EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1
Remember

I needed a vacation! That was the answer. I hadn’t taken a vacation for a little over a year, and it was due to me. My boss had promised one for a very long time, but somehow things had always gotten in the way.

I was the head columnist for one of the daily papers in New York, a smaller edition with not too wide an audience. Even so, it managed to put quite a bit of work on my lap; enough to keep me busy until the next century. In New York, there was always something to write about, so I had my work cut out for me. However, I was never the distinguished writer I had always longed to be. Somehow all the big newspapers always managed to get the great stories, while I always ended up with their scraps. Through the years I’d caught one or two good stories (which were somewhat interesting and kept me at my job with a semi-decent reputation as a writer), but I was never good at what I did. I was there because they could rely on me to have something; even if it was the sort of story that one sets on the coffee table for a coaster. The job wasn’t great, but at least it paid the rent.

After my last assignment, a high-interest story that earned the paper critical acclaim, I finally earned my reward for all the hard work I had done. My boss, Mr. Freior, told me that the paper was going to let me take that overdue time off in the form of a dream vacation. At long last, I could leave my reality and relax: pay without having to work, a company charge card with a $4000 limit, and airline tickets for two anywhere I chose to go. Of course, he asked me to keep my eyes pealed for any interesting story that might come up. That meant he would be expecting something when I returned. He would not get it!

I made all my reservations in advance through It’s a Small World Travel Agency. “Anywhere,” I told the agent over the phone, “as long as it is far from resembling New York City and all its half apples; then it will be paradise to me.”

Destination: the tropical island of Natial, west of the Rio Grande Ridge, southwest of the island of Trinidad, about 45 Degrees Longitude and 30 Degrees latitude, in the Atlantic Ocean. It is an unknown and unspoiled island that few have ever heard of. That was the type of place where I could spend an isolated vacation without the rot of tourism.

Packing was enjoyable. There was no need for heavy coats, and I was glad. I hated the cold. Never knew why I spent all my life in New York. Born and raised, I guess it was the only place I knew.

I started to imagine what it would be like if I were taking my wife on vacation with me. I wouldn’t have to waste one of the tickets, if that were the case. I had never married, and was not even close to it. Yet single was not uncommon, for a man of my age in New York. I was only 32, and not high enough in the game to take the plunge. If I’d had a wife, she would have been helping me pack, as I shaved in the bathroom. I would finish and come out to help, commenting to her on how pretty her outfits were. I would not allow her to carry a single bag down to the cab, as I strained to treat her like a princess. Yes, it would have been nice to be married.

* * *

It was a pleasant flight, with no turbulence and a smooth landing. I walked down the steps of our plane and before my eyes was paradise, and my escape. My reality melted with the luscious canvas painted trees, the red and orange fruits, and saffron-lemon carpet of soft, yellow sand. It was sand, sand, sand, everywhere sand! I couldn’t wait to get my shoes off, to throw them out, and squish my feet in it. There were so many colors. In one place everything was yellow, in another it was red, and where they met, it blended into a savory brown that resembled the color of some fruits, making you want to take a bite. My fantasy had come true, and I was ready to give up all of my homely troubles and tortures to relax here for the next 31 days, or forever, whichever came first. The waves seemed to be greeting me in; each splashing a hello and good-bye, telling me we would soon meet to form a romance between the two of us.

The airport was so small; I was amazed the plane had room enough to land. The strip couldn’t have been more than thirty feet long, just a pin in a stack of paradise. Outside of the plane, in a gush of warm tropical air, I took a deep breath. No air could be cleaner. I was renewed with every breath. Just a few breaths made me feel lighter and stronger. The luggage didn’t weigh as much, I wasn’t out of breath, and I felt my age for the first time ever. There was a friendly taxi-man, just outside customs, that offered to help me with the luggage. I would have let him, but I wanted to enjoy this feeling of new strength a while, so I made him feel unhelpful as I put my bags into the trunk of his beat-up taxi.

