Disappearing Roadside Attraction

When I was about 19 years old and feeling oppressed by the demands of college life, I decided (or rather, it was decided for me) that I should take some time off. In October I withdrew from classes and moved back to my folks' house in eastern Missouri. I looked for work here and there but found nothing that I could make myself do. I was bored, rebellious and just a little strung out. In early December, my father, a Hispanophile from way before my memories began to form, offered to take me with him on one of his famous trips south of the border to explore, commune and escape in the land of the Aztecs. We drove from our home to San Antonio, Texas, where we visited an aging cousin of his whom I can barely remember, then took a plane to Mexico City where we rented a Volkswagen Beetle and began a driving tour of the mountains, deserts and jungles of that mystical land. During our trek, my dad announced that he wanted to visit a little place that he had read about called Playa Azul which was situated on the west coast of Mexico some kilometers north of Acapulco. There was only one road to this little community of the Blue Beach, which ran westward from a small mountain town, down through the desert, up into the mountains again then straight down to the sea coast to this then pristine and isolated village. I was game. It was a chance for me to soak up the alien landscapes and feed an imagination that had been seeded by the works of Carlos Castenada and other mystico-spiritual opportunists. So, we began our journey. From the cool breezes that braced our faces in the mountains to the dry, painted winds that swept across the flat, rust and ocher sands of the desert in the west, my eyes were constantly scanning, my mind recording and my soul, recuperating. I think my dad was secretly pleased that I was engrossed in the landscape. We generally did not get along at that phase of our lives. My mom said it was because we are so similar. I think that both of us would have claimed that nothing could be further from the truth. Nonetheless, for that time, there was peace between us and general agreement on the beauty and wonder of our surroundings. And another thing that we agreed upon: we were both hungry and thirsty. We began to scan the horizon for any signs of a place to stop and refuel ourselves, but all that we could see was the desert horizon to the north and south, the shadows of mountains looming before us to the west, and the occasional volcanic cone rising from the flatness, displaying all the colors of dawn upon their dusty and foliage free slopes. As we drove, the western purple-grey peaks began to overtake my field of vision. The parched expanse behind me and to my sides was still brightly lit and glowing with an alien light as the surface began to lift and roll as we entered the foothills. The underbellies of the billowing white clouds began to darken as they marched across the sky, and I could understand without words or reason the magic that imbued this place. Our hunger and thirst continued to grow. After another hour or so of driving, the VW crested a rise in the road which offered an astounding vista. The mountains loomed dark before us with the expanse of the desert at our backs. We had not seen another vehicle for hours, much less any signs of human occupation: no buildings, no abandoned cars or trucks, no road signs -- nothing. But there, down the road at the edge of our vision, on the left hand side, I saw what seemed to be a structure. I pointed it out to my dad who confirmed it. Not a mirage, a concept that up until that point in my experience was merely the stuff of Saturday morning cartoons, but an actual building. This observation served to heighten our awareness of our parched throats and empty bellies, thinking that this had to be a cantina of some sort. Why we thought that I'll never be sure of, but in our minds and words we were certain. As we approached it seemed as though the quality of light shifted slightly. The building was constructed of old weathered boards, cinder blocks, wooden posts and corrugated tin sheeting. There was a 60s model Ford truck, rusted, dented and dust covered, pulled up beside the structure, a few long wooden tables with benches situated in the shade under the tin roof and smoke curling up from a tall rusted chimney pipe. At first we couldn't see anyone, but the smoke seemed to indicate that someone was around, so Dad stopped the car and we got out to investigate. The wind was hot and dry and the air was filled with amazing undefined smells. My dad called out in Spanish