I've rewritten this, primarily cleaning up the language by removing to be verbs

and compound verbs. Also adding more detail and making the paragraphs longer; h
owever, when posting this I discovered the rewrite is on my other computer which
does not current hae a wi fi card.
The story is essentially the same. I hope everyone enjoys it.

TUCSON
1
I have a weird fascination with strange old impractical cars. A buddy of mine
owns a garage which he purchased from the man who at one time owned the Renault
dealership in Tucsoon (This is my pet term for Tucson, because even though I gre
w up and went all the way through college. Any time I have to visit it will b
e Tucsoon).
Greg's shop is the only authorized Peugeot service center for the Southwest US
A. This encompasses a lot of territory, and old French cars gravitate to the gar
age from as far away as Las Vegas. Greg works on everything from big rigs to c
ompressor motors, but mainly specializes in cars no one else will work on, and t
hat oftentimes includes their electric, electronic and computer systems.
Greg is in his mid forties, thin at a little over six feet, with hazel eyes and
brown hair in perpetual need of a haircut. and double jointed in all his limbs.
One time at his shop moving an engine block around. He said, “Can you give
me a hand. This thing is heavier than a dead priest.” The first time I had e
ver heard the expression, I’ve since adopted it.
Greg’s shop maintains no waiting room and no secretary. He answers his own pho
ne while working on cars. Everyone who uses Greg’s shop comes in through the a
lley entrance remain wide open while he works A great a great assortment of peo
ple wander into the garage with room for six cars inside.
Greg does his own paperwork and bookkeeping. Bookkeepers and receptionists ov
er the years along with a number of different mechanics, have worked for Greg b
ut he decided it is best if he works by himself. It cuts down on a lot of pap
erwork.
Greg operates his shop on a sort of social service basis. If someone comes in
with the only car that they really need barely running, he will work on that be
fore something that was there before, but it not urgent because the owner has th
ree other cars.
In business for over twenty years and never sued, a number of judges and atto
rneys populate his list of clients. One time he was hired to give expert testim
ony .
“I’ll never do that again,” Greg told me one day in absolute disgust.
“Do what?” I ask in all my bloodshot baby blue innocence.
“Testify as an expert witness.” He looks at me with a half way smile on his
face. “I had this client. A nice lady. Had one of the few decent R16s left
in town. She went to one of those in and out lubes shops and had her oil and
filter changed. They put the wrong filter on and it destroyed the motor.”
I don’t see the problem and say, “What’s the big deal?”
“The lawyers.” The look of disgust coming back over his face. “They kept hav
ing me go back over and over on what you do on an oil change, trying to trip me
up. It’s not like I haven’t done it a few thousand times. They finally gave u
p and decided I knew what I was talking about. I would rather work on cars fo
r five an hour than get two hundred an hour going through that shit.”
Greg is an extremely good and competent mechanic, and though not that terribly
old he has lots of experience because he has been at it since high school. Yo
u really have to want to have Greg work on your vehicle because his garage (that
s what he prefers to call it, not a repair shop, an auto clinic or some other s
uch bullshit) remains tucked away on an alley in an industrial area and is not
easy to find. He rented there for years, but finally decided to purchase the
property.
I1985 and I m antsy to get the hell out of town. I haven t been back too long
after having lived on the coast of Nayarit in Mexico for a couple of years. I
write a few feature pieces for the weekly publications that distribute for fr
ee in Tucsoon and Kleenex ( my name for Phoenix, though I hate using such a clea
n term such as Kleenex to describe that city) , but I m bored blind with this, a
nd mostly can t stand to read the publications I write for. Their idea of a goo
d paper is to include one well researched in depth feature news article in a rag
buried in entertainment pieces and advertising. It s terrible, but these publ
ications are actually the best in the state as concerns honest to God news. Wh
at the hell can one do?
As usual, I m short of cash, though I do manage to get by.
One day in April I stop by Greg s. There is a new addition to the cars clutter
ing up his lot. It s a red 1963 Renault R-8. I am intrigued. I have owned
a few old Renault s before. They are a strange vehicle and aren t worth a shit
in the hot desert climate, but that has never stopped me. I ask Greg, "What s
up with the R-8?"
"Dr. Goss owns it," Greg says, "He s a dentist. His mother drove it for years
, but they let the trans-axle dry up and it s shot. It has a good motor, but i
t doesn t go anywhere. He d probably sell it cheap. He bought his mother a new
Honda."
"Are trans axles available?" I ask, stroking my chin and realizing that I’ll pro
bably end up buying this piece of useless French metal.
"I know a guy who has a couple of them," Greg says looking at me with a little w
onder because I would even consider such a car. He knows I’ve owned some in th
e past, but he finally thought he had me sold on Japanese vehicles. "Don t ima
gine he would want too much for one of them."
I call Doctor Goss, and he agrees to sell me the R-8 for fifty bucks. The tra
nsmission man also agrees to sell me a transmission from an R-10 (basically the
same as an R-8) that came out of a running vehicle until the motor overheated an
d was shot. It also cost fifty dollars.
When I go to pick up the title for the car from Dr. Goss, a Jewish dentist who
was in practice with his father until his father finally retired, he tells me
the story behind the little red car. "When I graduated from dental school I we
nt to Europe, bought Little Red and used it to tour all around Europe. I liked
it so well that I had it shipped to New York, and I drove it home here to Tucso
n. I drove it for about ten years then I turned it over to my mother. She love
d Little Red, and was heart broken when it gave out on her." He hands me the t
itle and says, "You keep in touch and let us know what happens to Little Red."
I like Dr. Goss and have him clean my teeth and fill a couple of cavities.
Greg puts the trans-axle in, but is not pleased with how the clutch cable is kin
ked and sticking, but he is unable to buy a new one and can not locate the corre
ct used one. He straightens it out th best be can, but I can tell he isn t hap
py with it. He charges me $150 for his labor.
I try out the fun little car with four-wheel disc brakes and four speed tranny a
nd the radiator in the rear of the vehicle. I’m not six blocks from Greg s wh
en I’m rear-ended by a dump truck. They don t hit me hard, but enough to push
the fan blades into the radiator.
I call Greg and we tow it back over to his place.
The metal is lightweight and soft in the old Renault s and Greg and I are able t
o pull the rear of the boxy car back and extract the radiator. It isn t in too
bad of shape and Greg thinks it can be fixed.
I take it over to Hector s radiator shop on South Sixth Avenue which isn t more
than a mile away from Greg s place and he welds, cores and rots the radiator.
It is as good as new or better, and he only charges me fifty smackers.
The dump truck s insurance company offers me a $4,500 settlement, because "The c
ar is obviously a classic, and can t be repaired because no parts are available.
" I accept without a qualm. I still have my 1962 122 four door Volvo.
The guy with the trans-axle has a nicely upholstered set of seats from an R-10 t
hat are reclining and have head rests. He sells them to me for eighty-five gree
n ones.
I have already about decided to make a trip South in Little Red, and I decide I
needed to do something that would insure that I made it through the desert areas
of northern Mexico. Sonora and Sinaloa can be insufferably hot. And I would b
e leaving when the heat was going to be cranking up. I buy an oil cooler I mou
nt on the engine lid. It increases the oil carrying capability of the motor by
half a quart, and it keeps the oil from getting too hot.
I also purchase an add on electrical fan. I mount it behind the radiator, and
cut out holes in the panel at the rear of the car so air can get through. Tha
t way air will be pushed and pulled through the radiator. The add on fan kick
s in when the motor hits 170. It certainly couldn t hurt, though Greg thinks
it won’t help a great deal. He thinks sufficient air enters through the slot
s on the engine compartment lid. I don’t know. I’ve had a couple of Renault’s
burn up on me before.
What’s the adage about some people never learning?
I decide to get the body damage on Little Red repaired in Mexico. It is a hell
of a lot cheaper there. Once I start the trip I have the work done in Santa A
na, Sonora, about sixty miles headed South down Mexico 15 towards the Guatamalan
border. I also have the body man build a scoop on the engine compartment lid
so when Little Red and I are moving down the road more air would be forced down
through the slots to cool the motor. The body man charges me $75.00 for his wor
k.
2
In 1985 the T dogs and I Are inseparable companions. The T- dogs re Turkey and
Trina. Turkey and I became companions in 1976. He was two years eleven months
old when we adopted each other. Turkey is a pure bred English Pointer–white
with black mottling and spotting and a large black head with a white racing stri
pe down the middle of it.
Turkey loves to ride in cars, and loves to be wet. We’ve had many adventures t
ogether. He traveled to the east coast and Canada with me, and he faithfully
runs along beside my horse when I am out riding. He attended most classes with
me while I was working on a Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing at the Grea
t Desert University (commonly abbreviated GDU and taken any one of a number of w
ays. It is also known as the University of Arizona).

One time in a poetry workshop, when Dick Shelton asked if there were any additio
nal comments about a poem, Turkey chose that moment to get up off the floor wher
e he had been patiently waiting for this insufferable boredom (from his viewpoin
t) to end, hopped onto a vacant chair and brought one paw down on the table wit
h a resounding smack. There were no further comments on the poem, and class wa
s over for the evening.
Turkey has an appreciation for art. I can tell if a structure, statue or scu
lpture is successful if Turkey barks at it. A piece of art will catch his eye,
and he can tell that the artist is trying to imitate something in nature, but y
ou aren t going to fool Turkey. He can tell it‘s fake, and will bark at it.
Or maybe it is only that he has conservative tastes and has no time for so calle
d "modern" art. A Christmas scene with the three wise men, a camel, a stable,
the alleged enfant Christ Child and Joseph and Mary doesn t set him off. He
has a discriminating eye.
Turkey is a great companion for the many hitch hiking trips I make in those year
s. I throw rocks for him and he chases after them away from the road, but whe
n he hears a car brake, slow down and pull over, he always beats me in racing o
ver to the vehicle.
Turkey loves water and being wet. Back East he would stand in a stream shiveri
ng in the cold in the winter, waiting for me to throw a stick for him.
One time when I was at a lake sitting on a high rock overlooking the water, I gr
abbed a rock and threw it in, not thinking about Turkey. We were up about twen
ty-five feet above the water, but Turkey jumped out and went in after the rock.
I don t know how deep the water was where he jumped in, but he dove down a num
ber of times until he came up with a rock. I don t know if it was the same roc
k I threw in, but Turkey was willing to believe it was. If he was happy with i
t, so was I. I threw other rocks off the overhang for Turkey, but he wasn t g
oing to do it again. Once from twenty-five feet was enough.
There are many stories about Turkey. He is an exceptionable dog.
I rescued Trina in 1981. She is a blonde Afghan with a saddle. Neighbors of
some friends of mine kept Trina in a small pen in their backyard for the first t
wo years of her life. This is a breed of dog that is meant to run. She had n
o exercise, and she had no social life because she was isolated from other dogs
and from people. The neighbors were moving, and they didn t want to take Trina
with them. They gave her to me.
Trina was terrified going home in my car. She had never been in a car before.
She had never been anywhere before. She didn t know what to make of Turkey a
t first, but they became inseparable friends.
It took awhile, but Trina opened up to the world outside. I know she likes me,
but she never shows me the affection Turkey does. Maybe she never learned to s
how affection. Mostly she doesn t want to be petted and has the personality of
a cat around people. I put it down to her lack of socialization with people an
d animals when she was younger.
One time when I had to be away for about a month on a business trip, I left the
T dogs out where I kept my horse. They were both familiar with the corrals and
the area because I rode out there often and they always tagged along, racing
through the Tucson Mountains. I left plenty of dog food and hay, and paid some
one to feed the animules, and left happy that everything was under control.
When I returned Turkey was out at the ranch, but Trina was no where to be seen.
Neither dog was tied up or penned in. After all, they had forty acres of des
ert to run around in. I was told that Trina had hung around for a little over
two weeks and then disappeared. Maybe she had run out of patience.

