FOR THE BIRDS

FOR THE BIRDS


Before I embark on a journey, I worry about whatever is appropriate to the itinerary. For the Pacific island country of Papua New Guinea, I worry about poisonous snakes, airplane crashes, malaria carrying mosquitos, man eating sharks, parasites, lack of medical facilities, pickpockets, muggers, and something new. This is my first opportunity to worry about cannibals. That practice supposedly ended in 1984. Now it is 2000. Sixteen years is long enough for even the most stubborn holdouts to make the change in their diet. Right?
Guidebooks, or even chapters, on Papua New Guinea aren’t numerous. Those my husband, Gene, and I read take pains to reassure travelers on safety issues, but in the capital of Port Moresby, our first stop, we discover the residents of the city don’t share that view. They lock themselves in behind razor wire at night. Only the occasional thief of victim walks the deserted streets then. Why is it so dangerous? High unemployment. Poverty. An inept police force. A breakdown in traditional culture. Has all that happened since the guidebook was written? Besides, wouldn’t a breakdown in a culture that traditionally featured head hunting and cannibalism be a good thing? Not that anyone ever mentions those aspects of the past.
Next on our schedule is Tari, in a remote area of the highlands, the mountains that run down the middle of the island. The highlands are accessible primarily by air. An hour before our flight from Port Moresby is due to leave for Tari, we’re in line at the airport. The three people ahead of us are barefoot. Instead of luggage, they check in cardboard boxes, plastic bags, and a large cook pot. Then it is our turn. We present our tickets. The airline employee says he can’t issue us boarding passes. The little prop plane is already overweight. This isn’t something I fretted about in advance since we’re traveling light. It’s the people who checked in ahead of us who aren’t. I feel like I’ve been bumped by a cook pot.
Our disappointment is even more severe because we don’t want to spend another night in Port Moresby. The airline agrees to fly us to Mt. Hagen. That gets us closer to Tari.
In Mt. Hagen, the airline puts us up in the nicest hotel in town and feeds us well, at their expense, but the desk clerk warns us not to go out after dark because of the “rascals,” the quaint Papua New Guinea name for bad guys. In terms of safety, we may as well be in Port Moresby. We’re getting used to being behind movable barriers that are always locked and manned, unlike at home where “gated community” means they are in possession of a gate that’s a decorative element of the entry. I only hope our guards and gates are adequate to any possible invasion.
The next morning at the air strip, we go through the same weighing-in procedure, but this time we get on the flight. The airline, Mission Aviation, is run by Christian missionaries. A woman passes out the latest issue of the mission magazine. There’s an article about one of their flights recently being hijacked by paying passengers, three men wielding guns and knives. It says the hijackers are still at large. I look around at my ten fellow passengers, and wonder if any of them are hijackers. Certainly not the pilot’s wife or their three young children who keep up a running dialog with their Dad in the cockpit. When we first got on board, I was concerned to see two drums of aviation fuel in the passenger cabin with us, but now I look on them as possibly displacing hijackers. The fuel drums occupy four seats of space, right under the “Jesus Saves” sign.
After a thirty minute light over green, green mountains and valleys, the plane lands in Tari. We disembark to an enclosure that appears under siege. Hundreds of people press up to the surrounding hurricane fence, some of them in native dress, most of them barefoot and armed with machetes or axes. I don’t want to go out among the armed crowd. Luckily, that isn’t necessary. A van, from the lodge where we have reservations, waits for us inside the compound. Howard, our driver, explains that the people are still in awe of airplanes. A large group assembles to witness the arrival and departure of all the big birds that carry people in their bellies. I ask, what about the weapons? Howard says the machetes are used both as weapons and in work. He says the axes are killing tools. That certainly sets my mind at ease.
There’s only one place to stay, the Ambua Lodge, an hour and a half from the tiny village. It’s an excellent area for seeing Birds of Paradise and is the home of the Huli Wigmen, who dress in their traditional human hair wigs and not much more.
Once we’re on the road – the really, really bad road – Howard says, “I am a Huli man.” He tells us of their ways of having multiple wives and clan “paybacks” which are revenge killings. The men and women live separately. To have sex, they go out into the bush. They believe they are descended from birds.
The night watchman at the lodge carries a bow and arrows. He’s tall and looks fierce. He’s a Marawaka, a distant tribe, reputed to be the best guards. The owners want someone from outside who won’t get involved with clan warfare.
Prior to arriving, a fellow birder told us Benson and Joseph are excellent guides. Benson isn’t a possibility. He’s gone. He had to leave the area because of revenge killings. A week previous, his mother was hacked down with a machete on the road. The killer was seen, and a few days later, the killer’s sister was murdered. No one says Benson did it, only that he’s gone. Evidently, self exile is a means of bringing a particular series of paybacks to an end. After a few months, the exile can safely return. He’s done his time.
The sun is barely up when we leave with Joseph and a driver in search of Birds of Paradise, a species unique to Papua New Guinea. We look at pictures of the improbably designed creatures in the Princeton University Birds of New Guinea. Joseph practically promises us a sighting. A good guide can do that, but we’re still ecstatic when we step out of the van and a male King of Saxony flies across the road. Two sixteen inch, pearly-blue head plumes flat behind him like a lovely apparition. He is a small black and buff bird, nothing special except for those head plumes.
We hear a burst of machine gun fire, but before I fling myself to the ground in panic, Joseph says quietly, “Black Sicklebill.” Following the loud, rapid, tat-at-at-tat sound the bird makes instead of a a song, we head into the bush. Despite the excitement of the hunt, I do not neglect to check over hanging branches for snakes. Finally, we see the noisy black bird, high up in a tree. He’s large with fabulous long tail feathers, red eyes, and a thin, curved beak. He stays in that tree all morning – it is his display tree – while we watch for additional species. Like a child trying to get attention, the little Glossy Winged Swiftlet flies by repeatedly, but we’re more interested in sighting the Ribbon-tailed Bird of Paradise. The male has two thin, white tail feathers, at least twenty inches long. We don’t have to go far to find him. He’s so high in the tree tops that we can’t get a good look at his black pompom, but we can’t miss the tail feather.
On the way back to the lodge, we pass a couple, walking in the rain. Howard says they work at the lodge. Gene says why don’t we give them a ride. The driver says he’s not supposed to do that. We won’t tell, says Gene. Howard and Joseph exchange looks, but they stop for the barefoot walkers. The faces of the couple don’t reveal surprise, pleasure, or any emotion, but they do get in the van. The woman goes to the back and sits down on the floor, even though there are eight empty seats. The man, carrying an unsheathed machete, sits in the seat right behind me. I’m not happy. Gene and his big mouth. I don’t say anything aloud, but I tell myself: I’m not a Huli woman. Why would they kill me? Why would they kill Gene or our friend and traveling companion, Mike? We aren’t involved in their clan fights, but people get hurt just by being in the way.
Before reaching the lodge, the driver stops. The couple gets out. I’m happy again.

