
"In their own way they were kind, loving and caring," I said. "There was an innocence about them."
"Innocence? I'll take some convincing on that. But of course I don't know them. I don't recall meeting them at don Pablo's."
"No, you didn't. They moved out a couple of months before you came."
Up ahead was a small sunlit clearing, but as we got closer we saw that the grass was parched by the sun rather than warmed and nurtured. There were some beehives. We sat down across the road from them, at a safe distance where we could watch the bees come and go. Their gentle humming gave a touch of summer to this otherwise deserted, almost desolate scene.
The clearing provided an opening in the canopy of brush which allowed me to look upwards and see a steep mountainside. It was also covered with thick vegetation. I sensed another steep mountain on the other side of us, but I couldn't see much in that direction because of the brush.
We each took out an orange and began peeling. MacClayne recalled a wedding that took place during his sojourn in the Falkland Islands.
"It was held at Port Stanley," he said, "the only town in the islands. Truly a bleak and desolate place. One of our workmates fell in love with a local girl and everyone was invited to the wedding."
Cuauhtémoc had been a short distance up the road, scratching and pecking, but, as MacClayne began his story, the bird returned and sat nearby to listen.
"On the morning of the ceremony I was in one of the bars drinking, and I ran into this friend of mine, Ernie Baker, whereupon we commenced to have a few together. He bought a round and I bought a round. Then he bought a round and yet another round, and I had to buy two rounds twice to be even and we had several more several times. All at once he peered up at the clock and lurched off in the direction of the door.
"And I asked, 'Where are you off to then, Ernie?' And he replied, 'I'm best man at the wedding.'
"We arrived at the church, breathless and a bit wobbly but in otherwise excellent shape. The ceremony got under way and everything was moving along in good style. Then the bride appeared, and we saw right away it was what in the Old Country we call a vestry job, so close was she to delivery. Her parents simply wanted the ring on the bride's finger and the blessing of the church all in readiness for the imminent christening. Everybody looked somewhat harassed except the bride. Ernie Baker was squirming as though he needed desperately to take a piss.
"The ceremony was moving along, the tension had dispersed and the ritual was almost complete when the minister asked Ernie for the ring. There was a lot of pocket searching, and throughout the aisles a certain restiveness sprang up and people began to whisper and stare toward Ernie who continued to fumble through his pockets. The bride's parents stepped from their pew to help but, as they were approaching, Ernie found what he'd been looking for and dug it out of his hip pocket. He was so pleased he held it up to the light like a prospector who has just found a big gold nugget. Much to the minister's consternation he flipped it into the air like a coin but he missed it coming down and it rolled away under the pews. As soon as he saw the people on hands and knees searching for the ring he dashed out of the church to relieve himself. On his return everyone had miraculously recovered their composure, the ring having been retrieved. The remainder of the ceremony went off beautifully and no doubt bride and groom lived happily forever after in that desolate, treeless, isolated, god forsaken place known as the Falkland Islands. Thousands of miles from nowhere."
MacClayne paused and stared at a mud puddle in the dusty road while I sat there trying to visualize those desolate islands with their sheep, seals, penguins and alcoholic humans of that remote outpost of the British Empire.
"There were no trees," he said after a bit. "Just snow and cold. A Spanish priest who was assigned there back around 1770 said it all: 'I tarry here in this miserable desert, suffering everything for the love of God.'"
"And we tarry here for the lack of a vehicle," I said with chagrin.
A single bee came buzzing our way, circled about my head, then flew on.
MacClayne took out his Spanish phrase book, and I glanced around to see what Cuauhtémoc was doing. He'd strutted down the road a bit and turned his attention to a bush that offered some tempting seeds. I followed him first with my eyes and then walked over for a closer look at the plant. It was full of seed pods. I opened one, pressed a kernel between my fingers and then tried biting it. It was too hard even for my teeth, but Cuauhtémoc had found himself a tasty snack.
Not far beyond that, I saw a huge tree with a thick trunk, a meter in diameter. But only one single such tree? Where were the others?
The bushes and everything that grew here were different from those around Villa Victoria. That relatively short truck ride down the mountain had brought us to a significantly lower elevation and put us in another vegetation zone. This foliage was extremely dense; even the air was thicker.