By that time I had already sold the house I owned downtown in Barrio Presidio.
It is about ten miles from the ranch where they had been left, and is on the o
ther side of an Interstate Freeway. Trina had lived most all of the time we had
been together at this location. I think it is worth a shot to look for her
there.
When I pull into the parking area, Trina goes ape-shit, jumping up and embracing
me with those long arms of hers. She licks me and runs circles around me. I
am as happy to see her as she is to see me. It is the first time she ever manif
ested true affection for me.
Stewart, whom I had sold the place to, comes out, smiles and says, "I thought
she might be yours. She showed up and wouldn t budge from the welcome mat at t
he front door. I ve been feeding her. She s been no trouble at all. She s
a really well behaved dog, and lets me know when anyone shows up."
I thank him, and have to throw Trina into the back of the car. By this times s
he d ridden thousands of miles in the car, but still doesn t like it, and if l
eft to her own devices, would never ride in another car in her life.
The following day I take Toots (I didn t name her–she came pre-named), my three-
year-old 14.2 hand bay filly out for a ride. It s a beautiful early May Sprin
g day and has rained recently. The desert smells of creosote, and the palo ver
des are in bloom, looking like a swarm of bright yellow bees on grass green bran
ches.
The dogs spot a coyote which takes off running. The dogs give chase and Trina s
ails over a small mesquite bush in a single bound. She is running like a grey
hound, but the coyote has too much of a lead.
Since Trina is outside all the time, I periodically have her sheared like a shee
p. Leaving the hair long on top of her head, she looks like a punk rocker.
Trina doesn t have Turkey s eye for art, though she has a better ear for music.
When a siren is sounding she will lay her head back and howl in perfect pitch.
It s the only time she howls. She is a better watch dog than Turkey, but her
barking will get him going too.
She loves playing tag with a retired greyhound racer at the GDU campus. When t
he two dogs are running for the pure joy of it, all the other dogs simply watch
in amazement.
The T dogs lived with me when I was on the coast of Nayarit in Mexico. Turkey l
oved being able to go in the water everyday, but Trina didn t care for the heat.
Trina is happy in a colder climate.
In 1985 I and the T dogs are living in a rented trailer in the southern Tucson
Mountains on a couple of acres west of Mission Road near Irvington. I have ne
glected to have Trina operated on and she has whelped nine pups. Trina is goin
g to have her operation as soon as she weans her pups, but that will have to be
when we arrive in Mexico or further South, because I am anxious to get on the r
oad.
I buy a rack for Little Red s roof, and I purchase four rims with good tires fro
m the trans-axle man, and Greg lets me use his equipment to weld the rack to th
e roof, as well as weld mounts for the tires on the outside of the rack. I buy
a couple of large ice chests to hold my things and to carry food for the T dogs.
I know things would probably get wet if they aren t secured in a dry compart
ment, because we are headed into the rainy season I also purchase a five gallon
Igloo colder, so we can all have cold drinks along the way.
Greg hooks up a cassette player for the original AM radio, so I can have some de
cent music and wouldn t go crazy listening to Mexican AM radio.
I load up all the dogs (the puppies are about nine weeks old), grab my title and
passport and we are on our way.
I put the car in neutral, pull the emergency brake tight, turn the switch to on
, pop the trunk lid, step out and pull the lid towards the front, take out the j
ack handle, go around to the back, line the handle up in the slot on the rear f
an belt wheel, and crank the car until it catches. I don t have to do this, b
ut I like the idea that I can. Besides, it is handy when one has to set the
points (this is pre-electronic ignition).
3
The T dogs, all the whelps and I are finally off. I have my passport, papers
for the dogs, title to the car, Travelers checks, cash, dog food, water. Every
thing.
We look like a safari on expedition to some remote corner of the planet. I’ve
left money with my sister so she can wire it to me if I run out. Since I no lon
ger have a place of my own in Tucsoon, I’ve put all my things in storage. My s
ister is to collect mail at my post office box, and I should even have money wai
ting for me when I get back, because I’ve just filed the last three years tax r
eturns. I’ll be getting a refund for each year. I know your suppose to file
on April fifteenth, but that’s only if you owe money. The government is actua
lly happy to have you file late if you’re due a return, because by filing late y
ou give the government an interest free loan of your money. I’ll have to remem
ber to never do that again.
I take Mission Road down to Green Valley, closely watching the electronic gauge
set trio that Greg installed for me, along with a new thermostat and water pump
(just to be on the safe side). The oil pressure is good, the motor’s running
cool and the volts are cranking out at fourteen or fifteen–-right where they’re
suppose to be.
I’m smiling as I drive, remembering the night before, thinking it’s going to be
a wonderful year, that maybe my life’s turned a corner.
A friend of mine had given me a free pass to the New Loft Theater on Fremont and
Sixth Street in the old Mormon Temple. I enjoyed the book, “Birdie,” and the
Alan Parker produced and directed Vietnam war movie was as good as the book
if not better.
I spent two years in Vietnam as a civilian war correspondent, and I am very lee
ry of most Vietnam War movies, but I felt that ”Birdie” had captured the anxiety
 and sense of lost and hopelessness that so many Vietnam vets have and are cont
inuing to experience.
Walking out of the cinema into the lobby I remarked to a five six or so attra
ctive brunette with thick glasses and a full sensitive face, “Great movie, wa
sn’t it?”
She smiled with white neatly in line teeth, and said, “It was very well done.”
We continued talking and she said, “Why don’t we go for a drink somewhere?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “My neck feels a little stiff and
in the past I’ve had muscle spasms where I can’t even turn my head. Besides, I
’m planning on driving a long ways tomorrow.”
Her brown eyes sparkled and her smile became infectious. She asked, “How would
you like a massage?”
I didn’t have to be asked twice. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it, smiled an
d said, “I live quite a ways from here.”
She squeezed my hand back and said, “I don’t live too far away. Why don’t you f
ollow me home?”
I reached my head over and kissed her on the lips, still not knowing her name an
d said, “Lead the way.”
We walked out, found our cars, and I followed her to her place. She lived a li
ttle north of Speedway and east of Country Club in a nice older small apartment
court. I noted the red tile roofs and mature neatly trimmed trees and hedge.
She opened the door, turned on the lights and we went inside. We walked over
to a sliding glass door that went out to a small patio area. She turned to me,
I put my arms around her and we worked on exploring each others lips, mouths a
nd tongues, trying to melt our bodies into each other.
Finally, I pull my lips away from her lush warm labials and ask, “What’s your na
me?”
She laughs joyfully and smiles and says, “Oh that! It’s Jill.”
I grin and say, “Jack.” She punches me in the arm and I say, “Okay. It’s real
ly Birdie.”
She smiles and opens her arms, and I fall into them, and we are kissing again.
Soon I’m lying on my stomach on her bed and she is seated on my thighs, working
over and loosening up the tight muscles of my neck with her strong hands.
She asks every time she tries something different, “How does that feel.”
Mostly I just sigh in answer, or an aw escapes my lips.
When she completes the massage we start kissing and hugging again. Soon I have
her clothes off and I’m seated on her sizable behind and massaging her. I give
her a full body massage.
While I work on her body, I ask her, “what do you do? Where are you from? Do
you always take strange men home with you?”
She lazily drawls out, “I’m working on my PhD in astronomy and Astro-physics.
Most nights I’m up on the mountain, watching the stars from Kitt Peak. I’m co
llecting data and writing my dissertation on Black Holes. I’m from New Yo
rk. Brooklyn. And no. I don’t normally pick-up strange men. A friend o
f mine gave me a pass, and since I’m on a night schedule, I thought I’d see a fl
ick. First time I’ve gone out in ages. You’re actually the first man I’ve e
ver consciously tried to pick up. I watched you part of the time while you we
re watching the movie. I liked what I saw.”
As I turn her over to massaged the front of her body, I say, “I wonder if it was
the same friend who gave me my ticket.”
She looks at me, smiles and, ‘Who knows. Maybe we’re destined to be togethe
r for one night or for a life time.”
I work down to her mound and want to slip my finger in, but she says, “Go slow.
Finish the massage. It’s wonderful. I want it to last all night. We have l
ots of time.”
We go slow and it takes awhile for Jill to reach full arousal. After she slips
a condom on me because I don’t have one of my own, we make slow relaxed love li
ke we were a couple that had been together forever.
When we are through, lying in each other’s arms, sweaty and a little out of brea
th, I say, “I’m in early riser.”
Jill frowns and says, “I’m not.”
“You want me to leave now?” I ask, not really wanting to go.
“It would probably be better,” Jill says.
I find my clothes and get dressed. Jill walks me to the door in all her full n
akedness, and we kiss and hug. “I would be leaving the country tomorrow,” I s
ay.
Jill, her hair rumbled and the fatigue of sex in her eyes says, “Don’t worry.
There will be others.”
“I Hope so,” I say and walk out to the funky little Renault and drive home to th
e dogs.
All this is going playing like a movie through my head as I drive down the short
stretch of I-19 that I take. I take the exit at Amado and take the road towar
ds Arivaca. I want to enter Mexico at the out of the way port of Sassabe becau
se in Mexico a four lane divided highway is being constructed and by entering a
t this port I will be in Magdalena by the time I pick up Mexico Highway 15 which
will take me all the way to Tepic, Nayarit. This way I will miss a lot of cons
truction, dust and waiting around for construction vehicles to get out of the wa
y.
I’m smiling, driving down the dirt road to Sassabe, thinking life is wonderful,
life is a bowl of cherries, black holes are to get lost in, etcetera, etcetera.
When I get to Sassabe, I take out a six months tourist visa, and when I go to ge
t the car permit, I discover that I’ve brought the title for my Volvo and not fo
r the Renault.
Maybe, life isn’t all that great after all.
I do some fast talking in Spanish. I don’t think the Mexican officials have
ever heard a gabacho talk so fast. They give me my car permit and won’t even a
ccept mordita, the bribe of the little bite.

