"Adventures of King Prawn"
Travelogue of Bali, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Mexico

June/96

6/7/96

  Friends can attest to the fact that I don’t like having my records played when I’m around. It seems to shift the focus from just being, to being aware of being. Does that make sense? I’d rather talk about the weather than what someone does or doesn’t feel about my music. It really doesn’t make any difference. All it does is stroke or aggravate my ego. (And my ego is already taxed enough without compounding the workload.) So, suffice it to say that if my music has to be played in a bar, or a setting where nobody knows it’s my music, then I try to keep that bit of information secret, so that I can save the listener the brain cells involved with coming up with something to say. So why am I bringing this up? Here’s why: I’m sitting in Mark’s Restaurant, in Bucerias, Nayarit. It’s basically an expat watering hole. The owners, Mark and Jan, are a very nice couple, but they spend more on olives than they do on music. After numerous requests from them, I give them a couple of my CD’s, but insist that they not play them when I’m around. As my pizza comes to the table, I hear the opening bars of “La-De-Da”. I say nothing and give no indication to the others at the table that the music is mine. The album plays in its entirety and conversation continues undisturbed. Then, Karen, a charismatic waitress from Manchester (the accent has to be heard to be fully appreciated), enters with her cousin. It’s her night off. They’ve been drinking and decide to sit with me. (Luckily, my album is over and I don’t have to worry about what their reactions may or may not be.) And then I hear the opening bars of “Enchantment” come on. I immediately start a conversation, about nothing in particular, so that there wont be a pause in which the music stands revealed. But it’s no use. Que sera, sera.

  “The music’s a lot better when I’m working here,” says Karen, in disgust. “Mark and Jan have no taste.”

  “Yeah, this is pretty boring stuff,” adds her cousin.

  “This shit sucks,” is Karen’s final critique.

  “It’s mine,” I say, just to see them squirm. It takes a moment for them to digest what I’m saying. They stumble into comprehension. Did I mean it was my music, or did I own the tape that was being played? When my meaning becomes clear, they stammer through some apologies, saying that the music would most certainly be great in other circumstances, you know, for going to sleep, or something like that. I preferred the honesty of their original statements to their transparent attempts at mollifying me.

  Antonio is a sculptor from Barcelona. He’s lived in Puerto Vallarta for over ten years. One day, he and an American woman go to Taxco, a pueblo famous for its silver craftsmanship, to make some purchases for Antonio’s gallery. Antonio has made sure to obtain the Almighty “factura” (tax document) which indicates that taxes have been paid for the goods he’s bought. They drive from Taxco to Mexico City and go to the airport to take the flight back to Vallarta. Afraid to check-in the duffel-sized bag full of silver goods, he decides to carry them with him. They have only moments to catch their flight. Then they get to the security check. Three gorillas in police uniforms, the security guards, start making lewd comments about the gringa, and seeing all the silver in the X-ray machine, start to hassle Antonio. He shows them the factura to let them know that he has not done anything wrong. He begins to perspire profusely. They pull him aside and say they’ll let them go if he gives them two hundred dollars. (This is the Mexico City airport!) Antonio has less than two dollars left on him and tells them so. They say that they’ll have to detain him to check everything out. Antonio suggests that they each take a piece of silver, instead. The gorillas take him into a back room (Antonio said that at this point, he had scenes from “The Midnight Express” running through his head.) and open up the duffel bag. One of the gorillas shoves his paws into the bag and pulls out two heaping hands-full of silver bracelets and ornaments. He stuffs his pockets so that they bulge like his stomach. The other gorillas repeat the process. Antonio and the gringa catch their flight and return with one third the goods.

  The handshake that is common in Mexico is a variation of the well known handshake. It begins with the classic grasp, then all fingers but the thumb release and swing upwards, wrapping themselves around the other person’s thumb (much like the position for arm wrestling). The fingers are released and return to the classic position, once again. (I can’t help but remember the greeting in Thailand and Laos: the wai. Hands in prayer position, at chest height, with the head slightly bent as the greeting is said. That gesture, its beauty, grace, reserve, and gentle nature, has touched me like no other greeting in the world. At times, when combined with a “thank you,” I was almost moved to tears by the wai.)

  A young construction worker walks by in mid-afternoon. The bottom of his shirt is lifted over one shoulder, revealing his sweaty torso. Having seen this peculiar fashion statement repeatedly, I ask a Mexican friend of its significance. He says that a perspiration-laden stomach is considered sexy, a come-on, in this country.

