This story represents her first published fiction.
The Only Sober
Gringo
by Catherine Solange
Early this
morning I dragged my nauseated self out of bed, put on my
dangly silver earrings from Taxco, drank too many cups of
coffee, thanked the hotel manager for his informative
pamphlets on birds and got back on the highway. Caffeine’s
coursing through my veins. My gun’s in the glove box. My
claw-shaped garden digger’s on the passenger seat. On the
Richter scale of hangover magnitudes, this one’s a 7.5.
I’ve known worse.
I’ve been driving west from Mexico Highway 1 toward Puntas
Canoas for an hour and thirty-five minutes and have not
seen a single vehicle. My guide book for the “seasoned,
well-equipped, adventurer in heavy-duty, high-clearance,
four wheel drive vehicles” is the only one to include this
unnumbered side route to the Pacific, recommending its
unmatched solitude. I did pass a herd of wild burros a
while back, but by the time I stopped and found the camera,
they were gone. Wild animals in any unmanaged habitat
thrill me. Especially non-predators.
I’m beginning to wonder if my self-appointed real estate
partner and new friend (maybe boyfriend but it’s too soon
to tell) has actually driven out here to this undeveloped
region below San Quintin. Ernesto suggested I check it out
as a place where we might still be able to afford a few
hillsides with ocean views. He says new communities are
just starting to spring up along the coast and we should
put together a group of investors to build one. It’s easier
to picture him reveling in the nightlife of Mexico City
than in the emptiness of these desert plains, immense open
spaces between mauve hills and dark blue mountains that
rise to eight thousand feet.
Ernesto lent me the handgun. It’s funny; my distaste for
the warrior persona created problems with my live-in
boyfriend back in L.A. When Josh strutted and puffed about
his service as a Navy SEAL, I felt compelled to mock or
insult him. Now I have no alternative but to rely on my
warrior within. She did manage to save the day when I got
separated from my hiking group and lost my bearings near
the silver mines in the colonial city of Taxco; she’s no
stranger. It’s even possible we’re on good terms.
I coax the old SUV up a steep sand hill. A few miles back a
dry stream bed appeared alongside this nightmare I’ve been
calling the road. The arroyo looks smoother and wider and,
if it doesn’t take a sharp turn somewhere, it must end up
at the ocean. Unless today’s my day to perish in a flash
flood, perhaps I could steer the vehicle over this next big
hump then turn right. My life would be immediately easier.
I stop, get out and walk to the rear door. Somewhere in the
back of this vehicle is the owner’s manual. The thought of
having to find it, then having to study the section about
the four-wheel drive option makes me want to collapse on
the sand. The instructions will be written in five
languages, all questionable, and I’ll stare uncomprehending
at a series of indecipherable diagrams with arrows to
misspelled words, then die alone in the desert of thirst
and fatigue. Because I can’t face the manual, I’ll just
stretch out on the warm ground for a short nap.
I deeply resent the professional appraisal I’m receiving
from a buzzard flying overhead. Having decided I’m still
alive, the bird soars off, disappointed. “Check back
later!”
My best alternative is to walk the rest of the way to the
beach. I stand, back up a few paces, try for a running
start toward the steep hill of sand but end up climbing on
all fours.
Before me lies the Pacific. I am overjoyed and whoop as
heartily as I can, given this particularly inconvenient
hangover. The ocean is less than a mile away. I tumble back
down the sand dune, jump into the driver’s seat, shove the
gear stick into what I pray is four-wheel drive, attack the
mound of sand--and yes! over I go. I plunge down the last
bumpy hills.
Puntas Canoas has no market. There are no houses
either--only a few shacks on the beach, a busted pier and
several small wooden fishing boats. The beach is long and
glorious and the waves are breaking just right. I see
campsites with umbrella-like tents constructed of palm
fronds further down the shore. Goats are tied to a truck.
Kids collect shells. A man digs for clams. There are a few
swimmers in the water. This is the end of the world.