They are all working on a wad to retire with. Besides it is fun to hear a g
ringo talk so fast.
As I leave, I can’t really decide how the trip is starting.

Mexico—Sonora

1
As I drive down the dirt road that will take us to the highway to Santa Ana, Son
ora where the body of Little Red will be straightened out and where an air scoop
will be added, I think about how it was that I ever learned about the place.
I met Juan Romo Velasquez about ten years before when I was driving an old Merce
des Benz. Old Kaiser and I had just gone over the railroad tracks, headed South
on Mexico 15 when we ceased to move. The engine was running fine, there was a
ir in tires and water in the radiator, but forward motion stopped. Juan showed
up, took a look and showed me the problem. A flange at the back of the transm
ission where the drive shaft hooked up was completely worn-out. We towed the
vehicle to Juan’s place which was just up and over a hill on a dirt road. Juan
took the part off and said I had to come up with a new piece because this one c
ouldn’t be fixed.

If it was fixable Juan would have fixed it. He had a machine shop, did welding
and auto body work as well as full service mechanics. I would learn later that
he was also very reasonably priced.
I was really hesitant about leaving Old Kaiser with anyone, let alone in a forei
gn country, but I really didn’t have any other option. I hitch hiked back to T
ucsoon, looked Greg up, and with his junkyard connections we were able to locate
the part I needed. Within a week I was headed back to Nogales and Santa Ana o
n a bus, not sure if Old Kaiser would still be there or not.
Juan nodded his heavy round flat faced head when I showed him the part. Said,
“It’ll take a couple of hours, but this is what you need.” Juan likes to eat an
d is heavy set, but full of energy and always moving and he seems to have the st
rength of a half dozen men. Juan is short and squat like a bulldog and he is to
be taken seriously
I head over to the highway to get a burrito at a taco stand I had eaten at befor
e. As I walk over by the railroad tracks that had done me in, an orange Volvo
140 comes along and goes over them. The crossing is quite rough and in need of
leveling and road work. When the Volvo goes over the tracks, a tie rod breaks
completely off on the passenger’s side and the front wheel flops over at a dan
gerous and precarious angle somewhat like a dog’s ear.
I help the two woman in the car push the vehicle off to the side of the road.
I tell them, “Follow me,” and we walk up and over the hill to Juan’s. Juan lo
oks at their vehicle, goes back for his homemade tow truck and hauls the Volvo
to his place.
Denise and Cindy don’t speak Spanish, but Juan takes off the piece they need to
bring, and I mangle together a translation. The women are really nervous about
leaving their car in Mexico, but I tell them not to worry.
By the time we arrived back at Juan’s he had finished putting Old Kaiser back t
ogether. Since I was in no particular hurry to get to where ever it was that I
was going, I told Denise and Cindy that I would give them a ride to Tucsoon, be
cause it had come out in our conversation that was where they were headed.
They insisted on paying for the gas and taking me out to dinner in Nogales, Ariz
ona. We had a hardy sit down meal of Chile Relleno with rice beans and tortill
as.
It was nine o’clock in the evening by the time we arrived at the Speedway and Wi
lmott area of town where they were headed. I stayed for a few minutes and had
coffee, then headed home.
I wouldn’t be headed for Mexico until the next day, or maybe I shouldn’t go. M
aybe, everything piling up at one time was trying to tell me something on a cosm
ic level. I’m so dense, I left the next day anyway.
I think about these things as I drive to Juan’s, and soon the dogs, Little Red a
nd I are in Santa Ana. I explain to Juan what it is that I want and he sets
right to work. As he works and I sit and watch, making sure to keep out of his
way, I think: what the hell am I doing, anyway? I want to drive to South A
merica.
I know I can’t drive all the way and will have to put Little Red on a ship in Pa
nama because there is no road through the Darien gap.
It’s really no plan at all, just a half-assed longing to get back to Colombia.
I try to justify it to myself by telling myself that I will be able to sell stor
ies along the way, and the trip will pay for itself, though I’ve made no arrange
ments to do any such thing.
I should probably turn directly around, find Jill and marry her, or look up my l
ong time friend and occasional lover, Carol, and beg and plead and babble like a
n idiot until she gives in and agrees to marry me. But no, I’m dense. I goin
g South come hell or high water, or dogs or an old car or whatever.
Soon Juan finishes . He charges me sixty dollars. He has taken a real inter
est in the puppies. The puppies aren’t completely weaned, but they’re eating s
olid food on their own. Juan asks, “How much for a puppy?” I know Juan takes
good care if his animals, because he used to have one around. I suppose it h
ad died. Juan’s is far enough away from the road so the puppy wouldn’t be chas
ing out in the road and getting run over.
I tell Juan, “Take your choice, and the
price is that you take good care of it.”
Juan smiles happily and chooses the healthiest looking male. As we drive off,
I think, one down. Eight to go. Trina raises her head and looks back at Juan’
s as we leave. Though she doesn’t seem all that concerned that one of her whelps
is no longer traveling with her.
2
Leaving Santa Ana the T dogs, whelps, Little Red and I will be traveling over th
e driest, hottest and most physically demanding terrain of the entire journey.
The divided road is finished all the way to Hermosillo. Previously it had bee
n a four hour trip on a thin ribbon of rough asphalt, but now the trip is made i
n a little under two hours.
The sun pounds down like a large red hammer in the clear dry lucid sky.
I drive down the road with my eyes glued to the temperature gage, knowing that i
f Little Red is going to overheat it will be between here and Hermosillo or betw
een Hermosillo and Guaymas.
A little past Santa Ana at Benjamin Hill I notice that they are putting small bu
ildings along each side of the divided highway. I stop and as what they are go
ing to be. I am told that they are Casetas de Cobro, toll booths. I can’t hel
p but think of the Mexican constitution. It states that all public roads will b
e free for use by everyone. These highways a are being built with public money
on the route of the old highway, and yet the Mexican and other public will have
to pay to use the roads, and conveniently for the people collecting the tolls,
there are no other alternatives available.
In Hermosillo I stop and inquire as to how the powers that be are getting away w
ith this, and why the Mexican people are permitting it. The story I get about
the Mexican public is that they are happy to pay the tolls, because the roads ar
e so much better there is less wear and tear on the vehicles, and they get to wh
ere they’re going so much faster they actually save money. I think to myself,
that certainly won’t last long–the saving of money. I tell myself I really nee
d to talk with a trucker who is really impacted by this.
I discover it is a little more complicated as concerns who is building the highw
ays. The Mexican Federal government has more or less auctioned off the rights
to sections of the highway to the highest bidders, and they build and maintain t
he road, and pay the government a certain percentage and keep the rest. It’s
a privatization scheme whereby the rich get richer and the poor sucker of a Mexi
can public pays. The roads may be privately built and maintained, but they are
built on public land. I think about it some and tell myself I will make inqui
ries later and see if I can interest some publication in the story.
3
Normally traveling across Hermosillo is a long drawn-out process with innumerabl
e traffic signals, and an onslaught of traffic.
As we approach the North side of the city I notice that all the South bound rigs
are turning left at the light before the Pemex station. I turn Little Red and
we follow the trucks, a little tomato to their big metal bread.
We turn left again at another Pemex station on the South side of the city, bypas
sing the worst of the city and its traffic.
Little Red is running great, slightly warm, but nothing to worry about.
South of the city the dogs and I run into some major construction. There are d
etours over rough dirt and we creep along at five miles an hour. It takes six
hours to reach Guaymas, which was only a three hour drive on the old road, and
should only take a little over an hour when he new highway is completed
It is getting late, and the sun is starting to set. The dogs, Little Red and I
are tired. We pull into San Carlos and park along the beach. The dogs, whelp
s and I walk the beach, the animals happily splashing in the gulf waters as Litt
le Red waits silently and uncomplainingly for us.
I feed the animules and find a marisco stand and have a couple of cocktails of o
ctopus and shrimp, as well as a half dozen tosadas of ceviche de pescadao washed
 down by a couple of quartitos of Tecate. After the dust of the construction an
d the riggers of the road, the beer and the seafood taste great. I like the lit
tle half sized bottles of beer, because I don’t drink fast and the beer stays a
lot colder, numbing the throat as it goes down.

I tell myself, there’s no big hurry. I’m tired. The dogs are happy here. I
decide to sleep in the car and let the dogs hang on the empty beach next to the
car. They need a break after being cooped up in the car all day. We’ll he
ad out in the morning and see whatever develops. I recline the seat, close my
eyes and am soon asleep.
4
In the gray matter of light before dawn, the gloaming hour, I awake in the chil
l morning air. I walk the dogs on the beach then load them up and we’re on our
way.
I stop and fill the tank in Ciudad Obregon, and we continue down the few miles t
o Navajoa. We don’t actually enter Navajoa (or Pulvojoa as I called it because
it is always a dust filled old city); we take the trucker’s bypass. About thr
ee kilometers after we turn right to swing around the city is the Arbol Caido, T
he Fallen tree. The place is open twenty-four hours a day, and they hand make
both corn and flour tortillas, and the food is great and reasonably priced.
The Arbol caido is a good ways off the road and is located on an old ranch and t
here is a pond and the food is served under open air palapas complete with palm
thatching. I’ve been stopping there for years, and the owner comes over and as
ks, “Que pasa?” I tell him about the trip and the dogs. He asks to see the pu
ps, and picks out a male and female and wants to know how much. I tell him I’m
happy to have them off my hands.
When I leave he doesn’t charge me for the breakfast. I wonder if this is the
only income I will ever see from the whelps.