Goroka, our other scheduled Highland destination, is timed to coincide with the famous “sing-sing” that occurs there every other year. This is a three day gathering of clans from far and wide in traditional dress, doing their ritual dances and music. Some tribes walk three days to get to town.
A local told us the first sing-sing was conceived as a way to do a census in a land so wild and unexplored that the government didn’t know how many different tribes and languages existed in the country. My only fear about the sing-sing was that it wouldn’t take place. The last time the gathering was scheduled, the organizer had to leave town a month before – one of those clan warfare things – and the show was canceled. This isn’t the Rose Parade or Madi Gras.
Goroka is a small town rather than a tiny village like Tari. There are three hotels, a Chinese restaurant, and a beautiful theater. I suppose the populace has seen lots of planes by now because the landing strip isn’t surrounded by awestruck locals. Within moments of our early morning arrival, we see the spectacular bird wind butterfly outside our room at the Pacific Lodge. With a name and wing span like that, it almost counts as bird watching.
At breakfast, the lodge manager, David, sits down with us. He wants to be sure I haven’t discarded my paranoia like excess baggage. Although the distance between the show grounds and the lodge isn’t great, he doesn’t want us to walk. A driver will take us, let us off at a safe place, and pick us up in that same place at 2:00. That seems rather early. Yes, David agrees, but if there’s trouble, it happens later in the day. In that case, the police will tear gas the whole crowd. He doesn’t want that to happen to us. Neither do we.
Our driver looks as if he works out with weights for hours every day. I feel safe with him. To get to the entry gate, he inches the van through a throng of people. “Rascals,” he mutters. I realize that neither our strong driver nor my strong husband would be a match for so many. A guard unlocks the gate for us while another one, with a German Shepherd, holds back the crowd. The dog also looks like he’s been working out.
At the spectator’s entrance, we present our tickets and step into the most amazing, intense experience of our lives. We are among thousands of warriors and warrior women – not in a grandstand looking at them, but among them. The ground we stand on shakes as they jump, stomp, and thump spears. We’re face to face with faces painted yellow, red, and white, nose to nose with noses pierced with bones and feathers. At a time when body piercing, including nose rings, is common among young people throughout the Westernized world, I wonder if these civilized youth will soon be sporting bones and feathers?
Women with bare breasts shining with pig grease undulate past us, their grass skirts and beads rustling. One tribe of men jump straight up and bang their long spears on the ground in such perfect unison that their full length skirts also bounce up and down together. Walking past them, we see that they have a different covering in back. It’s short and made of leaves that have been oiled. The leaves glisten in the hot midday sun. Some of the men and women even have colorful teeth, stained red from chewing beetle nut.
All of the clans wear elaborate feather head dresses. Plumes of birds of paradise; tail feathers or whole skins of lorikeets; parrot, cockatoo, and eagle wing and tail feathers; cassowary body plumes, and hornbill beaks are all used. The beauty of the head dresses enthralls me, until I realize an incredible numer of birds die to furnish this finery. This is an ornithological nightmare. Not at all, we’re assured. This is an expression of a deep cultural reverence for Papuan bird life. These feathers are treasured and traded and the head dresses passed on from one generation to the next. Birds are also an important source of protein in their diet, pethaps even more so since they gave up, well, you know.
Am I reassured? Not entirely. I’m a little worried about the birds of Papua New Guinea, but evidently worry is an integral part of travel for me.

****************

This essay was first published in The Dickens: The Copperfield’s Books Literary Review of 2001. I left Mike out to keep my word count down for that juried contest. Sorry, Miguel.

Photos: Mary at the Tari air strip, the Mossmen, the Mudmen, the Huli Wigmen.

JAGUARS, EAGLES AND EVIL

When the jaguars and eagles and their evil priest ruled the rock that is now known as La Quemada, they demanded such large tributes of peyote from the Huicholes Indians that there wasn't enough left for the Gods of the Huicholes. Their Gods punished them by causing the corn to wither and the amount of salt, shells and feathers to diminish. They needed these goods for trade and for survival.
When the Huichol sent less to the jaguars and eagles, their emissaries were killed. The Huichol appealed to their Gods: "What can we do to bring back the peyote, the corn, the feathers, the salt and the shells?"
"There must be a ceremony with the five great singers of the valley to the east," the Gods said. Many Huicholes met at Teakata and went to the pillars where the five great singers were gathered. Each singer sang for four nights until the Gods told them to stop and go to the evil priest's great rock. The jaguars attacked them, and many people were killed. The Sun God intervened and burned the jaguars. The evil priest tried to turn day to night to stop the heat, but he failed. The heat lasted twenty days. All the jaguars died. The land dried. The corn wilted. The people left. The evil priest disappeared.
When the eagles came back, they tried to find the five great singers. For twenty days and twenty nights, they searched without success. The eagles went away. Now the corn returned to life. Now the Huicholes had salt, peyote, feathers, and shells. But the Gods told the singers, "Never go back to the great rock. Although the jaguars, eagles and their priest are gone, the evil remains."

It is commonly believed that this Huichol myth refers to the archeological site of La Quemada, about fifty-five miles south of Zacatecas, in central Mexico. There is conclusive evidence that the city met a finish that involved looting and fire. The modern name of "La Quemada" means the burned place. The pinnacle of the site is a rock, and at the lower level the remains of pillars have been found. In this Hall of Pillars or Columns many trophy skulls and hands were unearthed. It is known that in Mesoamerica there were jaguar warriors and eagle warriors. For ceremonial occasions and battles the warriors would have worn jaguar skins or feather capes and been more fearsome than their namesakes. Huicholes still live in the area. The myth and the facts seem to fit.
The site is located in the north central area of Mexico in the state of Zacatecas, about 15 miles from Jerez which is where we stayed. Approaching the ruins on a narrow two lane road along the valley floor, the hill of La Quemada makes it’s most dramatic appearance, rising 820 feet above the valley. Cliffs and hilltops are terraced or topped with platforms. It's easy, for a moment, to imagine vicious winged fantasy creatures swooping down from the pinnacle, though no claps of thunder are heard. No lightning rents the air. No feeling of foreboding lingers at the archeological site today. Perhaps the evil eroded along with the structures over the millennium that passed since the inhabitants abandoned the place. The site fell further into ruin after the Spanish arrived in the mid 16th century and began using it as a stone quarry. Many of the original structures were dismantled and the stones used for the construction of fences, bridges, cobblestone roads, and dwellings on nearby haciendas. Now the process is reversing itself. There is reconstruction - such as the pillars - and new construction - the visitor's center.
The visitor's center is an impressive aesthetic accomplishment, integrated in both form and material with the setting. The floors are of locally quarried marble. In one area, the marble slabs have been laid unevenly, imitating what happens over time to even the best stonework. Rain washes away the mud mortar beneath the corner of a slab, and the corner sinks. A seed arrives by bird or wind and sprouts between stones. As it grows, the roots work under the slabs and heave them up. The tilting marble ties the old and new together as does the theater that is inspired by the stepped pyramids and the great stairway. We sit, as if on those steps, watching the spectacle below. In this case, the spectacle is a movie overview of the archeology of Mesoamerica.
Carbon dating indicates this place has been occupied since 500 AD. Between 650 and 850 AD the city attained its maximum growth. It was at the height of its civilization at the same time as Teotihuacan, the famous pre-Columbian city outside modern Mexico City. La Quemada, along with other settlements, was part of a trade network with Teotihuacan. They traded salt, shells, feathers, and peyote. To this day, the peyote blossom is a common motif in the bead and embroidary work of the Huichol.
Topographical surveys have revealed more than a hundred miles of ancient roads radiating out in all directions. Vestiges of these roads are visible to those who climb to the high point of the rock. They are completely overgrown with vegetation and are not useable. They are more like a memory on the land.
We followed the trail ever upward to the top of the rock. Coming down, we walked along the top of the wall that flanks the north. Although it was the Easter holidays, the wall and the countryside it crosses were deserted.
There are signs that the wall was expanded between the years of 850 to 900 AD. Also, during that time, three of the main stairways that give access to the upper levels were partially blocked to restrict the passage of people. Both of these structural changes are interpreted as defensive measures. La Quemada was in decline. First the inhabitants of the areas near the site vanished. A generalized retreat and disintegration followed. By 900-950 AD the site was abandoned.
Although the myth of the jaguars, eagles and evil priest and the facts seem to fit, there isn't a firm consensus among scholars on that. On the contrary, because the north of Mexico is the least studied by archaeologists, the area has given rise to speculation without equal. La Quemada has been characterized by different schools of archeology in various and sometimes contradictory ways. At least one current Mexican guidebook, as well as a road map, refers to the site as the legendary city of Chicomostoc, but there isn't agreement on that either. Only a small amount of the archeological zone has been explored, so there are mysteries still to solve.