I need a rest and a swim. A cold soda. I have juice boxes
in my snack supply, but I must get my hands on an icy cold
bottle. If I were back at the hotel bar, I’d be ordering my
second Bloody Maria with lots of celery.
Two and a half hours of Baja desert has called up an acute,
unaccustomed craving for conversation. Even a quick
Buenos
Dias will do, so I
run along the surf toward the campers. I can’t help but
notice I’m the only blue-eyed blonde on the beach, but it
certainly won’t prevent me from being sociable.
A couple seated under a palapa
waves me over.
The woman offers me a torta,
which I gratefully accept. It’s a thick roll stuffed with
pork, salty white cheese and a dressing made with cilantro.
The whole thing has been flattened and toasted. Their
youngest daughter is filling the rolls and an older son is
grilling them over a fire in a pit. I sit on the sand to
eat with them. Unfortunately, they don’t appear to have any
frozen colas.
“Que rico!
Delicioso!” I am not
merely being polite. It’s a marvel of a sandwich. I
exaggerate my friendliest smile and, to make sure I don’t
scrutinize, I keep my eyes on the food. Perhaps I should
have waited until everyone was served before taking a bite.
Do they say prayers before eating? I’m the only one with
food in my mouth. I don’t want to be rude, but I am
famished.
“Tengo mucho
hambre,” I apologize.
I successfully avoid the word-for-word translation of “I am
hungry”--an error typical of beginners--using the correct
verb, tener.
I have much hunger.
“Me llamo
Camille.” (I call
myself Camille.)
They call themselves Jorge and Juanita. Their family name
is Garcia.
It’s rare that my fluency in Spanish surpasses others’ in
English. I gradually lose my self-consciousness. Free to
make mistakes, of course I make fewer. Forming sentences
with words from a new language and actually being
understood, I feel competent and happy. I let myself
imitate their cadence. Sounding more and more authentic, I
compliment la senora on her outstanding, bright green
mayonnaise.
The man tells me there are no actual towns nearby, only an
abandoned port for shipping onyx, where he worked years
ago. He gestures toward the dark blue mountains. Up there
is a rancho with cattle, pigs and goats, where he works
now. It’s part of the ejido,
therefore, communally owned. As are the beach, the fishing
pier and the boats. Proudly, he points down the shore to
the commune’s system for distilling ocean water into
drinking water. I see what appear to be gasoline drums
rigged up to make a still.
They have no gas station, market or post office. Ernesto is
mistaken. There are no new houses being built and no
Americans living here. The idea of new houses for gringos
amuses the couple so much they laugh out loud, as if to
say, that could never happen here.
I hope they’re right.
An American lived here last year, Jorge says. Here on the
beach. He and his wife met the man personally. According to
the gringo’s license plates, he’d come from Arizona. That
used to be his truck. Now a shell, it’s been harvested for
every last part, including the Arizona plates. The American
had silver hair, although he was not old. He arrived
dressed in a suit.
It’s called a tuxedo, says his wife.
A tuxedo, Jorge concedes. The man must have been important
in government or commerce to be wearing such clothes. The
locals hadn’t been able to agree on the best explanation
for his attire, but they shared the opinion that he was
running away from something very bad. Muy
malo.
“Tuxedos are usually for weddings,” I offer. “Maybe he left
his bride at the altar on their wedding day. Or, she left
him. That’s the most likely. That she didn’t show up at the
ceremony. Or, she came to the church, then couldn’t say her
vows and she ran away at the last minute.”
I can tell from the looks of utter bafflement on their
faces that my suggestion is incomprehensible. If I’d told
them the lady was offered millions of dollars and life
everlasting but turned the deal down, it would be easier
for them to accept. They can’t imagine any man or woman
falling into doubt about marriage and family. For them,
it’s the sacred path to human fulfillment. They could be
right. But I doubt it.
When the man from Arizona arrived in Puntas Canoas, the bed
of his truck held twenty-five cases of scotch, they tell
me. Nothing more. He gave away his tuxedo, sat on his beach
recliner in his underwear and drank. Sometimes a fisherman
would sit with him, but the gringo never confided his
troubles. Or his name. Locals called him
El Rojo.