in hopes of rousing someone. Sitting at one of the shaded tables was an old, toothless grinning man with squinting eyes and a battered straw hat. Lurking behind him in even deeper shadows was a younger man with eyes that could be seen through the darkness. He did not seem to be doing anything, but there was a sense from his eyes that he wore a grin on his silent lips. The older man's hand signals seemed to motion us closer in a friendly manner. To my left I could see that the smoke was indeed coming from a kitchen of sorts. A brick fireplace with a griddle situated over the fire and a large iron pot that contained some steaming liquid that cast a savory odor throughout the compound. An ageless woman with long, exceedingly straight black hair that was beautifully braided in one silken rope down to her knees, barefeet on the dirt floor, a soiled pink skirt and a clean, white blouse stood stirring the cauldron with a wooden spoon. Her brow was furrowed with concentration and her generous mouth held in an emotionless line across her brown face. She had the feeling of being old, but there was no grey in her hair, nor were their the wrinkles of age in her face, only her stoic and cautious glare. I do not speak Spanish, but I could tell from the context and my dad's gestures that he was asking if we could get something to eat and drink. There was no indication whether or not the place was an actual cantina or someone's home or any other institution that was known to me. It took a while, but eventually my dad told me that he thought we were going to be fed. The older man graciously brushed off a table top and the benches for us to sit down. "What are we going to eat? What do they have?" I asked my dad. "We'll eat what they bring us, Stu. I imagine it will be whatever they've been eating themselves!" "So, is this an actual 'place to eat' or is it their home or what?' "I have no idea! Great, eh?" I'm certain that my dad's assurances actually made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but there was not much to be done at that point. Were we imposing on these folks in their home? I couldn't see where they might live otherwise, but I also couldn't see any place for beds or any "private" areas. The truck outside did not look like it could start, much less carry them to some other location. But what did I know? Our cultures were so completely different that one thing that I did know was that I had little or no basis on which to judge. In just a few moments the woman began setting food before us. A basket of steaming corn tortillas, a basket of bolillo, a bread from which I detected the scent of cinnamon, a plate of sliced peppers and a shallow soup bowl of pinto beans before each of us. She did not smile, but the old man did. The other man continued to watch us from the back ground, leaning against a wooden post. The woman returned to the kitchen and the old man shuffled up to the table holding two cold and sweating cans of Tecate beer with slices of lime on top. I looked at him directly and it seemed as though his grin gave me a warm and inviting smile. He nodded and said with a toothless lisp, "Cervetha?" I smiled and held the can high and nodded back. "Si! Garacias!" He continued to nod as he backed away from the table toward the kitchen area. I turned my attention to the food. It was as hot as the sun was yet seemed totally inviting. I opened the can of beer and squeezed a bit of the lime into it, placing the wedge on the rim of the soup bowl. I took one of the small loaves of bread and broke it open. It was hot and steaming. The smell was intoxicating. I glanced up to see my dad's face relax into an expression of ecstasy. Dipping the morsel of bread into the beans I again savored the aroma before tasting the food. Perhaps such an awakening took place amongst the crowds that were fed by the loaves and fishes 2000 years ago by the Sea of Galilee, but my experience was just as enlightening. The beans melted in my mouth with a flavor complex yet familiar and wholesome. The cool beer quenched both thirst and desire to think beyond that moment. The tortillas were soft, pliable and held the heat of the peppers just enough to vary the experience of the taste of the beans, the bread and the beer. The aroma of the lime rose with that of the other foods and mixed in my nostrils like an olfactory pointillist painting. A feeling of extreme happiness began to descend upon me. The portions were small and the menu seemingly limited, but as I sopped up the last of the broth with a bit of the bolillo and threw back the last gulp of beer I realized that I was