Could this be a jungle? I wasn't sure. I'd seen photos and TV documentaries which showed forests of towering trees--that was my concept of a jungle. But here, except for that single large tree, I saw hardly anything over five or ten meters high.
This flat ground had to be the flood plain of a river that ran through this very narrow valley. I wondered why this land wasn't cleared for farming. Maybe once upon a time it had been. Perhaps it'd been cleared and later abandoned. Back in Minnesota I'd seen previously cleared land that had become overgrown with thick brush within a decade or two. It might be the same here. Brush grows fast; large trees take longer.
A forest without trees. Or fields without farmers. Of course I didn't know; I was only guessing. But it gave me a weird feeling that something wasn't right about this place. If they logged off this area, why did they miss this one tree?
Even the leaves were strange. They should've been a verdant green under their coatings of dust, instead of a parched, dried out, water-logged brown.
At last I went back to sit down by MacClayne. I hoped a vehicle would come soon, I wanted to get out of here. Another hour went by. No vehicle passed. I wrote in my journal, searching for words to describe the scene. Lines of a tenth-century Japanese poem, one which described a winter landscape, came to mind: "People and grass, dried up and gone." Here even the vehicles were dried up and gone.
continued in Chapter 26
In addition to the afternoon bus, there was also one at six in the morning. But we'd slept in and missed it. After all, we were on vacation, and an important part of being on vacation is having fun. Getting up before six a.m. is not fun.
Cuauhtémoc had also slept in this morning. MacClayne was sitting on the edge of his cot studying his Spanish phrase book and I'd just returned from shaving at the pila when the sleepy-eyed rooster finally stepped out of the blanket lean-to I'd fashioned for him and crowed to belatedly announce the day.
"Huevoncito," I chided the bird. "Do you know it's eight o'clock?"
MacClayne looked up from his book, grinned for a moment at the bird, and then said to me, "¿Estás listo?"
"Sí," I replied. "Listo."
"Entonces. Para Colima."
The restaurant with the elegant brick-and-stone facade was open for business. But first we'd go to the market.
We crossed the plaza, expressed our disapproval once more of the ugly concrete church and were selecting oranges at the produce market. I was holding up a beautiful golden specimen for Cuauhtémoc to give his peck of approval to, when a dreadful screeching assailed us from the plaza. Music?
We looked around, but saw nothing at first.
"Is that a record or is it Mariachis?" MacClayne said.
"It must be live music," I said. "No record could be that awful."
Cuauhtémoc let out a low, deep, extended squawk, his equivalent of a groan. Then we saw it. A band was marching down the plaza, followed by a wedding party. The band was the most out-of-tune bunch of musicians I'd ever heard. They were so bad that they were downright entertaining, and we paused to listen. When they reached the other end of the plaza they disappeared into the ugly cardboard church.
We finished our orange buying and headed back to eat breakfast. Inspired by the off-key music, MacClayne recalled a social event he'd once attended where the musicians were as out of tune as these, but there'd been so much booze that nobody seemed to mind or even notice. As we reached the restaurant he broke off his story and we paused once again to admire the stately facade.
We entered and sat down at the long banquet table. Today the high-backed chair didn't seem to be available, so Cuauhtémoc had to perch on the bench beside me. The poor bird strained and stretched to peek over the top of the table. It was certainly a lesser position than the one to which he was accustomed, but he put a good face on the matter and bore it with dignity.
The pork cutlets were as good as the day before. We ate leisurely, and had coffee afterwards, followed by refills. After all, we didn't know for certain how soon we might reach another place where we could again drink coffee, so we indulged while we could. At last Cuauhtémoc hopped up on my arm; it was his way of letting us know that it was time to hit the road.
We began our hike up the hill towards the turnoff, but before we reached it we heard a vehicle approaching from behind. It was a large truck with a canopy over the back, and it stopped for us.
Cuauhtémoc hopped in the back, then MacClayne and I climbed in after him, and found ourselves packed in among a large number of people, many wearing white shirts and even neckties. Several girls wore colorful dresses. Bridesmaids? This had to be the wedding party we'd seen in the plaza, the one with the incredibly awful music. A few boxes served as seats for some; most sat on a canvas which covered the metal floor. There were several cases of beer, and the fellow beside me was reaching for a can. His lips were swollen and his eye was blackened, but there was something very familiar about him.