Soon we are on our way again, headed South. I think about the trip as I drive d
own the highway, rapidly approaching the Mexican state of Sinaloa. The line of
the Tropic of Cancer runs through the state of Sinaloa. I know when I pass th
e tropical line I will feel better. It’s as if I’m most comfortable in the tro
pics. I don’t know if it’s the weather or the people, or the lushness and rich
green vegetation. Having grown up in a brown wrinkle-faced desert, green has
always been a magically color for me. The vibrant growing forest of the North
have a certain draw, but being a total wimp about cold weather, I luxuriate in t
he muggy tropical warmth.
I’m down to only six whelps, and I don’t know how long they will last.
5
Little Red, the animals and I come out of the bypass south of Navajoa and hang a
right back onto Mexican Highway 15 where the rusting grain silos and elevators
stand on the eastside of the highway.
Before we turn I look longingly at the mountains rising in the East. For year
s I had gone up the 67 winding kilometers to the sun-washed colonial pueblo of A
lamos. I don’t go there anymore because it’s become too popular, and bitten the
tourist dust. It seems to get away from the onslaught of tourism, you have to
get further and further away from the beaten path.
We’re soon cruising down the relatively straight shot to the end of the State of
 Sonora and the beginning of Sinaloa. Little Red is purring. The dogs are cras
hed and the pungent odor of the Sea of Cortez comes in with the dust and hot air
through the open windows. The highway follows the coast from five to fifteen
kilometers inland.
The fields along the highway are planted in corn or soy with an occasional white
billowy field of cotton waiting to be sucked up through the mechanical cotton p
ickers. What’s left after the industrial job on the cotton is scavenged over b
y peons.
Where there are not fields under cultivation, sandy dusty desert waits patient
ly for the return to desolation to which it is accustomed. Dwarf, twisted, snar
led, dusty, dark green to gray grotesque relatives of the great saguaros look a
s old men longing to drown themselves in the sea.
I glance at the desert and smile because it is so familiar.
Soon we are at Estacion Don, the demarcating point of the border between Sonora
and Sinaloa. It’s a short straight breeze down the road to Los Mochis and beyo
nd.
I turn Little Red to the right down a dirt road before we leave Sonora. There’s
no sane reason to do this, but I discovered an interesting little round-about a
few years back, and I take it every trip South. It gets us off the highway an
d gives me a break, though we haven’t actually been on the highway all that long
today.
Thirteen kilometers down the road, dust blowing in and everything gritty, we pul
l up at an obscure abarote, a country store, that sets with a collection of appr
oximately six casitas scattered within five hundred meters of it. I’ve always
been curious about this place. How could the few people nearby justify having
a well stocked store?
I unload the dogs and the whelps, and they walk stiff-legged over to the two bri
ndled male dogs that call the place home. These dogs obviously have some pit b
ull in them, and I’m worried there may be a fight–Turkey dog exerting his male d
ominance.
The tails start wagging and the male dogs go to the dirty white corner on the bu
ilding and raise their legs. The females follow, squatting down and peeing whe
re the males
went. This even includes all the whelps. The imprinting from odor starting ea
rly.
Every time I’ve been through here before it’s always been a quick pit stop for
cigarettes and water.
I notice they have an old-style top open Coca Cola soft drink dispenser filled w
ith ice and coconuts. I order one up. The one I pick out is taken outside of
an old tree stump, the machete is pulled out and the top of the nut still in its
fibrous sheath is hacked off and a straw is stuck into its top and the works ha
nded to me.
I take a long sip on this sweet water filled with enzymes and amino acids that
aid digestion. When I’m done with the water, I hand it back and it’s whacked i
n half and the soft mushy white flesh is gouged from the hard shell of the nut,
diced up, and I’m handed a toothpick, Huichol sauce and three limes cut in half.
I squeeze the lime over the flesh, sprinkle it liberally with Huichol and pic
k the pieces up with the toothpick and pop them into my mouth.
The man who handled the coconut so expertly looks as though he could have walked
out of a picture taken of the leaders of the Mexican Civil War. He has a heav
y black mustache, dark Indian features and almost black eyes. He’s dressed in
white. All he lacks is a couple of belts of ammunition strung over his shoulde
rs to form an X on his chest.
We start talking and he tells me he is the owner. He says he recognized me i
mmediately when I pulled up. I couldn’t figure. I didn’t know him from Saint
Peter. Maybe, it was that so few Gringos showed up in this out-of-way place t
hat they were all remembered.
I ask him how he can justify having such a well stocked store out here in the
middle of nowhere.
He tells me in Spanish, “It’s like this: We’re on the bus route and fields that
need workers are all around here. The bus brings people from Poblado Cinco, Ca
rriso and all the ejidos.
The Rancheros, Los Duenos, the owners all come here for help. The workers buy
cigarettes, soda, something to eat, and the owners fill the lists that their wiv
es have given them. We do alright here, and we don’t have to live in a city wi
th its crime and traffic.”
Knowing he was still in the State of Sonora, I ask him: “Where do you buy your m
erchandise?”
“What’s not delivered,” he says, “I pick-up twice a week in Los Mochis. It’s t
he nearest place of any size.’
I shake his hand, having learned his name is Jose, thank him, load the dogs and
am off with Little Red.

About three kilometers down the rut of what goes for a road I have to make a dec
ision. I can hang a left for Poblado Cinco and back to Mexican Highway 15, or
I can head the about five kilometers to the fishing village on the coast. It do
esn’t take me but the blink of an eye to tell myself, the hell with the highwa
y for right now. It’s been a hot day and the dogs could do well with getting
wet. I drive for the coast.
The road deteriorates and gets a lot thicker with sand, but Little Red handles i
t like a champ with the weight for traction placed where it’s needed as opposed
to a conventional rear-wheel drive car.
6
We come over a rise and see the crystal blue sea, the coconut palms and the fish
ermen’s palapas huddled near the shore.
We coast down the hill to the village. It’s only mid day and all the men are o
ut fishing. I unload all the dogs again and start walking to the beach. All
the children too young to be in school, follow along as do the village dogs. Th
ese scrawny curs who live on fish guts are willing to accept any newcomer.
I peel my clothes off and wade in, my dogs and the children following tight alon
g. The water is the temperature of tepid bath water. I float on my back, con
template the sun and the horizon.
It’s an early day for the fishermen. They start beaching their full launches a
t about two. I go down and help them unload, getting all smelly and fishy, but
 I don’t give a damn,
The place might not have much, but it has an expendio de cerveza. I buy a case
of quartitos, two kilos each of shrimp octopus and fish. We eat drink and bull
shit for at least an hour.
I tell them I have to leave. They protest, “we haven’t finished the beer or the
mariscos.” I tell them, “It’s for you.”
I load the dogs and whelps and drive away in Little Red, wondering why I am leav
ing this little unnamed piece of paradise.
Mexico----Sinaloa
1
Within an hour and a quarter we’re winding through the congested streets of Guas
ave, wedged between two tractor trailer rigs. I say the hell with it and turn
off for the beaches at Las Glorias.
It’s about twenty-five kilometers away. It’s years since I’ve made this excurs
ion, and the road is now tarmac. Within five kilometers of town I’m surprised
and pleasantly stunned.
The rolling dunes are washed and painted with color. There are fields of reds
, yellows, oranges, blues, pinks and lush and rich greens. A US American flowe
r seed company is growing there seed stock here. The fields are checker-sawed
with French Impressionists’ colors and it looks like we’re driving into a painti
ng.
Every turn there are more colors.
Then my nose kicks in and I’m wafted high on the fragrance, heady with the magic
of smells, intoxicated with the aphrodisiac of perfume.
I pull Little Red over at the top of hill, get out and stand in marvel at the la
ndscape. My olfactory senses are going overtime, and I know I could float on
the air or walk on water.
I watch the dogs, knowing they can smell so much better. Even they are breathin
g in deeply and looking around. I’m amazed, because it doesn’t smell anything
like dog urine.
At Las Glorias I rent a cabana for the night. I thoroughly clean up and fall a
sleep listening to the surf pounding the shore, thinking I’ll never even make ce
ntral America at the rate we traveled today.
I tell myself, we’ll cover more ground tomorrow. I dream I’m in a field of pop
pies, then crocus are opening my heart, my eyes lighting as if they were yellow
marigolds. As I dream I enter into the dream and want it to go on forever.
2
The melodic crash of the surf wakes me early in the morning, never being able t
o sleep late. I wake hungry as usual. I want to be on the road, want to make s
ome time, watch the kilometers click away, leading to whatever life will bring–l
ove, magic, disaster, breakdown, whatever.
I take a rag and wipe the dew from Little Red, knocking the crust of dust off th
e little car that’s been running along so valiantly.
I load all the dogs and whelps up, and we head back towards Guasave.
When we come once again to the flower seed fields I park Little Red once again,
wishing it too could marvel at this beautiful spectacle. In the morning light th
e fields are even more stunning, and the fragrance even more overwhelming becaus
e no dust has kicked up to mask the perfume.
My olfactory senses have never been that acute, yet I close my eyes and concentr
ate. I can distinguish the delicate tissued scent of pansy. The aroma of pur
ple dahlias forms in my mind. I can almost taste the standoffish pungency of d
ark burnt orange marigolds.
A field of red sage sings in my nostrils.
Gallardias dance in my minds eye with their smell.
Shasta daisies mock me with their musty fragrance.
Petunias paint the inside of my nose with their purple brilliance.
I stand there lost for a long time, dreaming in the perfume of life and the colo
r of flowers. Finally I arouse myself, load the critters back up again and sli
p inland to Guasave.
I make a quick pit stop for huevos a la Mexicana (eggs scrambled with Serrano ch
ile, tomato and onion), frijoles and coffee. Unfortunately the coffee is a cup
of boiling water and a spoonful of Nescafe, which I’ve always contended “No Es
Café.”
Soon we’re off and running the hundred and eighty kilometer snake through the to
mato and corn fields towards the hot and sweltering capital of Sinaloa, Culiacan
.
3
I dread entering Culiacan with its dusty traffic, innumerable traffic lights, it
s humid glare and blare of the honking horns and screaming sirens.
Little Red, the sacked out dogs and I tuck ourselves between two tractor trailer
rigs, and let them pull us through the city. It actually only takes an hour,
but it always seems like a lifetime.
It’s not too long and we’re up in the foothills, following the curves and twists
to Mazatlan, catching occasional glimpses of the Sea of Cortez.
We get stuck behind a tractor trailer rig hauling doubles on the two lane curvy
road. I keep pulling out to take a peek to see if I can get around.
Finally I see that we can make it past. I don’t want my sense of rush to get u
s all killed.
I signal and pull out, give Little Red lots of gas, and we’re making our pass ar
ound the truck. We’re about half way by the truck, and it starts to pull out t
o pass the vehicle in front of it. The driver doesn’t check his rearview mirro
rs!
Shit, I think. Little Red is in no position to play bumper cars with a semi.
I keep moving over until Little Red’s left front tire is off the pavement, and
we’re bouncing along as I give Red more gas so we can get by this son-of-a-bitch
.
As we pass the driver I flip him the bird. He could have killed us. I don’t
actually mind the thought of dying, but I don’t necessarily want to do it on a
Mexican highway at someone else’s hand.
About halfway to Mazatlan we hang a right and head down to Cruz de Elota. Cruz
de Elota isn’t much, but it has a nice view of the sea, and the best seafood in
the state of Sinaloa.
I order fish in green sauce. I know there is some type of chile in the green s
auce and I’m not sure what else. You can definitely tell that at one time some
French had settled in the area around here.
The rest of the way to Mazatlan is uneventful.
5
In Mazatlan I decide to splurge and stay at the Hotel Playa right on the beach,
and in the heart of the Malicon tourist district. I like the place because the
y have live music, and a lovely outside bar and restaurant area overlooking the
beach, and most nights they put on a fireworks show.
The dogs sleep in Little Red, and I dance some and try to find a little action w
ith women, but I have no luck.
What the hell! Tomorrow is another day.

