PARANA, BRAZIL
I had rented a small room in a dusty town
with a name I couldn’t pronounce in the state of Parana renting horses and
mules to wannabe explorers looking for adventure deep in the jungle. Disease,
dehydration, insects, poisonous snakes, spiders, bugs, frogs, and whatever
else, bandits and smugglers, twenty-four caraters and whores, pirates and
piranhas and any possible way to die except for freezing to death, was your
next door neighbor. There was no telling when your ticket was going to be
punched. No matter how careful you were, trouble was around every corner, a
malaria-infected mosquito could get you, or a refreshing drink of contaminated
water to running into the wrong son-of-a-bitch. Each and every ruffian and/or
dreamer that rolled into town I gave the same warning. But the adventurer is a
breed all their own. They are a cocky bunch with the sense only for glory. A
glory I never did see materialize. Each one that rents a horse or mule lays
down a deposit enough to purchase me a new animal due to the inevitable fact
that most never make it back to Parana. Whether it is because they exit the
jungle somewhere else and decide to make their way to their original points of
departure or whether their lives are lost under the most unpleasant of
circumstances and I never knew nor did I care how they met their end. Everybody
has to go sooner or later, some are just smarter about it then others.
Business
for me was always pretty good, but I was not a rich man, just comfortable by rural
Brazilian standards. I ate at a local eatery once a week which is really no
more than a woman cooking a meal in her home kitchen and serving it to people
on picnic tables set up in her back yard. Her food was exceptional and the best
part about it was she charged a quarter a beer. For a simple man this kind of
life was perfect. I’d work half a day, and spend the second half in my hammock
reading novels and drinking Argentine wine. Back home, aside from the
Southwest, this kind of behavior is frowned upon, but there it is a way of
life. They accuse you of being a witch if you refuse an afternoon drink
followed by a nap. For those who are looking for action without going into the
bush there is always the Green Parrot Saloon where card games seemingly go on
24 hours a day downstairs in the bar area with the whores seducing clients and
bringing them upstairs for a quick estrondo
“rumble.” I know the owner. He is a fat bald former cattle rustler named Paulo
with a genuinely good heart and great sense of humor. When I first met him I
took him for a local pirate out to slit a few throats for a few pesos. But he
has since surprised me with his character. It sounds funny talking about the
purity of a man’s character being that he runs a whorehouse, but he is only a
businessman profiting from a service that is viewed as completely acceptable in
this area. Periodically local police and soldiers roll into town and the first
place they stop more times than not is the Green Parrot. The Green Parrot isn’t
the only saloon and whorehouse in Parana, but it is the most popular with the
prettiest whores.
One
morning I had decided to head to a ranch fifteen miles away to purchase six
horses and two mules from a dealer I had known for some time. His name was
Rinaldo and he had a beautiful wife and three beautiful daughters, one of which
I took into the barn on several occasions but it was never a serious relationship.
At one point Rinaldo brought up the idea of marrying her to me being that I
corrupted her, but I simply told him that I wasn’t looking for a wife.
“But
it is your responsibility as a man to look after her being that you have seen her.” This came out of the blue one
day while we sat on his porch drinking. I don’t know how he ever found out
about it or how long he’d known but I had to be honest with him.
“My
friend, I once had a wife. A long time ago but it didn’t work out the way I’d
imagined it would. It is different now I am afraid. Those times have gone the
way of the dinosaurs.”
“That
is bullshit and you know it.”
“I
only know what I know.”
“You
know very little about love and nothing about life and nothing about loyalty.”
“I
have wronged you then?”
“Your
rejection is as much an offense to me as it is to her.”
“She
told you this?” I asked.
“It
is not about what she has or hasn’t told me.”
“Who
knows Rinaldo, in a year I may be gone? A woman needs to be close to her
family.”
“Rubbish.
Your place is here now,” he said.
“I
thought that about Colorado and Mexico once too,” I said.
“The
life of a rambler is a lonely life my friend,” he said.
“Maybe
for most,” I said.
We
sat in silence for a while and drank and smoked. I had my cigars that I picked
up during a trip to Bolivia, hand-rolled in the Dominican Republic and he had a
pipe with a sweet tobacco that reminded me of vanilla pancakes. It reminded me
of my home in New York long ago. As the sun set slowly over the jungle is when
the nostalgia would come in waves. Those were good days then.
The
girl’s name was Camila. She was the prettiest girl in thousand miles. And could
cook too. If I’d had any sense I would have settled down with her and filled a
house full of children but I was never too keen on having sense. Old Rinaldo
knew that as well so he didn’t waste too much breath trying to argue with me.