completely satisfied. I glanced up at my father who was finishing in the same manner. Our eyes met and I said without hesitation, "That was the most delicious meal I think I've ever had!" My dad, patting his tummy, laughed a hearty chuckle. "Ain't it the truth!" There was no temptation to ask for seconds because I was still living in those satisfied moments. We thanked them over and over. My dad asked how much we owed them. The woman turned her stare to the old man who allowed his eyes to twinkle in our direction. He cocked his head to one side, raised his the palms of his hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders. He muttered something that neither I nor my dad could understand. Dad offered him a wad of bills and asked if that was enough. The old man accepted the money without counting it, much less looking at it and thanked us nodding his head up and down. The other man who was still in the back shadows still had not spoken, but seemed to be leaning against a different post. Perhaps under different circumstances this silent figure that kept himself in the darkness would have worried me, but that was not the case. I knew he was there. I knew that he was watching us. I knew I had nothing to fear. We got into our rented VW and waved a final adios to the old man and continued on our way. We rode in silence for a few miles before I said again, as though it was a revelation of epic proportions, "That was the most fantastic meal I think I've ever had!" Despite (or perhaps, because of) its simplicity, it was. My dad agreed. And we found that, as the road began a much more noticeable climb into the mountains, we could talk of nothing else. It wasn't until we had reached the peaks of the mountains and had begun our descent toward the shoreline that Dad realized that he hadn't taken any photographs. He was kicking himself verbally for his lack of attentiveness. "But, Dad," I said, "that just means that we have two excuses to stop there on our way back! It won't be hard to find! It's the only place on the road -- it'll be right on the right after coming down out of the mountains. Two days. Two days and we'll be back there eating beans and tortillas, bolillo and peppers and drinking Tecate!" "I knew there was a good reason to bring you along!" Playa Azul was indeed beautiful. There were two hotels, a small, uncontaminated community complete with pigs wandering the streets and a pristine beach. Despite its beauty, my dad and I could think of nothing more than returning to our little cantina. We enjoyed our stay, but by noon on the second day we were ready to hit the road. Climbing the mountain pass in the little VW, we began looking for the place long before we had even crested the final ridge. "It'll be on the right hand side, just a few miles past the point where the road begins to level out." With the window open and my arms folded on the sill, my chin resting on my wrist, I kept an eye out long before we had descended the western slopes. It might have been during one of these timeless moments that it occurred to me that we wouldn't find the place. My mind began to reel with the ideas that had been planted in my brain from the Castenada books: mystical families of brujos, sorcerers that wielded ancient indian powers that could only confuse the mind of the rationalist euro-american. We had continued on, scanning both sides of the road, discussing how it might have been possible for us to miss it. "Dad, there's no way! It was on the left on our way there, and it's got to be on the right on the way back! There's only one road, so we can't be on the wrong one! It's gone!" "That's not possible. It has to be there. We must have missed it." "How? We've been looking for it since before we left the mountains. It's the only thing we've talked about for the last two days! It's just gone!" "You mean they just picked up and moved? I know the building wasn't much, but it looked like it had been there for a while and that it would be there for a while longer." "Dad. Think Brigadoon." He turned to look at me with critical eyes. "Now you're shitting me." "Do you really think it possible that we missed it? If not, then where did it go? And what is it that you love about this country anyway? The land, the people, the food, the magic...?" We rode in silence until we came to a town. We stopped, got something to eat and spoke of the rest of our stay in Mexico. As we drove out of town my Dad turned to me once again and asked, "You don't think we missed it, do you? You think that it wasn't there to be missed...right?" "There are stranger things, Horatio...."