It was nice that the travel agency had set everything up so that I didn’t have to do anything but relax. My agent said the lodging was the nicest on the island, but not to expect much. She had tried to talk me into going somewhere else, assuring me that I would not like it when I got there, but I wasn’t into luxury. I only wanted to relax; to get away, and so far this place was perfect. The place I had reserved offered breakfast, lunch, dinner, laundry, and cleaning. I wouldn’t have to worry about any of it.

The driver smiled when I handed him the name of the hotel. “Ah Blanca... She will take care of you nice.” That was good, I thought. It was nice to be reassured. I was going to tip this man well. He also offered to take me on a tour of the island after I got settled in. He wanted to take me right then, but I told him that I’d rather check in first, relax a bit, and then go with him after a nice meal. He arranged to pick me up at 5:00. The whole tour would be just $10. I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t even get down the block for that in New York.

When we arrived I handed the man five dollars, which he refused, saying that he would collect after I was through with his services for the day. It must have been his way to ensure the later promised tour. I got out of the car, and this time I let him help with the bags.

The place was a big rancho-house, not like a hotel. It was big and long with unique architectural structures, very nice to look at. Not luxurious, but nice. The roof was about twenty feet up, made of straw and red tiles. Some spots had more straw than tiles, but it didn’t look as if it had been the workings of a bad patch job. The walls were white, with big wooden doors that had no finish. There was a balcony on the second floor that surrounded the entire house. It was long and curved like a horseshoe, with a small patio in the center. It looked like a perfect painting stroked by the hands of a master landscape artist.

There were some chickens and ducks clucking about, scratching here or pecking there. A cat sat on the windowsill and a dog was curled under a table that was set outside. It didn’t appear as though there were any other guests staying. A rope hung on the patio, with some clothes hung and dripping dry, an indication of someone that had been working there.

The taxi-man took my luggage inside, into a first-level room that I wasn’t sure was supposed to be mine, but he looked like he knew what he was doing so I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t resist a quick peek. It was a large room with a large bed full of heavy blankets and a ceiling fan. I didn’t take a long look because I didn’t want to seem like I was prying.

A little lady came running from the road. She noticed the taxi had come to her house and she came rushing. “Mr. Finch, it is yous? I sorrys I come so late. I have to go look for you in dis airport, but you not der. I so sorry. I glad you here.” She was very exited to have me there and had gone all the way to the airport to find me.

It was so completely courteous of her, I thought, but of course she didn’t find me there. That was too bad. I felt sorry for her having gone all that way in vain. She was even holding a piece of cardboard that had my name written on it. She was very friendly, even more so than the taxi driver, more like a mother.

“You find your room ok?” she asked.

“Yes, I think this is it, isn’t it? The taxi-man showed me where it was.”

“Yes that is the one.”

“I’m sorry if you were put out by me not waiting for you at the airport, but the travel agency didn’t inform me that I would be picked up, so I took a cab.” I was concerned about her having gone to such trouble for me and added, “You didn’t have to walk all that way, did you?”

I’m not sure if she understood me correctly because she just gave me a confused look, as though I had spoken in French. “Put out? What dis?” She had not understood what I had said so I assumed she had walked. That made me feel embarrassed, to have caused such trouble. The taxi-man spoke some words to her, most of which I didn’t understand because they were speaking in Spanish. He must have apologized for me because she smiled at me.

“Fives o’clock, I come to get you,” he said, then left content as I nodded my endorsement.

The lady approached, very mild and pleasant. “My name iz: Argentina Molina de Senger Blanca, or Blanca is okay.” She stood a moment so I could repeat her name back to her, then she went on. “I can make ready for yous to eat in five minutes after you like your room.”

She took me to the room again and explained that she would cook three times a day for me at any time I liked. If for any reason I didn’t like her schedule, I could tell her when I wanted to eat and she would change it for me. She also said that she would do my laundry and clean up for me.

What a great deal I had found! This definitely was turning out to be far more than I expected. A better look at my room left me satisfied, once again. There were no luxuries, but it was very comfortable. The walls were made of adobe. There were probably a few spiders, even scorpions, living in it, but it was kept clean enough that I didn’t think they were going to be a problem.

I put my suitcases on the bed and began to situate myself. A little while later Blanca came, bidding me to eat. She said she had prepared something to help me “strengthen up”. I’m not sure if she said “fatten” or “strengthen,” because she mixed Spanish into her sentences; and I couldn’t remember the translation of the verb she used.