photos: one of the pillars & part of the wall, La Quemada, Mexico

This is a companion piece to BURNING JUDAS. Date of travel: 1997

BURNING JUDAS


Jerez de Garcia Salinas, Mexico, rests in a flat valley surrounded by mountains. As if those mountains have sealed it off like Shangri-La, Jerez remains off the beaten tourist track. Outside of it’s home state of Zacatecas in the north central highlands of Mexico, the town remains relatively unknown even in Mexico. This is why many of the old ways survive into the twenty-first century. Burning Judas every Easter is a flamboyant example.
My sister, Doris, husband, Gene, and I are in Jerez to visit our other sister, Barbara, and her husband, Phlete. They are recent arrivals, so the Spring Festival – Feria de Primavera – is new to us all. Cockfights, dances, bullfights, concerts, plays, and a carnival are on the schedule, but locals say the highlight of the feria is “Burning Judas.”
In the 1920’s, when D, H. Lawrence wrote his Mexican novel QUETZALCOATL – THE PLUMED SERPENT, he noted, “Judas is the big man of Holy Week, just as the Skeleton is the idol of the first week in November, the days of the dead.” Ceremonial punishment of Judas for his betrayal of Christ still occurs in a few other Mexican communities during Semana Santa – Holy Week – but in Jerez that ancient ritual has evolved in a unique manner.
Things begin on a somber note on Holy Thursday with a re-enactment of Christ’s march to Calvary. A few of the participants look like terrified high school students in costume, but the main players are so believable that I can’t tell if the vicious guard is really lashing the Christ character with his ship. Christ’s back bleeds true blood, but that could be from the large wooden cross he carries. I follow them along their course. It isn’t easy. Spectators pack the sidewalks. I’m sure I see the whip hit Christ’s back. I wonder if he’s a penitente, a person who practices physical abuse as a form of religious penance. That practice isn’t as common, or at least as public, as it once was in Mexico, but few outside eyes watch today.
Shops and businesses close early on Holy Thursday for the passion parade and other religious observations, the way they frequently do in the United States on Good Friday. Since they are closed anyway, shop owners use that time to repair and clean up their establishments. My sisters and I rush to complete our errands before the closures. We peek in at the roses in the main plaza. Closing the plaza for a month of weeding, feeding, pruning, replanting, and reopening on Easter Sunday is another custom. Es costumbre – it’s the custom is a phrase frequently heard in this community of approximately 50,000 Andalucian descendants. White stucco buildings with flat roofs and balconies that hang over the flag stone streets are visual reminders that this is a Spanish colonial town.
Judas burns on the Saturday immediately preceding Easter Sunday. We know there will be effigies stuffed with fire crackers hung across the main street, a parade of caballeros, and the burning, but we’re not sure of the particulars. The time the parade starts, for instance, is not so much a closely held secret as a widely circulated rumor. It will start at 10:00 a.m. say some. Maybe later say others. Maybe earlier say exactly the same people. Some over zealous patrons of El Tigre Negro Bar burned the effigies before the parade even started one recent year, so people aren’t taking chances on missing the fun. By 9:00a.m., spectators start to gather and venders set up. Every intersection has an impromptu bar of a pick-up truck parked on a corner. The beds of the trucks face out to the parade route and hold iced beer. I bought one at a truck decorated with greenery. They offered salt and wedges of juicy little limes to go with the beer.
A few cowboys start to ride into town, so we decide to take a walk and see the effigies before the parade begins. Above Main Street, they hang on ropes strung from lampposts and balcony rails at intervals from the main plaza to the outskirts of town, a distance of no more than a mile. Barbara and Phlete live on that route. We will watch from their roof and balcony. We didn’t have to look far to realize the life size papier-mâché figures represent not only the Biblical character but also more contemporary individuals who have let the people down. The auto mechanic is easy to identify since he holds a gas can in one hand and an air filter in the other. A soccer player represents every player who has ever cost Mexico a game. Anyone who attended parochial school can understand why one of the figures is a num; there is always a teacher who is long on homework, short on good grades, and quick with the paddle. Less obvious are the two “men” in suits and ties. We are told they stand for a former President of Mexico and a recently disgraced attorney general. All these are Judases.
A MAN SELLING BALLONS MOVES AMONG THE CROWD, HIS COLORFUL BOUQUET BOBBING ABOVE THEIR HEADS. There are venders selling typical souvenir T-shirts, sun visors and trinkets for children, but some of the items for sale are pure Mexico. Delicious soft tacos. Tropical fruit cups of orange papaya and mango, red strawberry and watermelon, creamy banana and jicima. A marinated mescal plant is sold leaf by leaf. Cold sweet potatoes. Unusual sweets. Biznaca, for instance, a candied cactus that’s yellow, chewy, and rather bland in taste. Cut into little pieces, es costumbre to include it in capriotada, the traditional Easter dessert of Jerez.
People pack balconies, flat roofs, and sidewalks along the parade route now. While cowboys still ride into town, others appear to be leaving. Certain men or horses look familiar. They’ve been by more than once. It finally dawns on us that this is the parade.
There are no female riders. No es costumbre en Jerez. The men are handsome, as all the people of Jerez tend to be: black hair and yes, warm but not dark complexions, high cheekbones and proud noses. Some wear grand suits with braided trim, while others are in blue jeans and fancy shirts. More than a few wear chaps, and I wonder if these are the real caballeros who work the cattle country that surrounds Jerez. A few of them have on Stetsons, but most of the men have on wide brimmed Mexican sombreros, each with it’s own distinctive decorative hat band and matching trim around the outer edge of the brim. They all wear cowboy boots and spurs.
“I’m in love,” said Doris.
“You don’t want to get mixed up with a cowboy,” said Barbara. “It’s a hard life for a woman.”
“Being single is a hard life for a woman,” said Doris.
So far, not being single has been a hard life for Doris too.
Soon the cowboys are patronizing the pick-up truck bars where they purchase and are served without dismounting. There are no laws against open containers in Mexico. Two boys riding double, sharing both a horse and a beer, demonstrate that there are also no age limits on drinking.
Many of the saddles are finely tooled. All of them feature the Mexican saddle horn as big around as a tortilla. The horses are gorgeous, especially a leopard appaloosa. It’s gray with dark spots all over and has a gray mane and tail. Another horse dances to the music of the marching bands that have joined the parade.
Suddenly there’s an explosion. Bang! Shrieks of surprise. Shrieks of joy. There is smoke in the air. The burning has begun. A horseman lassoes a figure, pulls it to the ground, and gallops off, dragging Judas at the end of the rope, pursued by other riders. An arm blows off. His head explodes. Finally, a cowboy cuts what’s left of him loose, but up and down Main Street the mayhem continues. The mechanic burns. A former president explodes into nothingness. The pop, pop, pop of firecrackers mingles with the clop, clop, clop of horseshoes on flagstones. All the dogs of Jerez howl or bark. I know the figures are no more real than scarecrows, but I feel like I’m witnessing a lynching. The crowd loves it. When no figures remain to punish, the onlookers, including us, leave balconies and roofs for the street. The marching bands are now dance bands. Barbara and Phlete waltz together on the flagstones. The street party continues all afternoon and into the night.
At sunset, a lone cowboy sits astride his horse and looks down the road leading out of town, into the hills. The road is open and clear as far as he can see. The horse rears up on his hind legs. They take off, lickedy-split. Faster and faster they gallop, hooves beating a furious flamenco on stone. It is a dramatic and fitting end to a day in the old west. Perhaps a wild ride back to the rancho es costumbre en Jerez.