I wake up early, check on Little Red, whose been humming like a champ the entire
trip, let the dogs out to do their duty, water them, load them up again, and we
’re off again before most of Mazatlan is awake, and the traffic gets bad.
6
We swing back onto Mexico 15, heading South again. Once we make it through Vill
a Union and Rosario, we are driving though kilometers and kilometers of mango or
chards. The fruit hangs heavy, turning with the blush red of ripeness.
We could be swimming in mango juice, the fragrance pervading everything and seem
ing to invade the senses and turn it into a tropical paradise.
Snaking through the small town of Esquinapa with its rock streets set in concret
e we watch out for the bicycles which everyone here seems to use for transporta
tion.
Instead of directly South, I swing Little Red towards the coast and a huge stan
d of coconut plans. I want to let the dogs out, give them a chance to run. I
know it’s going to be a long day.
The dogs run along the beach and take advantage of a frolic in the sea, while I
let the pungent smell and taste of saltwater cleanse my mind and spirit.
We enjoy this break for almost two hours, then it’s back to the gruel of driving
Highway 15.
Mexico—Nayarit
1
At the base of the mountains that weave their way up to Tepic, the capital of th
e state of Nayarit, Mexico’s third smallest state, we stop at Cruz de Tuxpan so
I can have some breakfast and coffee.
This area of Mexico was the center of Mesotec culture in Mexico. And according
to some linguists, how Mexico ultimately acquired its name.
Cruz de Tuxpan is nothing more than a sharp bend to the left in the road with a
half dozen open air restaurants and a couple of llanteras, tire shops. It’s also
a twenty-four hour a day camp for truckers who don’t want to hazard the climb t
o Tepic along the steep narrow winding dangerous road at night or just need a b
reak from the road.
I eat ceviche of camaron, and drink café colado (boiling watering poured over a
sock filled with finely ground coffee and left to steep). It has the remarkabl
e quality of being able to revive anyone.
The heat is starting to crank up and is rippling off the water filled, air so mo
ist that if it were a sponge you could wring buckets of water out of it. The
tree grow wild in a jungle of green in this moist never freezing air.
2
We start up the steep thirty-eight kilometer pull towards Tepic, staying mostly
in second and third so that we don’t strain Little Red’s small and economical m
otor..
I start counting the number of wrecks on the side of the highway. I’m up to fi
ve–three passenger buses (the drivers of which are bonafided suicide pilots), on
e semi and one torton.
After I take note of the wrecked torton, we get stuck behind one of them.
A torton is basically a semi with a stake box on the back of it. In Mexico
they are almost inevitably powered by a Perkins diesel. Generally they are at
least twenty tons overweight. They seem to have only two speeds: loud and f
ucking loud, and going up a steep incline, one can hear the diesel strain and cr
y or relief.
Being so overloaded they take a grade at a turtle’s pace . I smile when I thi
nk, Turtle Torton.
Little Red is driving and running great, but it’s under powered. The road is
one curve after another and only two lanes. I keep peeping out around the tor
ton to see if we can make it around it. It never seems like we have enough r
oom.
It takes us an hour and forty-seven minutes to cover the thirty-eight kilometers
into Tepic.
Once in Tepic we turn right off of 15 onto the coastal Pan-American highway whic
h will take us through Compostela, past Las Varas into Las Penitas de Jaltemba a
nd eventually to the border of Guatemala.
3
I lived for almost two years in Las Penitas a few years back and I want to stop
and see friends.
I want to see Pedro who has a restaurant and is a great chef (having previous wo
rked in resort hotels), and a few other friends.
Pedro is still there in his open air palapa restaurant serving the best food in
the area, but it seems most of my other friends have either moved on or died.
The bougainvillaea and Queens Wreath provide a rich contrast of orange, burgundy
, red and pink to the dense dark green lushness of the overgrown tumble of jungl
e, and yellow checkers of cultivated fields.
We are past the tip of Baja and the huge expanse of the Pacific pommels the ragg
ed coast line with its small cove like beaches.
I leave a puppy with Macario, a PhD Mathematician who now runs a laundry matt in
Pinitas. Trina looks after the puppy and seems to count the ones she has left
with her large Afghan hound eyes, the blonde hair on her head looking very pu
nk.
I look up Alan, a thin sprite and tan American who grew up in France, and whose
taught English and French here for about twelve years. He manages some apartme
nts, and he’s seduced every juvenile boy along the coast that he’s been able to
entice into his bed.
He knows I’m straight and has never made any moves on me.
As I pull up beside the four apartments and white house with red tiled roof, a p
etite blonde of a five four with a good figure in a two piece green bathing suit
with pink polka dots is stepping though a metal door painted rust red.
As I’m unloading the dogs she comes over, smiles and says, “Hi.”
I’m pleasantly surprised. Maybe Alan has changed his ways.
I stick my hand out and say, “Shaine. Mucho gusto. She gives me a blank look s
o I say, “Pleased to meet you.”
At that point, Alan sticks his head with what little hair he has left on it out
of the house door. He rushes over and gives me a bear hug and says, “Good to se
e you. Have you met Pam.”
“We just met,” I say.
Pam says, “Pamela.”
I’m happy. I always love pretty women. “Okay it’s Pamela then.”
“What brings you?” Alan asks, “Where are you headed?”
“I’m headed south,” I say, “I’m trying to drive to the end of the world.”
Pamela says, “Then maybe you can give me a ride to Rincon de Guayavitos “
I look at Alan and I can see the relief in his face. I know that he is always
happy to be away from women. They cramp his style, his lifestyle, his constant
seductions. “It’s only a stone’s throw away,” I say.
Pamela slips into her bungalow apartment and comes out carrying a good sized su
itcase. I rush over and say, “Let me help you with that.”
I load the dogs into the back seat. It’s good to have someone riding up front
besides Turkey Dog.
Rincon de Guayavitos is a rich and exclusive development that shares the Bahia
de Banderas with Las Pinitas. I can remember it when it was a sleepy little no
thing with a few palapas and small time fisherman who pulled their boats up on
the beach.
It now has cobble stone streets and there are luxury homes everywhere–both Mexic
an and American big money.
Pamela tells me she is house sitting for two nights, and then is off to Mexico C
ity, Puebla and Oaxaca..
I say, “That sounds great.” then I tell her a little something about my aimless
itinerary.
We arrive at a lovely mission style two-story behind a wrought iron fence buried
in a tumble of hibiscus and bougainvillaea.
I cart Pamela’s suitcase in for her then I turn to her and by mutual consent our
lips find each others and we explore each others mouth with our tongues.
As my hands find her breasts, hers find the zipper to my shorts.
Soon we are tumbling into bed, exploring the nooks and crannies of each other’s
body.
We lie in bed a while, our fingers talking to each other, then we shower togethe
r.
It’s afternoon turning into evening. We go out and walk the beach, explore the
few food vendors.
I had forgotten about Claude, a Frenchman who had married a Mexican woman who ha
s started spitting out a child every other year.
Claude has a chicken broiler, and we buy a bird to eat.
The rotund and friendly Claude asks, “How much for a puppy?
“Take your choice,” I say, “They’re free to you.” He chooses a fat little femal
e pup. I couldn’t be happier. I know the pup will eat well and will be fondl
ed over by Claude and Maria’s children.
That leaves me with only three puppies.
The begging dogs eat a good part of our chicken and the tortillas.
Walking back along the beach, we encounter a sunset that seems to bring all the
brilliance of China with it, the reds, oranges, yellows and pockets of green.
It seems to deepen and fold over into itself. Pamela and I walk holding hands.
Seeing all the color, we squeeze each other’s hand.
“I don’t normally fall into bed with someone I’ve just met,” Pamela says, What h
appened?”
“Really,” I say, “You could’ve fooled me,” raising my eyebrows in mock surprise.
She punches me in the arm, and says, “I mean it.”
“It’s not my normal procedure,” I say, “But with the two of us, it doesn’t seem
like such a bad idea.”
She smiles and squeezes my hand.
Back at the house Pamela tells me that she studied ballet for years, and worked
professionally in New York as a Ballerina for two years.
We wrestle in bed and Pamela’s ballerina feet become my stirrups which I use to
push off into her.
We alternately make love and sleep throughout the night.
In the morning Pamela says, “You’d better leave today. I told the owners of thi
s place I wouldn’t have anyone over, that I was very quiet and kept to myself.”
“You did,” I say, “And all the screaming and groaning you did last night.”
She smiles and says, ‘I didn’t make that much noise.”
“As compared to what?” I say and laugh.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, “I want to stay here with you and continue what we
started yesterday and last night.”
“Believe me,” she says, “I want that too. When the owners get back, I fly to M
exico City. I have to stay there for two days. After that I will be at the H
otel Colonial in Puebla, Puebla. Can you meet me there?”
“Even if I have to pull the car myself.” We kiss and hug.