In either case, it was real good and I think it was meant to make me fatter because it must have had at least 20,000 calories. It had everything from guacamole to red meat in it and was completely saturated with fat. She also made some sort of fried flour bread, very greasy, on which she put some meat and melted cheese, then she sliced a tomato and gave it to me plain. It was a different style of eating, but very satisfying. We sat for a while and got accustomed to each other. She asked normal questions: what I liked to eat, what kind of food I was used to in the states, and all sorts of questions about the states; all of this until the taxi man returned.

I looked at my watch... He was punctual, I thought, and looked more exited than I was. “Well, are you ready don? I back for you.” A great smile slid across his face, a very happy man, yet I couldn’t help but notice the decaying state of his teeth.

We got into his taxi and drove on the dirt roads that filled the island. There were paved roads as well, but these were few. Most of them were by the airport and through the main part of the island; but we weren’t going there. We were going to “more interesting parts,” as the taxi-man stated, so we had to drive through a little bit of bumpiness. I guess that’s why his car was in such bad shape. Any newer car would have been hammered through such conditions. Most of the islanders didn’t have cars either, nor were there more than a handful of buses, so there wasn’t a great demand for asphalt anyway.

On the way, we passed one of those buses. Just looking at it was more exciting than any of the explanations my tour guide/taxi-man was offering. He mumbled all sorts of stuff about the landscape and its folklorist traditions; but the locals were already providing much more entertainment. The bus was loaded to twice its maximum capacity. There were people hanging from open doors, with all sorts of junk piled up on top, making the bus twice its original height. Livestock was everywhere: on the top, inside, and hanging from every window.

There were also two fellows hanging from the rear bumper, probably stowaways trying to stay on through all the bumps. Chickens were being pulled in by their owners. I imagined they must have been trying to stick their heads out for a fresh breath. How could anyone breathe in there? I thought. It was a sardine can! It was worse.

I laughed, interrupting the taxi man’s ongoing ramble. The bus driver had stopped and was chasing the men who had been hanging on the bumper. They ran a few steps, and then got right back on the bumper when the bus started going again. The bus itself was a death trap. It wasn’t going much faster than a fast run. Anyone could go faster on a bike.

The bus stopped again and the two were off and running. The bus driver began yelling all sorts of foul Spanish to them and it was obvious now these two hadn’t paid. I didn’t blame them. Who would pay for a ride on that? They were probably safer on the back than inside. We passed up the bus and the taxi man, whose name I finally found was Oscar Hugo when he made some reference to himself in third person, continued giving the spoken tour of the land. On and on it went, like a never-ending sermon. I didn’t find any of it interesting until he pointed out what was going on up ahead.

A dozen or so villagers were carrying a wooden statue dressed in all sorts of curious clothes, while another thirty of them held a tight formation around it. Most of them were holding up candles and yelling out some chant into the wind. They were having a procession to a famous local Saint, “El Gauchito Gill”; and it was all pretty strange to me, never having seen anything quite like it before.

The taxi man proceeded to tell me the story of this “El Gauchito” who had lived on the island and who had become a local folklore legend, eventually reaching the status of sainthood. I was interested because I had never heard of “El Gauchito” in any of my doctrinal courses. He was more than a saint – he was an island god.

I saw the carved statue of a man that looked like a cowboy dressed in leather riding pants and the usual button-down flannel. The most distinct feature of his garb was a long red scarf, wrapped around his neck, that hung over the wooden tablet by which he was carried. He held a long machete in one hand, and a clenched fist on the other. There was also a pronounced wooden cross behind him that, I was told, was a symbol to him being a martyr.

We returned to the hotel hours later, after more touring and a stop for supper at a local bayside restaurant. I threw in a nice tip for Oscar. He drove away happy, as his taxi puffed and coughed like a sick child. The next couple of days were relaxing. I spent them at the beach and enjoyed the waves that had been calling me. It was a fabulous place. The people were all the same, all so friendly and cordial. It soon became apparent that God, the God I knew, was giving his blessings to the people in this place, the place where I felt so at home.