It was Martín, of course, and he appeared to be as drunk now as he'd been in the restaurant the day before. He peered at me for a moment, then muttered something I didn't catch.
"Buenos Días," I replied, and glanced at the road behind us. A cloud of dust was rising in our wake.
We'd passed the junction and were now on the main road, coasting down a steep grade. That much I could tell by looking out through the open back; I couldn't see what was up ahead because of the tarp that covered the top, sides and front. The truck was picking up speed and bouncing violently. Suddenly it slammed almost to a halt, and I grabbed the tailgate. Others clung to whatever was nearest them; most went sliding forward, then to one side and were squeezed in tightly against the bridesmaids who sat towards the front. The trailing dust cloud suddenly caught up and poured in from behind.
Peering back through the dust I saw we were rounding a sharp curve, now at a crawl. A moment later we were again gaining speed, bouncing and lurching from side to side. But we were unable to outrun the dust.
The tarp was no doubt intended as protection in case of rain. Unfortunately, the open rear end sucked in the dust, which swirled about, filling the air and covering everyone, even the bridesmaids in their colorful dresses.
How could there be so much dust after so much rain?
"The stoor!" I said to MacClayne, shouting to make myself heard above the din of the bouncing and crashing. "Is this enough to make the crows fly backwards?" MacClayne grinned and said something in reply, but I couldn't hear him.
I was sitting in something wet. It was beer from a can that someone, perhaps Martín, had dropped.
There was another sudden braking; this time people were partially prepared for it. As we slowly rounded the bend, the bouncing and crashing momentarily ceased. Martín tipped his can back and took a swig, then turned to me.
"Ya no tomo." Slurring his words thickly, he told me he no longer drank.
We again gained momentum, bouncing and crashing loudly. People were coughing from the ever-thickening dust, but Martín continued to talk, his throat well lubricated. I caught only words and phrases, but enough to get the drift: He loved his dear Inez. No sacrifice was too great for Inez. Inez's happiness meant everything. For Inez, he'd even given up booze.
Martín paused to take another long draught, then hung onto both tailgate and beer can as we braked to another near-halt. The beer in which I was sitting had soaked into my trousers.
The road behind us continued to twist and turn through endless hairpin curves as Martín rambled on, pausing only for draughts of refreshment. He'd never touch alcohol again, he assured me, not for as long as he lived. On this occasion, however, he'd found himself obliged to temporarily suspend his pledge. It was traditional to get drunk at wedding feasts, he explained, and sobriety would be an insult to the bride.
I hadn't heard of such a requirement before, and I glanced around see to how traditional the others might be. Although a couple of guys had beers in their hands, several people were drinking sodas, and everyone within hearing distance was grinning broadly. It appeared that poor Martín was almost alone in his effort to uphold the honored traditions of Michoacán.
"Hasta los gallos toman," he declared, saying that even the roosters get drunk, and reached for yet another beer.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc, but the bird wasn't there. I looked at the dust cloud behind us and pictured him somewhere back on the road. Not again! Panic shot through me.
"¡Mi gallito!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. Somehow I had to get the truck stopped so I could get out and search for him. "¡Mi gallito!" I shouted again. All eyes turned towards me.
Then a bridesmaid in a beautiful red dress held up the bird and said something. I only saw her lips move, but people near her smiled and chuckled as they passed the bird back to me.
"¡Travieso!" I scolded him when he was finally back in my arms. I vaguely noticed that the truck hadn't braked to any sudden near-halts for a while now. The bouncing had also diminished, and the engine was roaring; we seemed to be cruising along on a flat surface.
Moments later the truck came to a full stop, and someone told us this was as far as they were going on the road for Colima. MacClayne and I got out and watched as the vehicle turned off onto a very narrow road that was hardly more than a trail. It disappeared into the brush, the omnipresent cloud in its wake.
It was strange to be standing there without motion or noise in the dusty silence; I struggled briefly to regain my land legs. Cuauhtémoc calmly shook off the dust; it didn't bother him. He even took dust baths from time to time.
MacClayne and I exchanged further comments on the "stoor" and brushed off our clothing as best we could. One leg of my blue jeans was soaked in beer and now coated in mud. Even the leaves of the bushes around us were brown with dust.