Alluding, I suppose, to his sunburn. I touch my face.
“Tenia la
cara quemada?” He had the
face burned?
“La nariz
roja.” Jorge points
to his nose.
Ah, the red nose. The advanced alcoholic’s snout. A few
nights ago, I thought I noticed tiny broken blood vessels
spreading upward from my right nostril.
For a while, Red dug clams to feed himself and in the
afternoons he swam to cool off. Later, through his long
decline, the people of Puntas Canoas brought him food and
drinking water. The day they discovered him dead in his
chair, two bottles of scotch remained in the back of the
truck under twenty-five empty boxes.
“Maybe a diagnosis of terminal disease sent him running,
not romantic rejection,” I wonder aloud. “Maybe he’d just
been hit with financial disgrace and public humiliation.”
But neither explanation would require a tuxedo.
Jorge and Juanita shake their heads and shrug.
El
Rojo is the unsolved
mystery of Puntas Canoas. Now he lies buried in his boxer
shorts in the scrubby bushes behind the shell of his former
truck. They lead me to a cross housed in a brightly painted
wooden memorial box decorated with seashells, plastic
flowers and two full bottles of Johnny Walker Blue Label.
I feel I should add something to the legend. “Did you know
that this beverage costs two hundred and sixty-nine dollars
a bottle?”
They turn to each other in horrified disbelief.
“Doscientos
dolares!”
“I swear to you, it’s true.”
I must take a closer look. I haven’t enjoyed hearing their
narrative. It stole the verve from my inner warrior. Their
man from Arizona is an ugly hint of what might happen to
me. I’d feel more confident if I could remember the last
time I went a whole day without a Margarita. Could it get
so bad that I’d drink myself to a lonesome death someday on
a beach at the remote edge of civilization? End of tale.
Naturally, I want to break open one of the two sealed
bottles, take a swig and compose a moving toast to failure.
The bottle has that nice hum, that bouncy sensation in my
hand. Two hundred dollar scotch. But Juanita stands next to
me looking down at the memorial box, making the sign of the
cross. It would be a defilement. I put the bottle back
where it belongs.
I leave you the crust of my sandwich at the base of your
grave as an offering, El
Rojo. I’m sorry
your journey to Puntas Canoas didn’t have a happy ending.
I’m sorry I’ll never know your whole story. I’m sorry I
drove all the way out here for this nasty peep at my worst
case scenario.
Juanita and Jorge return to their spot under the
palapa
and
sit close together. He puts his arm around her as she puts
hers around him.
I hope you don’t mind if I lean my tired, slightly
throbbing head against your wooden box, El
Rojo. What happened
to your warrior self? He got used up, exhausted from doing
battle year after year. That’s the worst tragedy of all in
your sad, sad story. You managed to make it all the way out
here to the end of the world in your big old truck. Then,
you gave up. Warrior, defeated. I write this, your epitaph,
in the sand. I cry for you. Even though you bought yourself
the best booze money could buy. I’ve never tasted two
hundred dollar scotch, but maybe I can live without it.
Listen, Red. Scotch isn’t a big favorite. Tequila isn’t
something I generally drink straight from the bottle, no
matter how expensive. I’d need a blender, lemons and limes,
kosher salt and a steady supply of ice to kill myself. A
super-sized cooler for the ice. Without an electric plug
for the blender, I’d probably have to buy a special
attachment for the dashboard. It might be more convenient
just to sober up and stay that way. Drinking myself to an
early exit has held its secret appeal. I admit this only to
you. I know death promises rescue, but why didn’t you give
the waves and the sand and the sky and the people a chance?
Puntas Canoas is turning me into a stranger, even to
myself. A welcome stranger.
I rejoin Jorge and Juanita and the three of us sit in
silence, watching their kids play in the waves. The couple
wears the same mended, faded clothing the children wear.
Their faces are dark and lined. They may be the children’s
grandparents, rather than parents, but, with my new
no-stare policy, I can’t tell for certain.