Dawn and sunlight are soon streaking through the foliage, passing through the wi
ndow and lighting the room. I hold Pamela’s supplant body in my arms as I list
en to the surf count time with the shore of the world we live on.
Soon we are both up, and in a short while it is time for me to leave.
Pamela kisses me goodby and says, “Please come to Puebla.”
I hold her tight and let my fingers run over her body. I whisper in her ear,
”I will be there.”
I load Turkey and Trina into Little Red, along with the last three pups, check t
he oil (Little Red hasn’t burnt any yet), kiss Pamela one more time, and leave,
happy that I actually have a destination and a date to be there.
The dogs and the three puppies that are left, Little Red and I are on the road,
heading South into myself and whatever the future holds.
The sun smiles today, and though it’s hot, it does not glare.
Mexico—Jalisco
1
Forty-five minutes down the coastal highway we’re approaching Puerto Vallarta.
I can’t believe how big the place has become. It sprawls everywhere, filling
up the coastline for miles and starting to climb the mountains with their lush g
reen vegetation reaching for heaven.
The traffic is miserable and I can’t wait to get through the tourist trap desti
nation, but it’s going to take awhile, because of road construction.
One thing about Vallarta that hasn’t changed is Elizabeth Taylor and Richard B
urton’s houses. The are set on opposite sides of the road with a walkway overh
ead connecting the two of them. It’s been that way since the filming of The Ni
ght of The Iguana in the 1950 s. At that time Puerto Vallarta was a small fis
hing village. Now it is one of the major tourist destinations of Mexico.
Once we make it though Vallarta we stop at Chico’s Paradise. It gives little R
ed a chance to re-gather herself after that long sweat through the city.
Chico’s is tucked in the apex of a cove in a bend in a river and you look down a
t the coast line while sitting under palapas, listening to a breeze move palm fr
onds.
Pamela and I didn’t eat, so I have a breakfast of seafood, sip coconut water w
ith lime, and luxuriate in the sense of well being that Pamela has instilled in
me.
The dogs and the pups make themselves at home at Chico’s and no one seems to min
d.
Soon we are on our way, and I drive slow, often gazing off into the immense and
majestic Pacific as it comes into and out of view as we snake along the highway
which hugs the coast.
Clouds start tumbling up against the mountains, all purple and white. A good b
reeze picks up.
I know only good things will come.
We all load up again and cruise down the winding two lane highway hugging the co
ast. The sun smiles overhead. The further South we go the more at home I fee
l.
We passed the Tropic of Cancer above Mazatlan, but the rich green lushness doesn
t really bloom until we reach Nayarit, and only gets better the closer to the E
quator and the further South we get.
We re in Jalisco, the state below Nayarit. Most every bend in the road brings v
iews of the coast with its little coves and stands of coconut palms, and in the
mountains, stands of pineapple, the sweet scent of banana and its green thatch,
the aromatic smell of coffee and tobacco, the almost rotten odor of papaya, guan
abana in bloom casting its fragrance allure to the air.
Small patchy stands of corn and agave checker up the mountainside, alternating y
ellow and a light emerald green to almost gray. Some of the fields of agave a
re cut, leaving the stumps looking like decayed teeth biting into the mountainsi
de.
Soon we re crawling through the traffic of Barrio Navidad, The neighborhood of t
he Nativity, which is more or less Christmas in Spanish .
The kilometer are clicking off.
2
Turkey Dog rides copilot beside me, watching everything, wanting to miss nothing
, sure that he would make a better driver than me.
Trina rides sprawled in the backseat, disgusted to be in the car again.
The three remaining pups are crashed on the back passenger compartment floor.
I think of Pamela and how wonderful it was to meet her, and count my lucky stars
that I m going to get to see her again. I wonder how it was I could live in L
as Penitas de Jaltemba for two years and never meet anyone of the opposite sex t
hat was accessible.
I drove to Puerto Vallarta all too frequently.
I daydream and drive and Little Red purrs along, loving the cool tropical coasta
l breeze. Little Red hasn t burnt any oil, overheated or used any water. I co
unt my lucky stars.
I give Little Red a mental thank-you for providing the funds for this trip. Li
ttle Red seems happy that we straightened out its metal and added the air scoop
and oil cooler.
Mexico–Colima
1
It seems in no time we ve driven through Jalisco and are entering the state of C
olima. Colima being the smallest of the states in Mexico.
We make it through Colima, Colima, and I m smiling so much the city traffic does
n t even bother me. Turkey gets to bark at a couple of city dogs protecting th
eir turf.
I have only winked my eye and we are approaching Manzanillo. Manzanillo is one
of the best natural ports in Mexico, a country with many great deep water ports,
with a wonderful protected bay.
We drive by a roast chicken stand and I stop, unload the dogs. The dogs wander
around some, but don t go far from the aroma of the chicken.
There are plenty of leftovers and the dogs and I relish the chicken. I will bu
y gas for Little Red and wash all the windows.
The little four or five-year-old daughter of the owner is fascinated by the pupp
ies. She s already grabbed hold of the runty, speckled long-haired male runt o
f the liter.

She looks at her mother with pleading eyes.

The mother asks, "Cuanto?" Her face is worried as if she’s calculating numbers.
"Para ti, nada. For you nothing." I smile big when I say this, happy to give a
nother puppy away.
She smiles, and is even happier when I insist on paying for the meal.
I load Turkey, Trina and the two remaining pups back into to Little Red.
As I start Little Red, Trina slides the rear window open with her snout, and rac
es back to the chicken stand.
Little Red and the rest of us negociate a u-turn and go back for Trina.
This time, when I literally have to throw her in, I fasten the windows in case s
he has ideas of hopping out again.
.
We bid Manzanillo with its traffic and congestion adieu and are soon leaving Col
ima.
2
We drive into the evening, watching the sun paint the water over the Pacific.
After dark we pull off onto a little dirt road that takes us in half a click whe
re we park on a rim overlooking a tucked away cove.
We all trek down to the water and get thoroughly wet while Little Red waits pati
ently for us, keeping guard and staring off into the immense Pacific night.
Little Red provides shelter for us all, my seat fully reclined and the dogs cras
hed under the car.
We fall asleep listening to the moon driven water of Pacific keeping time on the
Mexican shore.
The Highway to Mexico City
1
The crash of the incoming surf wakes us even before the sun makes its appearance
. Gray and misty, the fog has rolled in and the cove above where we’re parked
acts like an amplifier, making the great Pacific seem like its crashing in on us
.
We leave Little Red as a lookout, a guard keeping watch over us as the dogs and
I drift down to the beach. The fog makes it look as if we’re walking out over
the water, drifting further out to sea.
A couple of coconut palms waver, staring out at the great expanse of the ocean,
beacons for lost souls, ghosts of sailors adrift on the sea.
The water is so warm here it feels like you’re entering a hot tub. It still ref
reshes and soon has us scampering, smiling and happy.
I throw coconut husks and Turkey and the whelps swim out after them. Trina wan
ts to have nothing to do with the water after she has tried drinking it.
The slightest of a breeze and the sun have soon dispersed the fog and the horizo
n of blue goes on forever, traveling to the end of the world and beyond.
I sit and stare out at the immense Pacific for over an hour, watching the surf b
reak and fold and lose itself on the beach, recall Pamela and every woman that I
’ve been with.
The hollowness in my stomach decides it’s time to go, growling its displeasure a
t not being fed.
We hike back up to Little Red who waits so patiently. I feed and water the do
gs, listening to the incessant pulse of the ocean, the saltwater blood of the wo
rld, the force that feeds all life.
We load up, and I drive. I still don’t trust Turkey Dog at the wheel, though h
e would happily drive well, though he might spot a rabbit or another dog.
The route is vaguely in my head. I’m using the general direction of South, kno
wing I’ll have to tack inland to Mexico City to reach Puebla. Pamela and I ch
ecked it out. There is no way around it without driving an extra two thousand
or so kilometers. I dread the idea but I’ve driven in LA and New York, Bogota
and Sao Paulo.
2
Driving the coastal highway we play hide and seek with the ocean, use its undula
ting blue as a compass, a constantly changing map to our existence. Still it is
an anchor of blue, and makes me smile.
I’m not even sure where the next major city is. It has been years since I’ve b
een down this highway. I drive along thinking, I was so much younger then, and
I don’t mean only in age. I ask myself what year it was, and the best I can c
ome up with is that it was sometime in the sixties.
I look over at Turkey Dog and smile, thinking of all the trips and adventures we
’ve had together. Getting thrown in jail in Canada for illegal entry and Turke
y literally getting impounded. I grin when I think about the amount I was paid
for writing that story.
We slip through a number of palapa pueblos with nothing that looks like a decent
place to eat.
Finally a little seafood stand where they even have fresh coconuts on ice. The
re are stacks of papaya and mango. I get them to fix me a fruit salad to go al
ong with the octopus and shrimp cured in lime juice that I eat.
The dogs are bored and would have much preferred chicken. If they had there wa
y, we’d eat chicken all the time.
The two pups that are left from the nine are both males and have started to mani
fest definite and distinct personalities. I can’t decide on a name for eithe
r one of them so I called them , “Little Shits.”
We loaf over breakfast, wanting to extend it as long as possible, trying to avoi
d climbing back into Little Red and more driving. I hope the little car is not
offended.
3
It’s inevitable, and we’re soon driving down this little traveled highway again.