His gray haired wife believed that all the answers to life’s most trying
questions were the choices one made so in actuality there weren’t always a
right or wrong answer, sometimes multiple of both. For someone to believe in
all that surly had to have their resolve tested in a big and probably
uncomfortable way. The Brazilians were much more tolerant of the Gringos than
the Mexicans, but the Mexicans were less ambiguous in their thinking. I saw
myself somewhere in the middle though when it came to relationships my
perspective appealed to no civilized culture. I was once married before God but
when it came time for the divorce I read through those papers fifty times and
not once did I ever see God
mentioned. Not a once. God didn’t oversee my divorce as he’d overseen my
marriage vows. So I felt no obligation in tying any knot with the horse
dealer’s daughter. But Rinaldo was a good man and I understood how he was
troubled. It would have troubled me as well.
After
sharing a meal of roasted chicken and vegetables with the family I left his
property with my horses and mules with the help of a nephew we called T. He was
a real chatterbox and spoke non-stop in Portuguese and that was all good and
well though my handle of the language was rudimentary, and had trouble always
discerning a question from a statement. There were enough people in town that
spoke English or Spanish or some variation of the two that I was able to get by
without having to master Portuguese.
About
four miles into our trip, while crossing an area of fairly thick overgrowth
five men on horseback appeared like apparitions out of the brush. They were all
armed and each had a bandana tied around their faces covering their nose and
mouth. They all wore cowboy hats and the only thing visible was their eyes. I
knew they were bandits. The area had always been crawling with them and they
rarely wasted a moment hijacking travelers and demanding a highway fee. As they
approached I said nothing, raised my pistol and fired hitting the leader of the
crew right between the eyes. He was killed instantly and knocked from his
horse. The others halted with the most confused looks on their faces. I could
tell they were shocked that I just decided to eliminate one of them without any
words being spoken. The bandits hadn’t been given the chance to try and
intimidate us through threats of violence. It all happened within a few
seconds. The men were tough and killing to earn a living was a special talent.
I didn’t care much for taking life but sometimes to defend yourself you must
make quick decisions. A volley of shots followed and miraculously none of the
bullets had struck me. Rinaldo’s nephew had taken off at some point during the
volley leaving me alone to fight my way out of it. I jumped off the horse I was
riding and ducked behind a large tree. One of the bandits had been circling
around to ambush me on my flank but I noticed him out of the corner of my eye and
hit him first with a shot in the leg just above the knee and then with a shot
through the chest. He let out a shriek in pain and fell from his horse. I used
the trees as cover and one-by-one took out all but one of the rogue thugs and
confiscated their horses. One bandit, a younger fellow grew wise and retreated
into the bush. I then continued on and arrived in Parana well after dark.
By
the time I woke in the morning I heard word that the brother of a prominent
police captain in a nearby town had been gunned down in the jungle. I knew that
it had to be one of the bandits I’d dispatched. There was no indication that
they had been bandits and now the local police were looking for his killer. If
it became known that I was behind his death I would quickly be captured and
most likely hung from the nearest branch. My time in Parana had come to a
close. I collected my savings from the bank and from the various hiding places
in my house and buried on my land and by the following evening headed out of
town never to return. I never did learn whether or not I was fingered in the
action but it wouldn’t have made any difference had I been. I figured my safest
course of action was to leave Brazil all together and stake my claim somewhere
else. For weeks I traveled by horseback, not wanting to go by public
transportation for fear that I may be hunted and recognized though I did spend
multiple nights in various small inns when the opportunity arose. I was glad to
be out of there.
HONDURAS
We reached the border with the wind in our
hair and sun in our eyes. All our instincts told us to hit the brakes and pull
out our passports. The hell with instincts. We blew past the guards and border
checkpoint like a blur. Chaos ensued. Men shouting and running. Weapons being
un-shouldered and rounds chambered. I figured it would be by the grace of God
if I were unscathed after the next 30-45 seconds. Angry unshaven men with the
stink of booze and sex would be after us in poorly maintained jeeps and 1970 era
cars. I expected nothing less. I was always told that Americans were supposed
to be discreet abroad, especially now. Well all these foreign degenerate
lunatics have been flooding the borders of my country with their diseases and
poverty and bad attitudes and wrecking it with no consequences so here is a
little Goddamn payback!
We
were around the first bend so fast their bullets only shredded leaves from the
jungle trees twenty yards behind us. This was child’s play. Two green Honda
Blackbird’s jetting through the Honduran countryside, not even Katelyn Laney in
a red mini-skirt on the side of the road could stop us.