The photos (by Gene Gaffney):
-Exterior of Barbara & Phlete’s place in Jerez with a beer truck on the corner below.
-Interior with Barbara, Mary, & Doris in front of a Daniel Brennan painting of San Miguel de Allende, MX
-3 views of the parade including the leopard appaloosa
-Burning Judas

part 3

AZUL GRANDE

"Roll up your windows, and lock your doors," said Gene as we drove into the outskirts of Belize City. Mike, Gino, and I locked and rolled quickly. We'd read there was a serious danger of being robbed in Belize's largest city.
We actually expected to leave town with more money than we had on arrival, thousands more. The money would come from the sale of Azul Grande, the big blue van we had driven from California through Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras and Belize. Selling an imported car is legal in Belize, and the capital city is where the official appraisal is made and the taxes paid. The tax is based on the appraised value, so we hoped for a low valuation.
We had a plan for protecting ourselves and our possessions while looking for lodging in this dangerous city: two of us would check out the hotel while the other two remained with the van. We wanted a telephone in our room, a feature that wasn't standard in that country in 1992. We needed to call all the people who had shown an interest in buying Azul Grande.
As soon as we'd crossed the border from Guatemala to Belize, we'd put a sign in the back window in Spanish, "Se Vende," and English, "For Sale." During the following month, half the population of the small Central American country had inquired about the particulars. The asking price was $3,500 U. S., and the buyer would pay the taxes.
We pulled up in front of a hotel and were met not by a doorman or parking attendant but by a ten-year-old boy with a bucket in his hand. "Wash de car man?"
"No," said Gene. "We may be here only a few minutes." As he and I got out of the van, he said to our brother Mike and our thirteen-year-old son Gino, "Lock and roll."
Mike sang a barely altered chorus from a song by “The Rolling Stones" - "I know: It's only lock and roll, but I like it, like it, yes I do." Mike was a red head with a mustache, a strong man in a fragile body. His neck no longer turned independently of the rest of his body. He had two artificial hips, trouble with his knees, and walked with the use of a cane that he now held at the ready as a weapon. He didn't have to hold it long before we returned.
"Too expensive," I said. "It's not worth $30 a day extra just to have a phone in the room."
"Can we go eat as soon as we find a place to stay?" Asked Gino. He has my coloring: dark hair, eyes, and skin and his father's deep voice and muscular physique. He was large for his age with an appetite to match.
"I'm hungry too," said Mike. Those two are always hungry.
Our next stop, the Mopan, is a landmark house on Regent Street with a large screened porch across the front. Like most of the buildings in Belize City, it looked a bit shabby. We were following our looking-for-lodging-in-a-dangerous-city routine. As Gene turned to lock the door on the driver's side, a man came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Gene whirled on him with every muscle in his body tense, the veins in his bullish neck showing. He was over reacting because the touch had caught him by surprise when he thought he was being alert to danger. We called Gene our muscle because of his powerful upper body and because he took his role as our protector seriously. Ordinarily, his blue eyes had a calm innocence that he was perfectly capable of exaggerating when it suited his purpose, but now his eyes were blue flames.
The man took a step back. "I just want to wash your car."
"Stay away from my car."
"I’m only trying to make an honest dollar," he called after us as we walked away.
They didn't have phones in the rooms at the Mopan, but the owner said Gene could use her office phone and that she'd send someone running up the three flights to get him if he received calls. We got the only room with a view of the bay, #303, at the end of a wide covered verandah. We brought our luggage and two folding lawn chairs up from Azul Grande. Mike stretched out on the bed for a few minutes while Gino set the chairs out on the verandah where there was already a bench. I unpacked the toiletries and set up the coffee pot. Gene made a quick repair on the ceiling fan. "Okay," he said. "Now we can go eat."
Waiting outside is the car washer. "This machine really needs cleaning," he said.
He was right. The mud of many rivers and the dust of many miles made the van more gray than blue. The washer man was old, and Gene was feeling mellower now that we were settled. He said, "I'll let you wash the car later, but not till I tell you, okay?" He explained to us, "I want the van dirty for the appraisal. It might make it lower."
An armed guard stood outside the entrance to Mom's, our dinner destination, so we knew Azul Grande was safe. Mom's is a funky old favorite with travelers from the United States, recommended to us by a friend. Besides tables and chairs, there is a lunch counter. Electric fans keep the warm air moving. Gene and I order Mexican food and Belikin's, a local beer. Mike is the most adventurous. He has Gibnut, a Creole specialty. Also known as Paca, Gibnut is a herbivorous rodent about the size of a badger. Although it is served with a tiny bit of fur still attached, it is fall apart tender and very tasty, somewhat like pork roast. Gino orders a hamburger, French fries, and a vanilla milk shake. The shake is thick but not too thick. His fries are golden brown. The meat tastes like hamburger. The bun is homemade, fresh and fragrant, and every condiment of choice is available. He’d been served enough disappointing burgers in our travels that he thought this meal was a minor miracle. We all agreed we'd return to Mom's.
Back at the hotel, Gene began to call the men who'd been serious enough about buying Azul Grande to give him their phone numbers. The only one who lived in Belize City was the Reverend Browning. We'd met him in Punta Gorda, a simple village on a narrow road that hugged the water. Reverend Browning visualized eight of his flock being transported to church services and socials in "the Van of God." The Reverend wasn't home. Gene left our number.
Rodney of Dangriga was home. Punta rock played in the background. He was still interested but hadn't got the money together yet. "You have 24 hours," Gene said.
The man from Crooked Tree, where we'd gone to see rare five feet tall Jabiru Storks, didn't have the money either.
Zandy, whom we'd met at the archeological ruins of Altun Ha, wanted the van for his tour business. He offered $2,000.
Gene said, "I'll drive it back to California before I'll take that kind of loss."
Sitting outside our room, sipping Belizian "Parrot" rum, Gene admitted we didn't have time for the long drive home. Besides, Azul Grande was purchased specifically to sell in Belize. Parts were easy to get. It had the high clearance needed on the bad roads.
Mike said, "If you take a loss, I'll absorb some of it. It'd still be cheaper than renting a car would have been."
"Maybe not at $2,000."
"You'll get more than that."
"I don't know," said Gene. "It's a short list."
"It only takes one," said Mike.
"I'm hungry," said Gino.
"We have a tin of sardines left," I said.
"No thanks."
"Metamucil?" offered Mike.
"No," said Gino. "I'm trying to quit."