The highway seems to ha ve been built so one can drive along it and dream, conte
mplate the world and the water. I wonder if it is the cause of many wrecks.
What keeps me centered is the fact that I’m going to meet Pamela in Puebla. I
can’t wait to see her again, hold her in my arms, kiss her hair.
Soon the morning and the day are gone and it has gotten dark, yet we still drive
. We’ve stopped a couple of times and wandered stretches of beach, but the nee
dle of the compass is pointing south. We need to go south and then an easting.
Little Red becomes a boat in my mind and we’re sailing and soon we will have to
make the easting around the horn, pull our sails in or they will be blown out.
It’s hard to imagine the ice building up on the deck, but there is a enough ice
that’s built up in my heart over the years.
It’s night and I’m driving into the blackness, though I’m still sailing in my ow
n head.
4
Up ahead there is a fire in the middle of the road. People are standing around
. A log blocks the roadway.
I pull up, not sure what to expect, but not imagining that it can’t be anything
good.
A gun is thrust in my face, a cuerno de chiva, as an AK 47 is called in Spanish.
A scruffy looking character says gruffly and threateningly, “Dame todo tu din
ero”
Turkey Dog, who normally is friendly to strangers., goes ape-shit. He starts
barking and lounges at the man with the gun. This sets Trina off who reall
y likes to bark and can seem absolutely vicious. The pups even chime in.
The fear and startled look on the bandit’s face says it all. He backs away and
waves us through.
Ten kilometers further along we find a roadside motel, and we pull in. We’ve h
ad enough for one day. I pat Little Red on the roof and play with the dogs be
fore calling it a night, realizing that they prevented a disaster

5
The sun has broken its yoke on the Sierra Madres before we haul ourselves out of
bed.
The dogs and I wander a path leading into lush rain forest. I smile at the wor
ld, and shudder to think of what could have happened the night before if the dog
s hadn’t taken matters into their paws, and bared canines.
I check the oil and water in Little Red. The old Renault still hasn’t used any
of either. I am amazed at the resiliency of this old vehicle that wasn’t orig
inally designed to last more than five years at best.
Just for effect, thinking Little Red might enjoy the change, I get the jack cran
k out and hand crank the motor. Little Red starts right up and we’re off on an
other day’s adventure.
After breakfast of huevos a la Mexicana, washed down with café colado and eaten
with handmade corn tortillas at a palapa, we sail on down the highway, dreaming
of the Pacific blues and getting lost in the Sierra rainforest greens, imagine
exploring it on horseback, whacking our way through with machetes.
An endless string of Palapa Pueblos seem to appear every few kilometers.
The dogs get to bark at the wandering curs in these places, and it always livens
things up.
We stop and flounder in the ocean at three different little coves.
We search for the Southern Cross of our existence and keep clicking off the kilo
meters–Little Red purring and the dogs totally bored and fed up with the trip.
Turkey Dog has even fallen asleep in the copilot’s chair, too disgusted to watc
h the road and scenery.
I’m anxious to get to Puebla, to Pamela. We drive three hundred kilometers sout
h. The daylight is spent, but I’m determined to at least make Mexico C
ity.
We make our tack inland, and I drive into the night, the headlights snaking and
slicing the dark and we follow them.
We stop for coffee, and we stop for coffee, and we stop for more coffee. We st
op so that the dogs can do their duty and so that I can recycle some coffee.
I don’t know what to think. I don’t like to travel like this, pushing the nigh
t back, not embracing it in sleep, but still there’s Pamela.. .
Mexico City
1
We arrive at the outskirts of Mexico City a little before three in the morning.
I’m pleased. This is a great hour to cross the city without much traffic.
I know that if I lose my way, I can always talk a cabby into giving me direction
s. But I don’t need them. Everything is pretty clearly marked.
I drive along, tired as sin, and before I realize it there is a line a couple of
feet high of dirt cutting across the street.
I don’t have time to brake, and we sail over it. All of Little Reds wheels are
off the ground.
We come down hard on the far side of a trench.
The dogs and I bounce off Little Red’s roof, everyone instantly awake.
I stop Little Red, get the flashlight out and check for damage.
Little Red doesn’t miss a beat.
There are no oil leaks or any oil pan or transaxle damage, and the panels under
the car are surprisingly not damaged. The shocks didn’t even break.
I pat Little Red on the roof, talk to it, tell it what a wonderful little car it
is.
Puebla
1
We drive another four hours straight through to Puebla, getting good and cold go
ing over the pass that has ice stacked up along the side of the road.
We find the Hotel Colonial, look up Pamela’s room, and by the time I get there,
I barely have energy enough to hug her.
The dogs are pooped and crashed in Little Red in the hotel’s secured parking lot
.
I am soon fast asleep and holding onto Pamela, dead to the world but happy.
.

2
I wake alone in bed, having no idea where Pamela has disappeared to, or was it o
nly that I dreamed her, conjured her up out of my imagination. I lie there awa
ke but with my eyes closed, thinking this. I couldn’t have conjured up her fr
agrance, the sweetness and pungency of her sex which seems to be everywhere in t
he room and permeating the bed.
I open my eyes and discover Pamela sitting in a chair watching me as I sleep as
if I were her child.
She doesn’t look well, is pale and has lost weight and gotten bony. She didn’t
 have any real excess weight on her to begin with, though she retained the full
muscular thighs of the ballerina that she had been.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t look good.”
“I picked up a bug the day after you left,” she says wearily, “I’ve been sicker
than a dog. Barfing and diarrhea. I need a cork and some dope.” Her eyes lo
ok distant and are red with the bug in her.
I smile at this and say, “As long as you don’t have amoebic dysentery. I thou
ght I’d die from that one time in Bogota. Lost thirty-five pounds in four days
. Can I bring you any medication.” I look at her intensely, willing her to let
me do something for her.
She shakes her head and says, “I’ve already got it. I’m serious about the dope.
It always makes me feel better when I’m sick. I don’t normally indulge in
it at all. It’s like medicine to me.” She glances out the window after she sa
ys this, as if she is afraid to meet my eyes.
“Are you going to go down to the dining room?’ I ask, “Or should I bring somethi
ng up?” This is only a hopeful suggestion because I want to do something, anyth
ing.
Pamela gives me a wane and wasted look and says, “Food sounds revolting. I’m n
ot leaving this room until I get better. You’re on your own for awhile.”
I go over and kiss her and say, “I’ll take care of you.”
She says, “You better watch out. I’ll make you sick too. Besides, I probably s
tink. I haven’t had the energy to shower in days.”
I smile and say, “I’m sick in love with you already.”
This brings a melancholy smile to her face, though she doesn’t say anything.
I get dressed and say, “I’ll see what I can do about the dope.”
That’s a lovely irony. I haven’t smoked any dope for over nine years, and I do
ubt whether I had ever been wasted as many as ten times in my life. I quit smo
king dope when I was in Colombia. I had been bad mouthing dope, and some one p
ointed out that it was hypocrisy on my part because at that time I still took a
hit when a joint was passed around. Now when I’m offered a toke, I tell peopl
e no thanks. “I’m crazy enough on my own. I don’t need any help.”
3
I’m sick of driving. I love Little Red, the old Renault has done so wonderfull
y, but Tucson seems like a hell of a long ways away. Maybe, I won’t drive all
the way to the end of the world.
I look at my watch. It’s one in the afternoon. I never sleep this late. Je
sus, I must have been tired.
Pamela and I are on the fifth floor of a seven story hotel, a good distance away
from the noise of the dining and ballroom on the ground floor and mezzanine.
I only have a vague memory of making it up to Pamela’s room the night before.
Last night seems like a lifetime ago.
I go the elevator, notice that the button which summons it is ancient.
When the elevator arrives, and the massive thick doors open and I enter, I know
that I am stepping into the past. I imagine that this elevator was one of the
first that Otis ever produced, manufactured sometime before the time of Christ.
I pull the wire gate shut and the doors close. There are no floor buttons, but
rather a lever for up and down. I pull the lever down and start watching the
numbers painted on the wall outside the gate go by.
We creep along, and finally I see the number one. But I manage to overrun it.
I back up, and have to keep fiddling with the lever until I get the elevator t
o align with the floor. I make it out of the elevator, wondering if I will eve
r manage to develop a feel for it.
I step into the lobby and dining area and I am astounded. The tile is set in a
n intricate mosaic that brings the Aztec gods to life, artistic and bloody with
tropical sex and violence.
Stained glass surrounds the mezzanine on all four sides, and extends as a domed
canopy over the entire flour, coloring the light and causing it to lose directio
n and get lost in the flowers that are placed at every pillar and table.
I think to myself, how the hell can we afford this? I’ll have to ask Pamela.
Seeing the tables set with cloth napkins and linen table clothes, I realize that
I am hungry, and it would be a good idea to eat before I set out. It will give
me a good chance to see whether I can afford this place that looks a little ric
h for my blood.
A hostess escorts me to a table where I sit enthralled in the ambiance and elega
nce of the setting. I study the menu and am surprised to find the prices more
reasonable than what I’ve paid for meals so far on the trip.
I order a chile and cheese omelet, and café colado. The omelet comes with handm
ade corn tortillas. A waiter in a tux takes my order. I am impressed.
I’m offered fresh squeezed orange juice which I accept.
The service is very attentive and polite and I tip accordingly.
I go out to check on the dogs, worrying a bout them being in a hot car, before I
go searching for Pamela’s order.
When I enter the parking lot, worrying about the dogs suffering, the attendant h
as the dogs out of the car and is petting them and playing with the “Little Shit
s.”
When he sees me headed his way, the short and stout Indian-blooded man looks ner
vous. He says to me when I arrive, “Son tuyos?”
“Si,” I say, “Son mios.”
“Yo sacque porque es mucho color,” he says, nervous that I won’t approve and wil
l reprimand him.”
“Gracias,” I say, “No precuepes. I think he needn’t worry. I am amazed that
Trina is letting him pet her. She doesn’t take to many people. Turkey Dog is
a people person, and likes most people and his response doesn’t surprise me.
I notice the man’s name tag reads, Ofilio.
Ofilio asks hesitantly, still not sure of me, “Cuanto tiempo va estar aqui en el
hotel?
I am not sure how long I will be here so I say, “No se.”
He wipes sweat from hiss brow, the day being hot and humid and says, “Porque no
permitame a llevar los perros a mi casa. Yo tango mi casa en el campo en un ra
nchito.”
I think it’s a great idea he takes the dogs home with him, especially since he l
ives in the countryside. I say, “Es muy buena idea.”
Ofilio is not through yet. He asks, “Cuanto por los perritos?”
“Son tuyos,” I say, “Por quidando mis perros.”
He breaks into a big grin and says, “Mi esposa y mis hijos fascinen los animales
.”
I show him where the dog food is and tell him to take what he needs, please to h
ave given him the last two puppies. It’s a great trade for me the last two pup
pies gone. He’ll watch Turkey and Trina, and I won’t have to pay to keep them
somewhere. Besides, they love being able to be in the country for a change.
This trip has not been easy for them.
I pat Little Red on the roof, the old Renault has managed to get us this far wit
hout any problems, though I worry about the clutch cable that Greg warned me abo
ut.
4
I set out to explore the downtown area of Puebla on foot, having no idea how I’m
going to find any dope for Pamela.
I love the narrow car and people filled streets, the solid wall of adobe and roc
k work, the brilliant reds, greens, blues and yellows of the building, a mad tro
pical riot of color.
My olfactory sense takes in the scents of chile and garlic, lime and rose, carna
tion and carne molido. I float on the aroma from an open air market
As I walk my eyes flit from building to building, from muchachas to ancient cron
es. My eyes dance and are dazzled with the vibrancy of the city center.
Everyone seems to have cut flowers set out and I drift on their fragrance.
A building catches my eye. The sign reads, “Taller de Renault.”
Just what I need. A garage specializing in Renaults. Then I remember that Mex
ico used to have a Renault manufacturing plant. Was it in Puebla, Hidalgo, San
Luis Potisi, Queretero or some other state. Anyway, it couldn’t have been to
o far away from here.
The garage is busy and I see another R-8 being worked on. I explain my problem
to them, and they say, “Es algo sencillo. Traerte tu carro manana.”
That’s great, I think, “I can bring little Red into be fixed for a simple proble
m tomorrow.
Before I leave, I think to say, “Mi novia esta enfirma y necesita mota. Con la
mota ella sienta mucho mejor. Donde se puede consiguir?”
The proprietor and chief mechanic sizes me up and says, “Manana cuando viene con
tu carro.”
That’s great I think. I’ve already found the dope for Pamela, and I haven’t wa
lked six blocks from the hotel. And Little Red is going to be tweaked.
I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around the city, taking in the sites
, and letting my nose feast on the pungent and fecund aromas of the city, let it
be inundated and overwhelmed with the rich lush life of the tropics, steaming w
ith life, sex and greenness.
The rich sexual green of the steaming city dissolve the fatigue of the trip.