One of the girls, whose clothes are dripping wet from
swimming in her blouse and long pants, hands me a glass of
Sidral apple soda, and I say, “Muchas
gracias.” It’s warm, of
course. I drink it anyway.
Ernesto generally knows what he’s talking about, but he’ll
be lucky if his imagined community forms here in the
twenty-second century. Or the twenty-third. Perhaps our
great-great-grandchildren will ride horses and swim and
surf here with descendents of the Garcias.
It pleases me to be the only outsider here on the day this
family has traveled down from the rancho to picnic on their
communally owned pristine, empty beach. No typhoid here.
The children probably won’t attend school, but they’re
laughing, healthy-looking and well-fed. They’re enjoying
their lives at the end of the world. I’ll stay here with
them. For awhile.
They’re clamoring for me to swim. Not wanting to run back
to the SUV for my swimsuit, I jump right in--with
eight-year-old Anna--in my skirt and blouse and we play
catch with a chunk of sea lettuce. Three of the older kids
join me on a raft anchored well beyond the breakers and we
use it as a diving platform. One by one, I teach them to
arch their bodies and keep their feet together as they
spring off the raft. With practice, the children can dive
in formation at one second intervals.
The sun is hot. The water is clear. I lose myself in the
best body surfing waves I’ve caught since I was eight.
* * *
Hours have gone
by since I arrived at Puntas Canoas. I keep telling myself
to get up and leave, but I can’t. Sea creatures must stay,
must allow the elements to heal them. I’m prone on the
white sand while the heat of the sun smoothes the muscles
of my back and shoulders. Salt water dries on my skin and
makes my hair crunchy. I smell like the sea. It reclaims
me, restores me, cell by cell, mineral by mineral. This is
my extravagant spa treatment. I turn over. To tan my
perfect nose.
I’ll beg Ernesto never to recommend this place to his band
of partying gringos. They must not find Puntas Canoas.
Whether or not I can commit to it as a place to live
forever, I want it to look exactly the same whenever I
return. This beach must stay the way it is. Without the
whining of jet skis the Garcia family could never afford.
Without ugly black smears left on the sand by
three-wheelers they’ll never ride. It will not be like
beaches to the north, where, instead of diving and playing,
children hawk cheap bracelets and chewing gum nobody wants
to buy. Nothing like Rosarito or Enseñada, loud year-round
with drunk tourists. A respectful, appreciative guest, I’ll
be the only gringo allowed. Locals will remember who I am
and they’ll always welcome me. “She comes sober and leaves
sober.” That’s what they’ll say.
I am unprepared to set up camp and, of course, there is no
lodging. Perhaps this was mentioned in the guidebook. I’m
glad there’s no hotel, but it means I must get back to
Highway 1 before nightfall. If there’s one thing every Baja
guidebook agrees upon it’s the extreme stupidity of driving
on Highway 1 after dark. Everyone you talk to advises
against it: never get caught in the high beams of a big rig
driver on crank speeding down a two-lane road with no
shoulders.
Jorge and Juanita and their grandchildren send me off with
oranges and homemade caramel candies cut in squares, like
fudge. Eleven-year-old Herman walks with me to the SUV,
unselfconsciously holding my hand.
“Would you take these to your family?” From my snack
supply, I hand him a jar of peanut butter and one of
raspberry jam. When he turns to wave, I run after him with
a bag of gummy worms and a pack of juice boxes.
I face a long, agonizing ride--hours of jolting and
bashing--but if I think about it, I’ll get discouraged. The
caramel candies are orgasmic. They alone were worth the
grueling drive to Puntas Canoas, where I am thankful to
have spent a day.
Opening the vehicle door, I notice the garden claw I was
ready to use as a self-defense weapon and remember the
handgun in my glove compartment. I laugh at the power and
significance I bestowed on such outlandish objects from an
alien, violent world. How extraneous they seem now. I take
my emergency bottle of Tres Presidentes out of its thermal
cooler bag and pour it into the sand.
Copyright 2008 by Catherine Solange