Someone was running up the stairs. A young man appeared at the end of the verandah. "There's a call for Gene," he said breathlessly.
"I'll bring you back something," Gene told Gino. Mike waved his cane. Gene nodded to him, understanding that he wanted a snack too. In ten minutes, he returned with soft drinks. "This is all I could get. The call was from the Reverend. He's coming by for a test drive in the morning."
After the drive, the Reverend offered $2,500. Gene held out for the full $3,500. Reverend Browning said he'd ask for guidance from the Lord and money from his congregation. They'd talk again.
In between Gene making and waiting for phone calls, we devoted a good deal of our time to dining. We liked to sit out on the covered porch of Four Fort Street, an elegant old home converted to a restaurant with a few rooms to rent upstairs. They are known for their desserts. Homemade soursap ice cream had an unusual sweet and sour flavor. Sour sap fruit is the size of a grapefruit with conical but harmless horns on the lime green exterior. We had plenty of time to ask to see the fruit or to discuss how they made the cashew jam that was spread between fresh baked sugar cookies. It turns out, the cashew has both a fruit and a nut.
After visiting the Baron Bliss Institute, we had pretty much exhausted the sights to see in the city, but we couldn't spend all our time eating. We used our imaginations and walked from the Mopan to a horror movie set of a cemetery with overturned headstones, overgrown grounds, and out of control mosquitoes. "You'd think they'd take better care of this place," said Mike. "People are dying to get in here."
We shopped for music tapes of Punta Rock and photographed a store window that displayed towels, disposable diapers, women's clothing, and condoms, all in one window. We crossed the Haulover Creek swing bridge many times and never saw it swing. Our filthy vehicle elicited such a look of disapproval from the doorman at the fancy Fort George Hotel that we thought he might deny us entry, but he didn't. We swam and lunched poolside overlooking the bay. Locals hung out at the public pier across from the hotel just as they did in Beka Lamb, the novel I was reading by Belizian Zee Edgell.
We still practiced the precautions of paranoia, but it seemed that the notorious muggers and pickpockets had turned to a life of car washing. Gene gave the old man outside our place some money to keep an eye on the van.
Three hundred flights of stairs later, Gene had a deal. Reverend Browning had come up with $3,500, but out of that, he had to pay the taxes. What was left over was ours. Gene and the Reverend would take the van in for the tax assessor's appraisal the next morning. We decided to celebrate by making our return visit to Mom's. "I'm getting the hamburger this time," said Gene.
"Me too," said Gino. "And another shake."
"I think I'll get Gibnut," I said.
"To make the musical chairs meal complete, I'll have to get Mexican food," said Mike.
But there were no buns for burgers, no ice cream for shakes, and no Gibnut either. "Not even a small piece of fur?" asked Mike facetiously. The waitress was not amused. It was Sunday, and she'd rather be out at the cays or at least down at the pier.
"You'd think they'd get extra supplies on Saturday to tide them over till Monday," I said.
"Not all mom's are as organized as you," said Gino.
The meal was seasoned with too much disappointment to be a complete success, but at least we weren't hungry when we stepped back out on the street. Gene stopped in mid-stride. "Oh my God," he said. We all stared in shock at a sparkling clean Azul Grande. A raggedy Rastafarian with dread locks down to his bare shoulders stood next to the van, waiting for praise and payment. Gene turned on the armed guard. "How could you let this happen? What kind of a guard are you?" Dumfounded that anyone would be so upset about their car being washed, the guard didn't respond.
Gene looked like he was going to cry. He said, "I can't give him anything. Thanks to him, that's probably the most expensive dinner we've ever had."
"It could have rained," I said.
"But it didn't," he said. "And what am I going to tell the old man on Regent Street?"
Mike slipped Rasta man some money and said, apologetically, "He did a good job."
"Yeah," said Gene despondently. "The van looks great."

At the tax appraisal, Reverend Browning pulled Gene aside and asked, "Why'd you wash it?"
"I didn't." Gene told him the story.
The Reverend laughed. "If a car wash is the worst thing that happens to you in Belize City then the good Lord must be looking after you." He paid $600 in taxes. We left town with $2,900 and the knowledge that Azul Grande's dirty days were over.

*****************************

photos: first – Gino, Mary, & inspector at Guatemala/Belize border, second – another road less paved, to Punta Gorda, Belize,

Part 1 - Belize

DRIFTING TO HONDURAS


Many of our friends and family thought we were crazy when we decided to drive from Northern California to Belize by way of Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. It was a drive some of our peers made in the early 70’s, but when civil war and horror story violence broke out in Guatemala, that country fell off the tourist map for Americans. By 1992, things had calmed down, so Gene and I decided to make the longest road trip of our lives. Our youngest child, Gino, would accompany us. He would celebrate his first teenage birthday on the road. Our friend, Michael of Venice, would meet us at the great archeological ruin of Tikal and continue traveling with us through Belize.
When my sister, Barbara, and her husband, Phlete, drove the same route to Tikal, back in the day, the road was not paved. A black panther ran across the road in front of them. After all those years, the road still is not paved, but there were no panther sightings. We were warned that the road was not safe, but the dangers were guerillas or army. It was too late to turn back. It was illegal to sell the car in Guatemala, Honduras, or Mexico. We wanted and needed to get it to Belize. We decided, if someone tried to stop us, we would floor-board it and get away from them as fast as possible. The plan was concocted before we crossed the Rio Dulce and said adios to any hint of pavement. Things got so much slower then that an able bodied adult could run as fast as Azul Grande, our vehicle, and if they wanted trouble, trouble there would be.
A flat tire turned out to be our only problem, and we were successful in getting a room for four at the Jungle Lodge, right at the archeological site of Tikal. Our guide book said all the lodgings at the site were over priced, but we wanted to be there for the birds at sunrise and sunset.
This was not the first time we’d met up with Mike at an exotic location, and it was not to be the last. We’ve had foreign rendezvous with others, too, and it is always exciting. Whatever Mike lacks in physical dexterity, he makes up for with a flexible frame of mind and a sense of adventure. We climbed to the top of Mundo Perdido at daybreak and were rewarded with amazing wildlife sightings from this flat top pyramid. We didn’t see the elusive jaguar, but we saw monkeys, toucans, macaws, coatamundi’s, oh so much. We wandered around the huge site the rest of the day in an archeological ecstasy. We could have spent much longer, but Belize beckoned. It was a new country with more archeological ruins, wildlife, and snorkeling.