MEXICO CITY
I got into trouble no more than thirty
minutes after leaving the airport. I took a cab to a Hotel somewhere in the
vast expanse of concrete, smog and humanity called the Maria Cristina. I
selected this hotel to stay at because I had stayed there once as a child
traveling with my mother, grandmother and sisters many years earlier. I stepped
out of the cab at Rio Lerma 31 and breathed in the fumes of diesel and colonial
Mexico and looked up at the bright salmon colored structure with the iron
balconies and stepped back into time. I imagined pretty senoritas standing on
the balconies wearing the traditional dresses with big sombreros winking at me.
Inside I found the spiral staircase just as though I was a kid again. Being
that I am a poet, reveries bum-rush me and I can easily get caught up in the moment.
Because of such instants of weakness I keep a notebook and pens at my disposal.
I spoke with a portly man at the front desk that spoke better English than I
did Spanish and they informed me that my room was not yet ready but that if I
wished I could leave my luggage and wander around the neighborhood, maybe grab
a bite to eat, and that the room would be in perfect condition within the hour.
Fair enough I thought. I left my luggage and told them that I’d take a finger
and toe for each item missing from my stuff and I had a list of everything.
They nodded and smiled but I could see it in their eyes that they knew I meant
business.
I
walked for about fifteen minutes, I don’t recall how many blocks and came upon
a quaint little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. They are always the best and
ordered a chicken tostada type dish, four beers, a shot of tequila and lit up a
cigar which pissed off two tables of locals. The waitress approached me and
asked informed me that I was bothering people with my smoke and that they were
regulars and provided the restaurant with good business. I informed the
waitress and everyone else that if I heard another Goddamn peep out of anyone
that I would return everyday for the rest of the week for breakfast, lunch, and
dinner and smoke my strongest cigars with each meal. I didn’t hear another
cross word for the rest of my meal. But my problem started after I finished and
requested the check. I reached into my pocket and realized that, Shit! My wallet is in my knapsack! I
carry a knapsack around with me when I travel because it holds my maps,
tobacco, pineapple and whatever else I carry in it but I usually always have it
with me. Stupidly I left it with my luggage. I had no way to pay for my meal or
the drinks and I drank a lot. I tried explaining this to the waitress but she
freaked on me and ran into the back. I considered leaping up and hauling ass
out of the place but the food was sensational and I planned on returning at
another time. She returned with the owner and two of the cooks, one carrying a
baseball bat.
“You
wash dishes,” the owner said.
“I
don’t want to wash the damn dishes. My wallet is at the hotel.”
“Bullshit.
You try to hustle me and see what happens,” he said. He was wearing alligator
skin shoes, a gold bracelet with jewels, a gold necklace, gold rings on nearly
every finger and his hair was slicked back with what I assumed was grease from
an airplane engine. He killed for less I thought and agreed to wash the dishes.
The kitchen was about 120 degrees and I wasn’t allowed to use the dishwasher.
The evil bastard made me wash everything by hand and the pile touched the
crummy ceiling. It took me three hours of non-stop washing to finally get
everything clean. My fingers were prunes and sore and finally the gangster
allowed me to leave. “You are a good worker gringo. You come and work for me. ”
“Gracias
Senor but the good Lord didn’t put me on this earth for manual labor. I’m not
cut out for this shit.” He laughed hysterically and walked away. I guess that
was the indication that I was free to go so I left and returned to the hotel.
My room was ready and when I entered it I found all my luggage on the floor.
This time there was a cute girl working behind the desk. I judged she was
probably around my age. If I was looking for female companionship I’d be
looking for a woman at least ten years older than me. But she had a nice smile
and pretty almond shaped eyes with a twinkle that I like so much. “Hey, give me
an hour to clean up and meet me in the bar for a drink,” I said. I didn’t
bother asking if she was interested or what time she got off her shift. I
really didn’t give a damn. She’d either show up or not. Back in the room I
quickly went through everything and miraculously nothing was taken. The room
was bigger than I remembered, large king size bed, nice view of the city, beige
in color which is very soothing and television with at least a hundred
channels. I took a hot shower and threw on a pair of shorts and a button down
short sleeve shirt along with my Bermuda hat. I stand out like a sore thumb in
this place. My shoes are these ragged canvas Toms that I’ve had for years and I
wear them with socks though the “hip” thing to do is wear them only with bare
feet, but I’m not hip. Walking down to the bar I received more stares than a
blond in China. I love Mexico City. You can’t fake it there. The people are as
real as anywhere in the world and they will eat you alive in a second. You
always read about all the travel warnings and news reports about people
disappearing off the street and holes in the desert etc., but I think it is all
a soggy racket. I have been robbed more
times in Paris than I have in the entire country of Mexico. In fact I have
never been robbed in Mexico so I don’t know what all the fuss is about.
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