  Jeff, an Englishman, and I went to Guadalajara to check out the car auctions. Tired of being stuck in one place, the result of no easy means of transportation, I decided to go the city purported to have the best deals. I ended up buying a 1993 Ram Charger (Club Cab Limited). For me to purchase, and drive, a vehicle of this sort is as strange as if I were to begin wearing the bottom of my shirts over my shoulders. The evening after the purchase, we decided to go out and celebrate. Once in a taxi, we asked the driver to take us to a nice club; somewhere considered popular by the locals. Twenty minutes later, we ended up at “Kaos”. Frisked for guns at the entrance, we were led into a stadium, of sorts. There was a stage, elevated some five to seven feet, surrounded by hundreds of tables. On stage, next to the familiar “support” poles, danced (gyrated?) two girls. They were clad, momentarily, in faux leather. (Some manufacturer is making a killing on car upholstery and tasteless clothing.) Considering the heat and humidity, I couldn’t help but wonder what aroma their attire emitted after the girls’ nightly routines. The taxi driver reappeared to ask us if we would like the loveliest girl in the establishment to come and join us. She did. Her name was Elizabeth. Her personality was negligible. Basically, she was an attachment to her oversized breasts. We ordered drinks and, after a few sips, Elizabeth got up “to change”. She returned with “a friend,” (humans are slaves to symmetry) who instantly ordered a drink. (Seven dollars a drink!) Her friend had long blonde (dyed) hair which was thick and almost Rasta-like in its matted state. She had beautiful green eyes. They were both dressed for work. By that, I mean that they wore something akin to shoestrings. Massive breasts spilling out of bikini tops. Nipples, wide, large, like huge egg yolks, dripping out skimpy tops, three sizes too small. We exchanged the perfunctory greetings and engaged in the necessary conversation. Elizabeth was now sitting on Jeff’s lap. I turned to the other.

  “Como te llamas?”

  “Sorpresa.” (“Surprise”)

  “Si, pero eso no es tu nombre verdadamente. Tengo razon?” A pause. No response. “No importa,” I continued, “no es necessario decirme.” Another pause. Then she bent over and whispered “Jalema” into my ear. I didn’t know if this revelation were any more real than the first, or if it was supposed to make me feel good, or important, or if I should feel that I’d been given the keys to her heart. I mean, let’s face it, guys are suckers. We’re molded and toyed with like the perennial children that we are. To think that some gringo, me, that is, can walk in, sit at a table, and instantly transform a woman from lap dancer to girlfriend (Pygmalion revisited) requires a great deal of naiveté or alcohol; neither of which I had an abundance of that evening. Having completed her second drink with a rapidity that would have been enviable if it were cheaper, or a drinking contest, Sorpresa asked if she could have yet another drink. (The result of my recent tenure in Asia, I was somewhat accustomed to being seen as nothing more than a biped ATM machine from which tantalizing tarts made withdrawals; sometimes after I’d made a deposit.) I said, “No,” that there was really no reason for me to continue buying drinks for her. I explained that we’d known each other for less than ten minutes, that our conversation was superficial, at best, and that since sex was certainly out of the question, could she think of a logical reason why I should continue to finance her habit? She had no response. Two minutes later, she and Elizabeth went back to change (again?) for their performances. Jeff was concerned that I may have scared off the girls from any pontential activities he had in mind. Elizabeth was the first to take the stage. Dressed in some gaudy cowboy outfit (Dolly Parton on really bad acid), she barely moved to the music. As her dancing did nothing to increase our desire, there was nothing left to do but wait for the second number, during which she would become nude. And she did. But nothing changed. She was still an attachment to her breasts, but not a very exciting one. She struck a couple of poses, which, to a semen transporting unit, (you know, some pubescent enslaved by raging hormones) would have probably seemed vaguely arousing, and then got off the stage. Jeff, not pubescent, now wanted her phone number even more. Then Sorpresa took the stage. (Not that it makes any difference, but I forgot to say that she was from Cuba.) What had, until recently, seemed nothing more than a (relatively) sedate drinking machine, exploded into dance. This woman embodied raw sexuality. (I think I prefer mine medium rare.) The crowd went nuts. Soon, she was naked. Her pubic hair was shaved in the shape of a heart. Her breasts, as mountainous as Elizabeth’s (testaments to the efficacy of gravity) were lifted and jiggled and then wrapped around the pole. It was everything but sexy. She climbed up the pole with the skill and strength of a firefighter, and then, locking her feet, swung upside down and descended, slowly, head first. Men (boys?) were on their feet screaming. One guy held up his ice bucket, containing champagne, and implored her to drink. She took a swig from the bottle and then removed an ice cube from the bucket. She placed it in her vagina, pulled it out, rubbed it around her labia, and then fed it to the man. She then poured the bucket of ice over his head. Pandemonium. This, there was no doubt, was a professional. I was lucky to have gotten off with a mere $14 investment. As the announcer repeated the name “Sorpresa” to the tumultuous applause of the audience, we made our way out to the taxis. On the way home, Jeff discussed air fares to Havana.