Years have passed and little by little my dad has begun to admit that there was indeed something different about our short visit to the little cantina on the south side of the only road to Playa Azul. Since then, more roads have been built, a tourist industry has blossomed there and it is no longer the isolated corner of the world that it used to be. Perhaps the magic is still there, somewhere. I have not returned to seek it out. But, I know in my mind and in my heart that the old man was honestly friendly, the ageless woman was the worlds finest cook, and the man in the shadows is perhaps still leaning against a wooden post, silently watching us.

Copyright 2002 by Stuart Dummit

Walking, Cash and Life

On Saturday, April 20, a local group called RAIN will be holding their 9th Annual "Salute to Life Walk." RAIN stands for Regional AIDS Interfaith Network and is the local organization that administers government funding for AIDS/HIV patients in the central Missouri area. While taking my dog, Max, out for one of his potty runs last week, we ran into a card table festooned with banners, laden with pamphlets and staffed by semi-enthusiastic volunteers soliciting for walkers for the event. The idea is to have each walker try to get donations from friends, family and anyone with some money to spare to "sponser" them in their "salute." I don't really understand how it is supposed to work, but because the folks at the table were paying a good deal of attention to Max, which always improves my opinion of people, and because I have had to take advantage of their services in the past (and, if things don't shape up at work, I may have to take advantage again!) I decided to sign up as a "walker." (This term reminds me of the catagory I fell into as a grade schooler because I walked to and from school. It afforded me all sorts of time to indulge in the architecture of my fantasies, but that is a different story....)

Max and I will be walking as a team. My only fear is that he may resort to one of his favorite tricks, that is, when on a walk and he decides that he's tired, he just lays down where ever he is, on the side walk, in the middle of the street, anywhere, and becomes dead weight. It is nearly impossible to move him. Now, with so many people around to "ooh" and "aaah" at him, perhaps he will keep up the pace and do me proud. If not, it could serve as a metaphore for what the disease and what the treatment can do to a person, that is, chronic fatigue. "I know I've just walked half a block, but I can't go any further....just let me lay down here for a moment...." (Here you can imagine a field of poppies and Edith Hamilton in her green makeup glowering over her jumbo crystal ball reciting the infamous words, "Poppies...Poppies will make them sleep!" But, perhaps in this case it should be, "Sustiva....Sustiva will make them sleep...and dream...AAAAAh--ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

So, Max and I will be walking. Walking and dreaming. I've gotten four sponsors so far and have put together a whopping $30! This will get me an Official Salute to Life T-Shirt! Being a t-shirt kind of guy, this is actually an okay thing. Now, if I can somehow get $100 I could get both the shirt and a RAIN Sport Bottle! Yippeee! Dare I shoot for the $250 level where I can get a RAIN Ball Cap? ( I like ball caps, too!) Then there is the $500 level that would get me an official RAIN Nylon 6 can cooler. And then, finally, at $750, there is (dare to dream) the ultimate RAIN CD Music Package! (Heaven help us if it is Donna Summer's Greatest Hits!) Once the $750 level has been reached, I would be in the running for the GRAND PRIZE: a one night stay for two at a local bed and breakfast or a night on the town here in Columbia for the two runners up! Let's see now...I've collected $30 and to have a chance at nabbing the Grand Prize I need at least $750! And the walk is this Saturday. Hmmm. I don't think it will happen.

There is an irony here. When I was first diagnosed with this "condition" I decided that I did not want to spend my time in the company of others that were infected. I did not want it to take over my life. All too often I had encountered people whose entire existence seemed to be dictated by their disease. It was their only topic of conversation. They competed with others on the number of pills they took daily or what their most recent opportunistic infection was, how severe and what was the most interesting shape a lesion of Kaposi's Sarcoma had taken. I knew that if I fell into that trap I would never be able to claw my way out again and I would most certainly die a limp wristed death. No. I wanted to surround myself with the healthy and the living.

It didn't take long for me to realize that no matter how hard I tried, the disease had taken over my life. It was the first thing I thought about in the morning, the last thing I thought about before sleep, and the topic of my infections and my treatment was not shared with others in the same situation, but with co-workers, family and friends and even strangers.

Now, things are a bit different. My dog has taken over my life and my disease is a distant second. It is more important to me that Max is well socialized, well trained, happy and healthy than any of my own problems. And, not suprisingly, taking him for several poop runs a day has done my health plenty of good. I get more fresh air and exercise and, because he is so damned cute and sociable, we're meeting tons of new people. And HIV status doesn't even come into the picture!

I will continue to gather contributions and Max and I will walk with the others on Saturday. If someone asks about my own health status, I will tell them. Otherwise, I'm just out to support a good cause and give my dog a chance to get tons of attention, not to mention an extended poop run! Maybe next year we'll do it again. And maybe I'll get enough sponsors to get that RAIN Sports Bottle, and dare to dream about the Ball Cap.