We found the mainland community of Placencia, Belize, at the end of a peninsula. On the approach, there is a laguna on one side of the road and the Caribbean on the other with only a few palm trees in between. The road runs behind the community but not through it. The main thorough fares are narrow sidewalks and pathways in the sand. One must get out of the car and walk around to find a place to stay or eat. From one end of town to the other is no more than half a mile.
We were told by two travelers we met elsewhere to eat at Brenda’s. It turned out to be next to where we were staying – all three tables. They sat directly on the sand, under a thatched roof, looking through hibiscus and palms to the water. Brenda was a huge black woman. Her menu was a small chalkboard which listed, “fish, shrimp, conch.” I ordered shrimp, and she said, “No shrimp.” So, two of us got fish, the other two conch. Conch is very much like abalone in taste and texture. Both come out of beautiful though dissimilar shells and need to be pounded to be tender. The fish and conch were accompanied, as practically every meal in Belize is, by coleslaw and Belizean rice and beans. The rice is cooked with coconut. Sometimes it is mixed with the beans; other times they’re served separately. It was all excellent.
Before we were through, two men from England arrived and asked if they could share our table since there was no place else to sit. We agreed, and Brenda promptly brought them plates of shrimp. “What’s your secret?” I asked.
“We ordered earlier,” was the reply.
“You want shrimp tomorrow?” asked Brenda. “No problem man. Anything you want, just tell me man.”
“Could you make up conch fritters?” I asked.
“No problem man! I’ll have some conch fritters and shrimp for you guys tomorrow night.”
On the short walk back to our lodging, it amused me to think we were walking to paradise. That was the name of the place we were staying – paradise. It wasn’t a hotel, motel, Bed and Breakfast, and it sure wasn’t paradise. Our two rooms were basic Belizean – mismatched, tattered bed linens, no closet, trash can, TV. The shared bath was in a separate building out back. A deep screened-in porch across the front faced the Caribbean. Brenda’s was next door, and at the end of a pier in front was an open air, thatched roof bar. I always want to be right on the beach, to go to sleep and wake up to the sound of the surf, to zone out just watching the waves come in and the waves go out. Between our porch, the bar, Brenda’s, and the picturesque community of Placencia, maybe it was paradise after all?
We weren’t able to get out on the water the next day because the weather was stormy, so we explored the village and played many games of Triominos which our daughter, Fawn, had given us for the trip. Gino did some of his independent study homework. Finally it was time for dinner at Brenda’s, and it great.
In no time at all, everyone knows what you’re up to in Placencia. Brenda asked, “You guys want some breakfast before you go snorkeling tomorrow? I’ll make you some sandwiches to take too.”

Morning broke clear and bright. We were excited that we got to make our snorkeling trip. Although Belize has the second longest barrier reef in the world, you can’t reach it from the mainland shore. A boat ride is required, or you need to be staying on an island.
After breakfast, we go down to the pier with our gear and the bag lunches Brenda prepared for us. The sandwiches were scrambled eggs, bacon, and tomato, a Caribbean specialty. We would have breakfast again for lunch.
The two guys who shared our table the first night were going out on the boat with us. The captain of the boat, Franklin, might not look any older than Gino if he didn’t have a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Gino is actually taller than Franklin, but he is also now taller than his Dad by a fraction. We just noticed this a few days ago, and Gino declared it the happiest day of his life. The previous happiest day of his life was also on this trip when he and Gene found a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue on sale on one of our many stops in Mexico. Gene was tactful enough not to admit to such elation himself.
So here I am, not magazine material, but still looking pretty good in a bathing suit and feeling even better at the prospect of a boat ride, seeing some beautiful fish, and having a picnic lunch on a little tropical island.
Franklin takes us to an island inhabited only by palm trees. It is so close to the reef that getting into the water without getting cut by coral is tricky, but the fish are plentiful, varied, and beautiful. When we get out to rest and have lunch, Mike gets a nasty coral cut on his shin.
No sooner had we finished our picnic than a sudden, torrential rain descended. When it let up a bit, Franklin said, “We head back now.” None of us argued with him.
At first, everything was fine out on the water in the boat, but then the sky and the water became an identical silver gray. There was no horizon, no differentiating between the sky and the water. Franklin turned off the motor. “I’ll save the gas for when I can see to get us home,” he said.
Now I realized how deserving we were of the name of our group of friends from college days – The Fools. Fools do not concern themselves with whether the boat they are going out on has a two way radio, flares, lights, extra gas, paddles, or buckets for bailing. We hadn’t insisted on life vests, and there were none. We started off with food, but we’d already eaten that. We hadn’t even demanded an adult to captain the boat. Gino was the only one on board younger than our captain. – Our very nervous captain.
The dad, the Boy Scout, the adult in Gene kicked in, and he leaned in close to the young man. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything is going to be alright.”
Franklin nodded.
Gene asked, “If the wind keeps going in this direction, where will be end up?”
Franklin said, “Honduras.”
So: we’re drifting to Honduras. We’ve already been to Honduras, but we drove rather than drifted. It was a long dirt road from Guatemala to Copan, Honduras. There are many major roads in Central and South America that are unpaved. Traveling them is almost as slow as drifting, but drifting to Honduras is not as scary as drifting out to sea. I don’t think they have sharks in the Caribbean, and I’m not going to ask. The party atmosphere has dissolved onboard, but nobody is panicked. We are cold but only in an uncomfortable way, not a life threatening manner.
“Does anyone have water?” asks Michael.
Before anyone answers, Gino calls out, “Look! There’s an island!”
Franklin starts the boat right up and heads for the island. “I know this place. We are not far from home.” There is a one room cabin on the island that we all crowd into. We barely fit. Franklin lights a cigarette. Everyone but Gino bums a smoke from him. We haven’t smoked in years, but this seems like a good occasion to make an exception. We probably wouldn’t object if Gino had one. Within half an hour, the weather clears. It isn’t blue skies and sunny, but it is clear enough for Franklin to steer a course back to Placencia.
As we walk past Brenda’s on our way back to Paradise, she calls out to us, “Hey, man! I’m barbequing chicken tonight.”
“Sounds good. Count us in.”
After getting into dry clothes, we walk out to the thatched bar at the end of the pier in front of Paradise. We drink and play Triominos until time for dinner. Tomorrow we leave Placencia for another adventure.

photos: #1 - Gene & friend atop Mundo Perdido, Tikal. #2 - Gene, Mike, & Gino in front of Temple 5, Tikal. #3 - partial map of Placencia. #4 - islet off Placencia.