6/8/96

  It’s another beautiful day at the beach. Under a palapa, I contemplate the machinations of the universe. Okay, maybe considering cuddling with the cute little chiquita on the corner doesn’t qualify as cosmology (how’s that for alliteration?) but allow me some poetic license here. Anyway, I have two beers, salsa Mexicana, guacamole, Huachinango (snapper, fresh, about 14” long...delicious!) served with rice and salad. Price, including tip: $6.00. Put, quite simply, sometimes life doesn’t suck.

  Almost all the menus and signs I encounter during my travels are written in Spanish. However, there are some exceptions. I’ve seen numerous signs, such as the following, written only in English:

  “Our guests are here on their vacation. Would you please keep quiet in the night-time?” And speaking of noise, I’ve become acutely sensitive over the last few years. I mean, I always had sensitive ears, but of late, I simply can’t hang around with people who have naturally loud voices. It hurts me. Really! So, when I discover that someone has a loud voice-you know, one of those that permeates walls-I remove myself from their presence. There’s something about quiet, velvety voices that invites one in...

  Speed bumps are as omnipresent as tortillas in this country. Folks, I’m talking speed bumps! Between 16 and 20 inches in height, these obstructions were obviously constructed by people who’ve never owned cars. In every city and pueblo, on every street and avenue, one encounters the ubiquitous speed bump. Much like chain, junk-food restaurants on the outskirts of American towns, the speed bumps in Mexico alert one to the approach of civilization and immediately effect a decrease in one’s speed.

  It’s mid-afternoon. Sweltering heat. Humidity like a steam bath. Some silly human is jogging with a baseball cap, Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, and a walkman. Guess the nationality...

  Pork is the most frequently used meat in this country. Mexico is Hasidic hell. (Interestingly enough, I’ve been to numerous video stores but have yet to see “Babe” on the shelves.)

  Fact: People with children and pets have hearing with a higher pain threshold.

  I’m eating tacos with Karen and Diane, both from England. Never one to eat sweet flavors, except for dessert, I ask the waiter to leave the pineapple off my tacos al pastor.

  “Oh, no Paul,” says Diane, “get them with pineapple, and I’ll eat the pineapple.”

  “But I don’t even want the sweet taste adulterating the flavor,” I say.

  “Huh? Come on, just get it with pineapple. For me?”

  “Diane, why I should I diminish the quality of my experience just to increase the quality of yours?”

  “You talk funny,” says Diane.

  “How so?”

  “Well, normally our friends would just say ‘Get your own pineapple, bitch!’” Just another night out with the expats.

  The rainy season has begun. Humidity, and torrential downpours, in which one sees everything from fruit to livestock being swept away by forceful currents, have led me to understand that what I once interpreted as “magic realism” in Marques’ writing, is closer to fact than fiction.

  Driving through Mexico, one can expect to be stopped numerous times by the Federales (police). It doesn’t mean one has done something wrong, it’s simply an underpaid civil servant’s way of supplementing his income. Usually, a bribe of three to five dollars is sufficient to get one on one’s way. Warned about this practice, I’ve armed myself with numerous cassettes of my music. I’ve been stopped once. The Federales’ second question was concerning my occupation. I said “composer,” showed him the picture on the cassette, and asked him if he’d like a copy. Having signed the cassette in Greek and English, and inscribing it to his girlfriend, Angelica, I made a new friend, “Stay at my house next time you’re in town,” and was soon on my way for a mere 65 cents: the manufacturing cost for a cassette.


6/9/96

  Charlie feels it was Destiny that brought him to Mexico. That doesn’t help him to understand his situation any better, but at least it absolves him of any responsibility. Rosa came into his life as if an apparition. Dark, soft skin, magical, mystical, Mexican goddess woman with captivating eyes. Enslaved, he fell in. A new, foreign life-force that gave his meaningless existence meaning, enveloped him. It was a month of pleasure and ecstasy before she prodded him to amplify their condition.