"The guy sitting next to you was one we saw in the restaurant, wasn't he," said MacClayne. "He would've been at home in the Falkland Islands."
"With the drinking, you mean?"
"Yes, the one thing to do on the islands was drink. Did I ever tell you there was more alcohol consumed per head of population on the Falkland Islands than anywhere else in the British Empire?"
"I believe you have," I said and smiled to myself. Being the storyteller that he was, he no doubt told these things many times and forgot where, when and to whom he'd told them.
We began walking down the road. Dense brush with an admixture of thorns closed in on both sides; we were going through a tunnel of vegetation. We'd been dropped into a briar patch. In contrast to the steep hill we'd been descending, we were now on the floor of a narrow valley, wedged in between mountains. Soon we came to a tiny rivulet which was barely moving; the water lay green and slimy. The soft ground was dented with hoof marks and covered with cow crap.
"I don't think I want to wash my face in that," I said.
MacClayne shook his head in regretful agreement. Perspiration streaked the brown dust on his face, and I imagined that was how I looked too.
I caught a faint whiff of alcohol. My muddy, beer-soaked trousers? Or fermenting vegetation perhaps? Cuauhtémoc sat on my arm, but he was unusually quiet, and the peaceful look on his face was suspiciously serene. Then he hiccuped.
So that was what the bird had been doing during those brief minutes when he'd been out of my sight in the back of the truck!
"¡Pájaro de mi alma!" I exclaimed. "Don't you know that you could die of liver ailment?"
The bird gave another hiccup. Otherwise he appeared content, and liver problems seemed far from his mind. MacClayne was saying something. "Pardon?" I said.
"Not exactly the New Jersey turnpike, is it?" he said. We'd been walking for some time by now and no vehicles had passed.
"I guess not," I said.
"Is something bothering you? You seem preoccupied."
"Just thinking," I said. "Is it true that drinkers die of liver ailments?"
"They don't generally live to an old age."
"Exactly what do they die of?" I asked. We were stepping carefully around the edge of a large mud puddle that covered almost the entire width of the road.
"Alcohol is slow poison to every organ in the body," he said. "And most drinkers smoke. Cigarettes kill more alcoholics than booze."
I wondered if I should at least be glad my bird didn't smoke.
"Why do you ask?" he said.
"My rooster drinks too much."
"Just don't give him any."
"It's not that easy," I said.
"Well, I'm sure he's not hiding bottles."
"No, certainly not," I said, and forced a smile. MacClayne had no idea how adept the bird was at scrounging drinks, and since he probably didn't know what had happened in the truck, I didn't feel like telling him.
"How did he get started?" MacClayne asked after a pause. "It does seem unusual for a rooster to have an alcohol problem."
"It was probably the guys he lived with during his career as a fighting cock. They were heavy drinkers and when they drank, they shared with him."
"People who are cruel to birds are not going to be concerned about their health."
"What do you mean cruel?"
"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Anybody who uses fighting cocks has got to be brutal."
"In their own way they were kind, loving and caring," I said. "There was an innocence about them."
"Innocence? I'll take some convincing on that. But of course I don't know them. I don't recall meeting them at don Pablo's."
"No, you didn't. They moved out a couple of months before you came."
Up ahead was a small sunlit clearing, but as we got closer we saw that the grass was parched by the sun rather than warmed and nurtured. There were some beehives. We sat down across the road from them, at a safe distance where we could watch the bees come and go. Their gentle humming gave a touch of summer to this otherwise deserted, almost desolate scene.
The clearing provided an opening in the canopy of brush which allowed me to look upwards and see a steep mountainside. It was also covered with thick vegetation. I sensed another steep mountain on the other side of us, but I couldn't see much in that direction because of the brush.
We each took out an orange and began peeling. MacClayne recalled a wedding that took place during his sojourn in the Falkland Islands.
"It was held at Port Stanley," he said, "the only town in the islands. Truly a bleak and desolate place. One of our workmates fell in love with a local girl and everyone was invited to the wedding."
Cuauhtémoc had been a short distance up the road, scratching and pecking, but, as MacClayne began his story, the bird returned and sat nearby to listen.