Gentle's Cool Spot

GENTLE'S COOL SPOT

We were bumping and bouncing around Belize in Azul Grande, the big blue van we'd driven from California. My husband, Gene, and I, our thirteen-year-old son, Gino, and our brother, Michael, were looking for archeological ruins and wildlife.
A fellow traveler told us a man in Gale's Point could show us the rare manatee. We got out our map and found Gale's Point to be a little finger of land at the southern end of Manatee Lagoon, south of Belize City and north of Dangriga. According to our guidebook, the only place to stay was an expensive fishing lodge, but, since we'd been roughing it, we were ready for a hot shower, a private bath, or both.
The many glowing articles we'd read before our journey about ecotourism in this Caribbean country hadn't prepared us for the wobbly nature of their tourist infrastructure. With a few exceptions, nice comfortable accommodations were expensive. There was usually no range of choices. Travelers like us with more of a sense of adventure than a bankroll became intimately acquainted with threadbare linens that are not turned down at night or made up in the morning. We often felt in Belize that we weren't getting a good lodging value for the money spent, but there were always compensations. Seeing an anteater on a sunrise hike in Cockscomb made up for the ferocious insects that swarmed our ankles as we walked from the bunkhouse to the outhouse. Swimming with spotted eagle rays off South Water Cay made up for the lack of electricity and hot water in our $100 a day beach cabin, but it wasn't until Gale's Point that we realized how much our travel dollars were buying. We paid more than at a camp site, but we didn’t have to set up a tent or blow up an air mattress, and we got to see fabulous wild life and beautiful places.
The village had no telephone service, and there was no answer on the lodge's two-way radio. We decided to take a chance on arriving without reservations and pointed Azul Grande toward the manatees.
We were on a trip back in time. The road to yesterday was hard and slow, unpaved, unsigned, with a river crossing that didn't include a bridge. Grass grew between the two dirt tracks that bisected the peninsula of Gale's Point. No need to worry about street names. There was just the one road with humble homes on stilts scattered along either side. Electricity to the village had only been operating one month. There was no restaurant, no store, and, as it turned out, no lodging. The fishing lodge had closed. It was 5:00 p.m. and hours from anyplace else to stay. Azul Grande would sleep three but not four. We had sleeping bags but no tent. None of us wanted to sleep on the ground because since we'd been in Belize, we'd already seen two of the most poisonous snakes in the world: a colorful coral snake at Crooked Tree and the venomous viper with a lance shaped head, the fer-de-lance, near the Thousand Foot Waterfall. No. We didn't want to sleep on the ground.
We retreated to the only commercial establishment in the village, "Gentle's Cool Spot." A cool spot in Belize is an informal cafe. "Gentle's" had six tables with chairs in an open-air area with a roof. Like everything else in the village, it was on that one unpaved road. Most cool spots serve food and drink, but "Gentle's" only served soft drinks and Belikans, the beer of Belize. No place to stay and no dinner either. We were all hungry and disappointed, but only Gino and I whined. Mr. Gentle said there was a man named Chip who had two beds we could probably use. "How will I find Chip?" asked Gene.
"He's a tall dark man,” said Mr. Gentle. Gale's Point is a community of blacks, and all the men, and women too, are tall and thin. So we drove along asking every man we saw if he was Chip. Since the population was less than 300, we found Chip. He agreed to rent us his beds. Gene and Michael, ever gallant, wanted Gino and me to have the beds, but we chose the van. We didn't inspect the beds and then make the choice. Perhaps we preferred the van because it was more familiar, almost a home on wheels.
Mr. Gentle's wife had agreed to serve us "tea" when we returned. Instead of seating us at one of the "Cool Spot" tables outside, we were ushered into the family kitchen. Rather than tea, she gave each of us a cup of boiling hot instant coffee. Gino looked at me questioningly. I shrugged slightly. I wasn't going to fuss at him if he didn't choose this time to start drinking coffee. In the center of the oilcloth covered table, she placed a bowl of pureed corned beef and a large round loaf of bread that she'd baked herself. They called the bread a "Creole bun." It had coconut in it and was delicious. I wondered if Mr. Gentle's large family had to forgo this tasty treat in order to feed us hungry travelers.
It wasn't a great surprise to find out that Mr. Gentle was the manatee man. He agreed to take us out in his boat early the next morning. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that we'd see them.
Chip's place was across the road from the town pier. We took a bottle of chilled California Chardonnay from our ice chest out to the end of the pier and settled down to watch the night. With places to sleep, food in our stomachs, and a promise of manatee sightings, our spirits were lifted. Now we noticed how magnificent the coconut palms and spreading mango trees were, with more fruit than the inhabitants could consume. Every home had a view of the lagoon, a lagoon so shallow there'd never been a drowning in Gale's Point.
Now we could appreciate that Chip would give up his own bed for the night and sleep in a hammock. The other bed he was renting us belonged to their Peace Corps volunteer who was away. They were crazy about their Peace Corps worker in Gale's Point. She was teaching them that protecting manatee rather than eating them would help attract tourist dollars to their village, a hard lesson for a poor fishing village to learn considering a male manatee may weigh over 1,000 pounds. That's a lot of food. Our presence was proof that the Peace Corps worker was right.
The United States Peace Corps, the Audubon Society, and the World Wildlife Fund have all been instrumental in educating the people of Belize in the advantages of ecotourisim. Mr. Gentle was in the process of building a very basic cabin to house future tourists. The people who stay in that cabin will pay for more than marginal accommodations. They'll be contributing, as we were, to the survival of a special spot and species. If the tourist dollar helps Belizians protect their monkeys, coral reef, pyramids, birds, jaguars, and manatees, then the traveler has a bargain, and so does the environment.
We watched a full mango moonrise. The reflected moon quivered on the still waters of Manatee Lagoon. Silence settled on us like a soft feather comforter. It was the quiet of the wilderness, those places far from televisions, VCR's, tape decks, dishwashers, cars. Azul Grande was the only car in town that night. Soon the accouterments of electricity would be there too. We weren't really in the wilderness. We were in a place caught between yesterday and today, and we felt fortunate to be in that place.