  “Mota,” she begged him. Just a few tokes and he’d understand. No stranger to the ways of the weed, Charlie did what was necessary to satisfy her wishes. As he laid out the gift of green to his love, Rosa informed him that he was under arrest for the trafficking of drugs in Mexico. Lately, Charlie has spent a lot of time thinking about Destiny.


6/11/96

  So I decide to spend one night in a luxurious hotel. It’s one of those moments in which, for no reason, I decide that I need some pampering. “How are inflated prices justified?” I ask myself, while sitting on the toilet. As if in response, I notice a steel cup holder next to the toilet paper dispenser. Luxury is fine, but is there really a pressing need for one to be filling as one empties?

  Is everything a lesson? Or are random events merely assigned an importance, sequence, and meaning to satisfy the voracious appetite of the ego? I was staying in Barra de Navidad, a charming little pueblo about an hour north of Manzanillo. The morning of the only full day I would spend there, I decided to go deep sea fishing. Why? Boredom, perhaps. Plus, I like to do things that I haven’t done before. At the very least, they afford me the opportunity to make entries such as these. Anyway, I’m on the way to the deep sea fishing office. As usual, I’m walking and thinking. “How much will it cost? If I catch a fish, will I let it go after taking pictures? Will I gift it to one of the villagers for food? Will I eat it? If I don’t catch a fish, will I feel bad that I’ve spent money with nothing to show for it? And will I ever be present enough with my existence to enjoy the process without perpetually thinking of the outcome?” Lost in my thoughts, I notice nothing on the way to the office. The owner of the deep sea fishing company, “Ricky’s,” says the boat rental (including skipper, bait, and a bottle of Gatorade) will come to about $130. Seeing me hesitate over a decision, he offers me a deal of $100 for the five hour trip. Still unable to make a decision, I perform the classic Prawnman act. I flip a coin. The decision having been made, I return to the hotel, pack a bag with sunscreen (I still feel sunburns to be the signs of unconscious people) a camera (I envision multiple pictures of me with my “prize” sent back to family and friends) and some water. I board the boat at the lagoon and Chaparo (Chapa) and I are soon underway. The ocean is calm as we rapidly head out to deep water. (I didn’t know it, but we would eventually go out almost thirty miles. At that distance, with no land in sight, one (me) loses all sense of direction.) When we’re out far enough, Chapa baits three rods (each with a whole fish, about eight inches long) and we begin trawling. At this pace, I’m left with nothing to do but watch the bait as it skims and bobs along the surface, waiting for a Marlin or Sailfish (it was too late in the day for Tuna) to appear. One hour. Nothing. Two hours. Nothing. Three hours. Nothing. (The question of $100 wasted repeats itself. I start thinking about my life. Is this a metaphor? You know, the same old shit seen through a different lens.) The gentle rocking of the boat and mid-day sun put me in a relaxed and comfortable mood, so I lay down on one of the benches for a catnap. As my breath slows and the dreamworld invites me in, I hear a whirring sound and Chapa’s voice telling me to take the wheel. I jump up, take the wheel, and hear Chapa cursing as a sailfish escapes with the bounty of one hook. As he re-baits the hook, I see the spines of a sailfish briefly surface to take the bait from another hook. Chapa tugs on the reel a couple of times, trying to hook the fish. But the second one gets away, as well. Nonetheless, I’m excited and optimistic. Charged. Adrenaline. “This is it,” I’m thinking. I ponder how, by letting go of my attachment to having a certain outcome, I eventually get the outcome. I’m ecstatic. This is where philosophy meets life. Where theory becomes reality. “Is it mere coincidence that the fish bite the moment I close my eyes,” I ask myself, trying to formulate some theory from the events at hand. I’m in Heaven...or at least in an area which I presume to be full of fish waiting to be reeled in. I imagine the pictures...I’ve ended up with the largest fish ever caught off these waters! My ego is swelling. It’s all I can do to contain it. Having prepared the reels as before, Chapa again takes the wheel and I return to the activity of watching (intently) for more bites. Some bites. Any bites. One bite? It’s another hour of the bait bobbing up and down before I agree with Chapa that we return to the harbor. So, was I content with the process...being in the present tense? Did I have second thoughts over having purchased a $100 sun tan? No and yes. Still a victim to my goal mentality, much of my time was spent pondering why I don’t achieve my goals, and wondering whether achieving them really makes any great difference, in the end. I wasn’t fishing I was doing, I was analyzing. Sadly, I realize that the lesson of the day is that my process hasn’t changed. I wonder whether it ever will? (Even this final question is out of the present!)