"On the morning of the ceremony I was in one of the bars drinking, and I ran into this friend of mine, Ernie Baker, whereupon we commenced to have a few together. He bought a round and I bought a round. Then he bought a round and yet another round, and I had to buy two rounds twice to be even and we had several more several times. All at once he peered up at the clock and lurched off in the direction of the door.
"And I asked, 'Where are you off to then, Ernie?' And he replied, 'I'm best man at the wedding.'
"We arrived at the church, breathless and a bit wobbly but in otherwise excellent shape. The ceremony got under way and everything was moving along in good style. Then the bride appeared, and we saw right away it was what in the Old Country we call a vestry job, so close was she to delivery. Her parents simply wanted the ring on the bride's finger and the blessing of the church all in readiness for the imminent christening. Everybody looked somewhat harassed except the bride. Ernie Baker was squirming as though he needed desperately to take a piss.
"The ceremony was moving along, the tension had dispersed and the ritual was almost complete when the minister asked Ernie for the ring. There was a lot of pocket searching, and throughout the aisles a certain restiveness sprang up and people began to whisper and stare toward Ernie who continued to fumble through his pockets. The bride's parents stepped from their pew to help but, as they were approaching, Ernie found what he'd been looking for and dug it out of his hip pocket. He was so pleased he held it up to the light like a prospector who has just found a big gold nugget. Much to the minister's consternation he flipped it into the air like a coin but he missed it coming down and it rolled away under the pews. As soon as he saw the people on hands and knees searching for the ring he dashed out of the church to relieve himself. On his return everyone had miraculously recovered their composure, the ring having been retrieved. The remainder of the ceremony went off beautifully and no doubt bride and groom lived happily forever after in that desolate, treeless, isolated, god forsaken place known as the Falkland Islands. Thousands of miles from nowhere."
MacClayne paused and stared at a mud puddle in the dusty road while I sat there trying to visualize those desolate islands with their sheep, seals, penguins and alcoholic humans of that remote outpost of the British Empire.
"There were no trees," he said after a bit. "Just snow and cold. A Spanish priest who was assigned there back around 1770 said it all: 'I tarry here in this miserable desert, suffering everything for the love of God.'"
"And we tarry here for the lack of a vehicle," I said with chagrin.
A single bee came buzzing our way, circled about my head, then flew on.
MacClayne took out his Spanish phrase book, and I glanced around to see what Cuauhtémoc was doing. He'd strutted down the road a bit and turned his attention to a bush that offered some tempting seeds. I followed him first with my eyes and then walked over for a closer look at the plant. It was full of seed pods. I opened one, pressed a kernel between my fingers and then tried biting it. It was too hard even for my teeth, but Cuauhtémoc had found himself a tasty snack.
Not far beyond that, I saw a huge tree with a thick trunk, a meter in diameter. But only one single such tree? Where were the others?
The bushes and everything that grew here were different from those around Villa Victoria. That relatively short truck ride down the mountain had brought us to a significantly lower elevation and put us in another vegetation zone. This foliage was extremely dense; even the air was thicker.
Could this be a jungle? I wasn't sure. I'd seen photos and TV documentaries which showed forests of towering trees--that was my concept of a jungle. But here, except for that single large tree, I saw hardly anything over five or ten meters high.
This flat ground had to be the flood plain of a river that ran through this very narrow valley. I wondered why this land wasn't cleared for farming. Maybe once upon a time it had been. Perhaps it'd been cleared and later abandoned. Back in Minnesota I'd seen previously cleared land that had become overgrown with thick brush within a decade or two. It might be the same here. Brush grows fast; large trees take longer.
A forest without trees. Or fields without farmers. Of course I didn't know; I was only guessing. But it gave me a weird feeling that something wasn't right about this place. If they logged off this area, why did they miss this one tree?
Even the leaves were strange. They should've been a verdant green under their coatings of dust, instead of a parched, dried out, water-logged brown.
At last I went back to sit down by MacClayne. I hoped a vehicle would come soon, I wanted to get out of here. Another hour went by. No vehicle passed. I wrote in my journal, searching for words to describe the scene. Lines of a tenth-century Japanese poem, one which described a winter landscape, came to mind: "People and grass, dried up and gone." Here even the vehicles were dried up and gone.
continued in Chapter 26
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