Taxes

I've just finished doing my taxes. I don't mind paying them; that's the cost of living where we do and how we do. What I mind is the deadline pressure and the complexity of the forms. I know that this is all old hat, but perhaps if it is said enough times in enough different ways, the Universe will see fit to rearrange reality into something more suited to the lifestyles that we lead. Now, if I were an anal-retentive record keeper and one that made all sorts of money that could be used a) to hire someone to do the paper work for me and b) to shelter big chunks of cash so that I might not have to pay as much, it might be different.

The rich seem to complain about the percentage of taxes that they are required to pay. Are they using that money, or is it just sitting around drawing interest in some bank account someplace? Do they live from pay check to pay check as many of us do? What kind of cash surplus do they have at the end of each month? I know that I'm down to a few dollars by the 29th of any given month, and if I've got extra, do you think that I squander it? No! I generally put it into a savings account that is used for emergencies, like the one yesterday when the video card on my home PC gave out only days after the warranty was up. Sound familiar? Let's not even think about paying for such things as medical care, food, or buying some nice clothes so that you have a chance at getting that better job that might make you more money so you don't have to live in fear of poverty! I think that it is more common than not, despite the images of financial security that are piped into our brains by television and movies.

Again, it would be easier for many people to accept the amount of money they pay in taxes if it went to social programs that could save them money in the long run, like HEALTH CARE and EDUCATION and PUBLIC WORKS. But then, there are those that would disagree, and it is a representative democracy. The voices of the people have been raised up and our elected officials have heard. Of course, they are the ones who can afford to buy really big megaphones to drown out the voices of the majority. Ah, so many words, so few with loud voices to read them.

Interesting Article

Is Blogger like the upturned crate on a corner in Hyde Park? The question becomes, how many gather around to take in the musings of one standing on that crate? Does any of that being's insight, wisdom, mental flotsom and jetsom become snagged in the folds of the audience's grey matter? Web counters don't keep track of attention. To read is not necessarily to understand or to incorperate. Is it all just pretense? Follow this link to someone else's musings. Do you hear the words in your head as you read in silence?

Lines

Lines are an artificial construct. There are no lines in nature, only edges. We create lines in our minds as tools to judge things. "This thing is on the left side of the line and that thing is on the right side of the line." If you think you see a line in nature, look closer, it's not really there. What you see is the boundary, the interface, the place where planes change direction. There are no lines in nature, only edges. There are however lines in our minds. We have created them there to separate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, the dark from the light...but then, what about grey?

These mental lines that we have constructed, to do their job they must be sharp. Razor sharp. With the help of reason we can use these lines to chart our understanding of things. Be careful, though. You wouldn't want to slice your mind open with one of those razor sharp mind-lines, would you? Your thoughts might start spilling out and, without lines to help you catagorize these ideas, you might misjudge them, and we all know where that can lead.

Sayings of Note

"The World is filled with stupid people and there are more of them than there are of us, and they impact our lives daily."

"Life sucks, and if you try to die they'll just put you on life support."

"No matter what the weather, no matter what the shape of the clouds might be, the sky is always perfect."

"Listening to the likes of George W. and his in absentia sidekick, Dick, gives me a soul-ache."

Dangerous Enlightenment (Version 2)

You single sun slung photon

Fractured by a solitary tear of dawn

That holds to razor tipped

Blade of grass, its head bowed,

Perhaps in prayer,

Clinging like a spirit might

To its corporeal home,

Not needed now.

Your colored sheets of shards

Strike the smoky lens

Of my unclean eye,

Calling to spread your wings

Upon my sashed and shuttered window.

You particle of light,

Do not give up so soon on me!

I may yet taste your wave-like gown,

And use it as a solar sail

To catch the maker's breath

Upon the quantum sea.

Stuart Dummit
Copyright ©2002 Stuart E. Dummit