6/16/96

  Christianity is heavy metal, Buddhism is new-age. That’s what comes to mind as I settle into my humble room in Cuyutlan, south of Manzanillo. Above my bed is a very large crucifix with Jesus attachment. The craftsmanship is detailed. Thorny crown, steel nails, bloody face, bloody hands, bloody chest, and bloody feet. I’m repulsed by the image. (Don’t get me wrong, I like the Christ-less cross as a bauble, or ornament of jewelry. The elegant simplicity of the form is great, especially if one’s name just happens to be Tina or Tim.) I never asked for someone to die for my sins. I’ll face my maker (assuming there is one) and the consequences of my actions when the time comes. The whole Christian mythology, with its sins, famines, pestilence, floods, miracles, parting of seas, fathers being asked to sacrifice their sons...the whole story (because that’s what it is, for me) strikes me as overly dramatic. (What a good editor could have done with this manuscript!) Let’s face it, the Bible is a work of fiction which turned out to be a perennial best-seller. But to frame one’s existence and moral guidelines around a single collection of stories and parables strikes me as ludicrous. The Buddha, sitting serenely in the lotus posture, blissful expression on his face, seems a more fitting example of what I perceive enlightenment and union with a “higher” consciousness to be. But, then again, some people like heavy metal and others like new-age.


6/20/96

  The battle within me rages on. Head. Heart. Mountains. Sea. Intellect. Passion. Aggressive. Passive. Like balancing the influences of my father and mother. When I left Sedona, I was sure that I had to live by the sea. The movement, the flow of the water seemed to be the grounding influence that would take me from my head to my heart. So I spent time by the sea. Right on it, in fact. But I still yearned for the cultural and spiritual interaction I found in San Miguel de Allende. So I moved here. Allende. The mountains. Is this because I’m more in my head than my heart? Is it because I feel I can make a business of my studio in Allende? Perhaps. Either way, I realize that I am consistently trying to bridge, to marry the opposing facets of my character. I don’t know whether I’m making any headway (“heartway” might be more appropriate at this time) but I’ll continue moving forward (?) in hopes that something is leading me somewhere where something means something.

  I’ve had my share of negative things to say about the United States. But one full day of attempting to navigate the bureaucratic morass of Mexico-performing a task as seemingly simple as getting my license plates-makes me realize that America really does have a great framework for getting things done.

  Allende. What is this? Where am I? What am I doing? Where am I going? Who am I? What am I? Mantra del dia. Mantra de la semana. Mantra del mez. Mantra...Mantra...Mantra. And so it goes. I’ve been making rapid decisions. Rentals. Investments. Security. Permanence. Who am I? What am I doing? Where am I going? What am I? Am I going with the flow...following the current of the universe? Or am I justifying, with metaphysics, a dysfunctional pattern...setting up a similar reality wherever I am? Should I stay or should I go? The reflections are alarmingly familiar. Who am I?


6/25/96

  There it was, hanging over the railing, somewhat camouflaged amongst the black, wrought iron. What was going through my mind? More on that in a moment. It began two nights before. I was getting ready to go out. It was a friend’s fiftieth birthday and there would be some very special people attending. As always, I paid careful attention to details. Which belt would I wear? The choice was between the two black belts that I own. The older one (still in excellent condition) is of ostrich leather, high quality silver, elegant and simple. It had always been my choice in the past, but I find new things have a certain allure, even when they’re not of the same quality. So I tried on the newer belt, which I’d bought in Vallarta. It was wider and had that rugged, rough-hewn look. But it didn’t match the outfit very well, so I decided on the older belt. Looking in the mirror, I commented to myself on how much I loved the belt. (I’ve lived alone for so long that I no longer find talking to myself strange...pretty scary, huh?) The evening went as suspected. Good food. Pleasant conversations. Too much drink and a nightcap of a joint between friends. I returned to the house in one of those states where I’m not all there. Not sloppy, simply not all there. As is my custom, I performed the routine of hanging my clothing outside, allowing the chill evening air to dissipate the cigarette and food smells. Hanging my pants, I debated whether I should remove the belt. In my altered state, a task as simple as removing a belt from the loops seemed almost too labor intensive. But I was also thinking that it might rain and that I would regret my laziness in the morning. Ultimately, I don’t remember what I did with it.