When we met Mr. Gentle for our boat trip, he said sadly, "It's a bleaky morn."
Gene looked at the overcast sky with a frown and asked, "Will that interfere with us seeing the manatee?"
"Oh, no," Mr. Gentle assured him. He launched the boat, and we began our search for the herbivorous, docile, shy creature sometimes called a sea cow. At first, we thought Mr. Gentle was going slowly because we were searching, but he explained that one of the greatest threats to the manatee is boat motors. The big guys can't swim fast enough to avoid a boat moving at high speed.
Fifteen minutes out, he turned off the motor. We could see land but weren't near shore. "Now we will see the manatee," he said. Silvery Tarpon leaped around us. Two or three at a time were in the air. Were they taunting and tempting us? Did they miss the sport of evading a fishing lure? Or were they celebrating the closing of the fishing lodge? We were so enchanted with the sparkling silver spectacle that we were almost startled when Mr. Gentle said, "That is he." Mr. Gentle pointed a long finger at a large dark bulbous form just under the water's surface. The manatee was fourteen feet long and very near the boat. He stuck his nose out of the water, took a breath, and, with a stroke of the two paddle shaped appendages in front, disappeared. Manatee's are mammals and must come up for air every ten minutes, but what's unique about them is that they like to return to the same spot to breath. It's their version of "Gentle's Cool Spot." Now we knew why Mr. Gentle had been so certain we would see them.
We observed the manatee long enough for me to become convinced that they couldn't possibly have inspired the legend of the mermaid, as some sources say. We'd lost count of the number of noses that had surfaced when Mr. Gentle said, "Now we will see the birds."
That was the first I'd heard of birds on that particular outing, but we were always interested in wildlife. As we motored along, Mr. Gentle pointed out wild orchids in bloom and a long snake draped along a bare tree branch. He called the snake "walla."
When we reached tiny Bird Island in North Lagoon, he said, "This is what you came to see." Hundreds of white ibis, snowy egrets, and egret chicks were nesting together on the branches of low growing trees, the chicks as fluffy as dandelion puffs. "They're just so pretty," he said and repeated, "This is what you came to see." It was funny because it wasn't what we'd come to see. We hadn't known about the nesting birds, and we wouldn't have seen them if it wasn't for Mr. Gentle, a man who cared for many families: his own, the manatees, the birds, and the travelers.
"Cool," said Gino, the ultimate current compliment from a teenager. Indeed, there was more than one Gentle’s Cool Spot.

photos: #1 - Mr. Gentle & kids at his "Cool Spot." #2 - Crossing a river without a bridge. #3 - Our outhouse at Chips.

BLACK-EYED G AND THE PEA PICKERS

We sat around our kitchen table, reading the Corpus Christi Caller Times newspaper and drinking coffee. Mother was the only one of us who still lived in the house, but my sisters, Barbara and Doris, and I, still thought of it as ours. It was the place we had lived from the day we were born until we went off to school and points further down the line, and we tried to reunite there for a visit every summer.
Mother exclaimed, "Here's an ad for a place in Aransas Pass where you can pick your own black-eyed peas,"
Barbara's husband, Phlete, came in the back door while Mother was speaking, and said, "Mary and Gino didn't come all the way from California to Texas to spend vacation time picking peas." We females all looked askance at his statement. "Oh. Is this a girl thing?"
"Probably," said Doris. "Among hunter/gatherers, I think most of the hunters were men and most of the gatherers were women. We must go gathering."
"Besides," I said, "the only fresh black-eyed peas I can get in California have green dye added to them."
"We could take the car ferry over to the island afterward, so Gino could play on the beach." Mother cleverly enlisted her five year old grandson's interest in the outing.
We set off from Corpus Christi early the next morning, dressed in long pants, long sleeves and sun hats, in an effort to avoid too much summer sun. When we arrived at the large sandy field of peas, Gino proposed a contest between the three generations of pickers to see who could fill their bushel basket first. We all accepted the challenge. Mother separated herself from the group and bent to the task, moving methodically from one low bush to the next. In her calico sun-bonnet, ruffled in back to protect her neck, she had an old fashioned look that went back further than her actual years. Gino looked at his Grammy with a mixture of disappointment and new respect when she won the contest.
Nothing stimulates the appetite like hard work, fresh air, and feelings of virtue. We were ravenous. We went to a seafood restaurant on the Rockport harbor. Without looking at menu's we ordered fried shrimp and oysters. Like our peas, they'd just been harvested that morning and still tasted of the salty Gulf water. Softness of small oysters off-set by coarse, crunchy corn meal crust. Sweet white shrimp in fluffy golden batter. Incomparable.
As we ate and sipped tall glasses of iced tea, we watched a shrimp boat arrive in port from the Gulf of Mexico. A raucous entourage of black masked Laughing Gulls followed the boat, ready for their lunch too.
Mother said, "Except for the watermelon and that itty bitty bag of okra, the trunk of the car is full of black-eyed peas."
"We sure are good pea pickers!" said Gino, his black eyes wide in amazement.
"We should call you black-eyed G," Barbara said to her nephew. “In the dark of your eyes I see my whole family, but none of us have whites like yours. They’re so perfect and bright.”
"Now we have to shell all those peas," said Mother, her tone neither resigned nor

discouraged. She sounded like the fun had only just begun.


Heading down the two lane highway to the ferry boat landing, Gino pointed to a Great Blue Heron wading in the shallow lagoon that embraced with side of the roadway. Although we couldn’t yet see the landing, it was already the only possible destination. The blacktop charged straight ahead to land’s end, but blinking lights and automatic roadblocks prevented us from driving off into the water.
“Here comes a ferry,” said Doris. “Have you ever been on a car ferry?” Gino shook his head no.“ After all the cars on the boat drive off, we can drive on, and it’ll take us across the water to Port Aransas.”
On board we got out of the car and stood at the railing, watching an escort of leaping porpoises and a daredevil diving exhibition by a Least Tern. Gino nearly cried when we reached the other side because the boat ride had been too short.
At the beach, we drove directly on the hard packed sand. It was a weekday, so it wasn’t crowded. Se drove further than we needed simply because it was fun. “This is so rad.” Gino used his favorite 1984 expression.
I parked the car, and Barbara, Doris, Gino, and I stripped down to our bathing suits. Mother took off only her shoes and socks and rolled her pants up a bit. She set a folding beach chair just beyond water’s edge. An occasional energetic wave would race far enough in to dampen her toes. She’d saved some bread from lunch and showed Gino how to feed the crowd of Laughing Gulls that had magically materialized as soon as she brought out the bread. They would tear off a little piece, throw it in the air, and a sea gull would swoop in for a bite to eat. When the bread was all gone, Mother watched Gino and her “girls” play in the warm Gulf of Mexico water. No matter how old we got, we’d always be her “girls.” She started shelling the black-eyed peas.
Separating the peas from their slender outer pods took days. In the mornings we shelled in the shade of the deep front porch, in the afternoons by Barbara’s pool, watching Gino and taking turns swimming and playing with him. One night we worked in front of the TV. Another evening we sat around the kitchen table, watching the pile of pods in the middle of the table grow taller as we also savored the subtle aroma of black-eyed peas simmering with a ham hock. Friends who dropped by pitched in, visiting longer and leaving happier for not being idle. That community of effort is the secret ingredient in many a pot.
On that trip I felt I traveled not only through space but also through time, back to an era when life was slower and women could share and enjoy child care and gathering and preparing food. I know there are many who would say, “Good riddance to those old ways.” But I would gladly buy a return ticket to that woman’s world; If only I could. The car ferry, sweet shrimp, great bird watching, and miles of white sand beach are still there, and surely there’s a field of pick-your-own black-eyed peas in season. What’s missing is my people. My Mother passed on. My sisters and friends moved away. Another family sits in that kitchen. The white’s of Gino’s eyes aren’t what they used to be either.

photo: Grammy & Gino feeding seagulls, Texas