  The next morning, the gardener came and introduced himself. (My lease requires that the extensive gardens be maintained. The landlady had told me that I could employ any gardener I chose and that the present one charged about $50 a month.) Verifying the landlady’s quote, I asked the gardener what he would charge. He said it would be $80 a month. I told him that that was too much and that I wouldn’t require his services after he finished his present day’s work. I then ran errands, all the while reminding myself to bring in the clothing. Nonetheless, I forgot. That evening, as I prepared to go to bed, I remembered the clothing and the belt, and went out to get them. But the belt was missing. I looked high. I looked low. The belt was nowhere. Foggy as to my recollections of the previous evening, I searched in all the places I would normally put the belt. I searched with a frenetic, anxious energy; that neurotic manner in which one looks in the same place repeatedly...just in case. My degree of attachment to this “thing” was more than I would have liked, and more than I would let on. I tried preaching new-age platitudes to myself concerning attachments and release. It didn’t help. When I was absolutely certain that the belt was gone, I assumed that the gardener had taken it in retaliation for my letting him go. “That son of a bitch,” I thought, “he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with!” I wasn’t about to be the sucker gringo that was ripped off by some half-breed. But I wanted to be sure I hadn’t misplaced it before flinging my accusations publicly. The next morning, by the light of day, I looked indoors and out and retraced all my steps. Nothing. Beltless. I pictured the wonderful quality of the belt in my mind and missed it even more. I called the landlady and told her what (I suspected) had happened. To endear her to my tragedy, I embellished. I said that I wasn’t attached to the item (an outright lie) but that it had sentimental value as it was a gift from my parents (an even greater lie). She said that she would go to the police with me so that we could file a report. I repeated the story of my violation to everyone throughout the day. I indulged my friends and was rewarded with sympathy. I envisioned beating the shit out of the gardener as a lesson to him that he’d wronged the wrong person. In some scenarios a baseball bat played a prominent role. (That I could have ever given someone the idea that I’m not attached to material possessions suddenly seemed ludicrous.) The landlady called later that day. She said she’d told her gardener to pass the message on to my ex-gardener that if the belt were not returned a complaint would be filed with the police. By now, my attachment to the lost(?) article had grown in direct relation to my anger. I was ready to file a complaint with the police, but was still feeling a bit apprehensive. What if the guy didn’t take it? What if, in my stupor, I placed it somewhere that, in a lucid state, I simply couldn’t comprehend? On my way up to my room, I paused to straighten a flower pot. The pot stands in front of where I hang my clothing at night. And there it was, hanging over the railing, somewhat camouflaged amongst the black, wrought iron. Had it always been there? Had the landlady’s threat effected a result? It was entirely possible I could have left it there while hanging my clothes. But I’d looked there before...Hadn’t I?


6/28/96

  As I brushed my teeth one evening, I noticed a small scorpion above the bathroom door. Ever the pacific, creature-loving spirit, I decided to get a jar and put it outside, as I’d done with scorpions on many an occasion in Sedona. But the mouth of the jar was a bit small and the scorpion kept evading capture. In my attempts to be humane, and force it into the jar, I turned the creature into paste.

  In a bar, a garishly dressed woman ordered a margarita, insisting that the rim of the glass be well salted. When the drink arrived, she asked for a straw. In the bathroom of the same bar, a man guzzled beer from a can as he urinated. (Both, non-Mexicans.)

  The jardin (garden) is a square of trees and park benches that sits in front of the largest church in Allende. It is the center of town and the place most people meet. Directions are given in relation to the jardin. Populated with food vendors, shoe-shine guys, mariachis, beggars, dogs fucking, and families strolling, it offers a wealth of visual stimuli. I spend anywhere from an hour to two hours each day sitting on one of the benches, doing nothing. Where I would have joined a health spa or meditation gathering in the States, in order to calm myself and to get to “the center of my universe,” I find my nightly meditation at the jardin to be equally calming and much more entertaining.

  The trees that line the perimeter of the jardin are extremely thick in foliage. Each evening, shortly after sundown, thousands (tens of thousands) of birds return to roost in the trees. Their arrival is nothing short of a Hitchkockian. For a while, the sound of the birds chirping-as if conversing with their neighbors on the days events-is so loud that is drowns out the conversations of the people below. But within thirty minutes, all is quiet. The locals, aware that the arrival of the birds also brings a storm of droppings, get up from the park benches below the trees and move to safer zones. “Mummies,” the Mexicans call the immobile tourists who remain in the drop zone, an indication that the foreigners are oblivious to the fact that they are being encased in shit.

 

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