5
The dope I find for Pamela seems to help her immensely, though she is still weak
and we take it easy. It is rich green and crumbly and comes rolled in a tube ma
de of an old newspaper.
The day after I bring the grass for her, Pamela calls me over to her and puts he
r arms around me and holds me tight. She says, “Will you fuck me. I think a
good fuck will help me center myself. It will make me feel better, make me bel
ieve I’m not an old withered up crone.”
I don’t understand why she has been hesitant with me up until now, accept for he
r sickness. I smile and say, “Of course. I love, as you put it, fucking, wit
h you.” I smile when I say this.
She laughs at this and looks contented.. “I don’t even know how you can stand
to be around me.” Pamela says, “I haven’t bathed for days.”
“I can’t abandon you because you are sick,” I say, “You hang through the hard ti
mes because of love.”
“Do you really love me?” Pamela asks.
“I don’t know,” I say and look out the window, “I think I’m getting there.”
After a good rumble in the bed, Pamela says, “Will you take a shower with me.
Then we can go down and get something to eat. I’m hungry.”
My eyes light up at the mention of her eating. She tells me that she hasn’t ea
ten anything in days, and I know I haven’t seen her put anything in her mouth.
I’ve been worried about her, wondering how much more weight she would have to l
ose to kill the bug.
It’s eight in the evening by the time we make it downstairs, and it’s Friday eve
ning and place is full. We have to wait a good half hour for a table. We are
seated on the mezzanine, surveying the people, watching the waiters glide aroun
d the dining room, balancing large trays of food on their shoulders.
Pamela says something once we are seated and I say, “What? “ I’m hard of hearin
g. I’m deaf in one ear and blind in the other, and the background noise drives
me crazy. It’s hard to distinguish any sounds.”
Pamela smiles that wane little smile in her now hollowed out and always photoge
nic face and says, .”There are a lot of peas and carrots here.”
I hear her, or at least I think I hear her, and her answer doesn’t make any sens
e to me. There is a confused look on my face.
“When I was married,” Pamela says, looking at me intently, “Both my husband and
I worked in the film industry, the movie business. When there is a crowd and a
background noise, a rumble is needed, all the extras in the scene are instructe
d to sit around and say peas and carrots over and over.. So there are a lot of
peas and carrots here.”
I smile at her and realize all the beautiful ceramic and stained glass are a goo
d part of the problem. It makes the room spectacular and striking, unique and
wonderful to look at, and creates an exquisite ambiance but all that glassy, shi
ny beautiful ambiance, bounces sound back from where it came and creates confusi
on for the ear.
Pamela and I dine there often and it is always with peas and carrots.
6
Within two days Pamela is restless and wants to get out and do some exploring.
We wander through the downtown mercados together, drifting on the fragrance and
scent of spices and flowers, of fresh meat and boiled tripe.
Pamela pulls out something I almost never use, a guide book. She says, “We hav
e to go see Chapillo.”
Somewhere in the recess of my memory I pull out a vague description of the place
. “Isn’t that the place with all the churches?”
“It says here that there are three hundred and sixty-five of them,” Pamela say
s, “One for every day of the year.”
‘Is it far?” I ask, not really having any idea.
“It butts onto Puebla, Puebla it says here,” is Pamela’s response. She smiles tr
iumphantly at me, being well aware that I am more familiar with Mexico than she.
“What are we waiting for?” I say, and look out the window.
We lie in bed undressed as we have this conversation, already having had our mor
ning romp. We shower, get dressed, have breakfast which has much less peas and
carrots than the evening meal and go off to discover Chapillo.
We take a city bus, sitting close together on a hard bench seat with torn dirty
green vinyl covering it. Everyone rides the bus and I see that we are lucky
too have a seat.
Chapillo is on three hills littered with churches, big and small. There is lit
tle doubt in my mind that the Catholic Church has almost broken the back of this
lush and wonderful country from the days of the first Conquistadores. I wonde
r how and why Mexico continues to support so many churches.
Pamela says, ‘Let’s go explore.” Her green eyes have started to sparkle again.
We wonder in and out of churches with their gold leaf and sad-eyed Christs. Is t
hat appropriate? I ask myself. My mind answers, yes. He would be sad to see
what has been done in his name.
Always the incense and candles are burning as if the soot and smoke didn’t blind
 and choke the god it was offered to.
The largest, most daunting Church perches on the top of the tallest hill. We c
limb up there and survey the mass of milling humanity strewed around for us to
view. Puebla exhales it’s smoky exhaust to the mountains and heaven, and offer
ing rising up-- one to cough at.
At this largest of cathedrals, this monument to subjectivity we find a tunnel le
ading into the mountain.
We pay our entrance fee and wander down into the bowels of the past.
The hill is a massive pyramid, dirted over by the Spaniards.
We continue down into the pyramid, excavating our past and the prehistory of Mex
ico, that sad hollow-eyed child of sex and violence, of sacrifice and fiesta, We
drift into ourselves as we descend into the earth.
We go far enough down where we can hear and feel the screams of the unwilling de
ad, the torture the gods demanded. But what type of “Gods” were those? Are t
hey any worse than our own, or were they less cruel because they were more immed
iate, less removed from the people?
At the bottom under thousands of tons of built up earth, the earth rumbles with
a slight tremor along some distant fault line. It startles Pamela and she crie
s out in alarm, and I wrap my arms round her and try to comfort her, though I
am no less frightened..
“It is time we get out of here,” I say and steer her back up the walk way.
The sunlight seems a miracle as we leave the past with its tortured memories.
Pamela kisses me and says, “That is something we can never go back to.
7
Pamela and I stay two-and-a-half weeks at the Hotel Colonial, exploring every ba
rrio and Colonia of Puebla, taking a different bus every day, even to extreme fa
r shanty towns.
In the poorest of poor slums, Pamela insists we get off our sheltered little bus
seat and explore, talk with the people.
That means I will talk with the people because Pamela’s knowledge of Spanish is
very limited.
We exit the bus and are almost immediately surrounded by a swarm of three to fiv
e-year-old black-eyed, black-haired round-faced children.
They chatter half in Spanish and half in an indigenous dialect. My mind refuses
to wrap itself around the guttural dialect.
The children tug on Pamela’s hands and she sits down with them, and starts talki
ng with her hands. A spider appears and gets washed out with the rain, and the
sun comes out, and the spider is climbing again.
The children are smiling and laughing and imitating Pamela’s movements. Pamela
grins from ear to ear.
We spend over half an hour with the children until they are corralled by their p
arents.
After the children leave, I hold Pamela tight, remember how she told me that she
has had three abortions, and does not want to have children.
I kiss her passionately and try to remove that contradiction in her.
The sun shines and it starts to rain hard. We take shelter inside a small abor
ote (a small neighborhood store usually found in every block), smelling of honey
and panocha. Panocha being crystalized and formed natural brown sugar with m
olasses that is melted and poured onto hot cakes. It is also a word used to re
fer to a woman’s sex.
The sweet scent of the aborote stimulate Pamela and I and we can hardly keep our
hands off one another.
8
I am worried that my money is dissipating too rapidly. Besides, I’m getting la
zy from the constant sex Pamela and I indulge ourselves with.
I’m restless. I want to be on the road again.
Little Red has been resting in the parking lot long enough. I haven’t seen Tur
key and Trina in days.
I say to Pamela whose yet to ride in Little Red, “Let’s go explore.”
She squeezes my hand and says, “We’ll hop another city bus.”
“No,” I say, “I’m getting claustrophobic. I need to get out of the city. Bre
athe real country air.”
Pamela smiles, reaches over and gives me a kiss. “I’m game.”
Little Red fires right up, anxious to please and always willing to go for a driv
e.
We head out, though I really have not idea where we are going.
I say, “We’ll follow a road until it looks good and that will be where we’re goi
ng to.”
Within fifteen kilometers were out in the countryside.
Cows graze on green pastures, donkey carts piled high with hay transverse the ro
ad. Tall pines try to puncture the bubble of the sky with their upper branches.
We come to a town, Chapillo. There’s a motel with a restaurant. It’s lunch t
ime so we go in to eat, and are surprised to find almost everything offered on t
he menu is an Italian dish.
We order and I ask the waiter about the Italian dishes. He says, “Everyone her
e is Italian.”
This comes as a surprise to Pamela and me, being totally unaware that Mexico had
ever had an immigrant Italian population.
I like the place, the quiet and the country. I check the prices. It’s half o
f what we’re paying at the Hotel Colonial.
I say to Pamela, “How about we move out here. I checked and it will be find to
have Turkey and Trina with us out here.”
Pamela comes over and kisses me and says, ‘You really miss them, don’t you?”
“More than I care to admit.”
We go back into Puebla, gather our things together, check out and pick up the do
gs.
9
The next morning while Pamela sleeps in, Turkey Trina and I go exploring the fie
lds adjacent to the motel.
Dew moistens my boots, crocus erupts from the soil and perfumes the air with its
delicate fragrance.
A cluster of pink mushrooms deceives my nostrils with the smell of fried bananas
.
Later that day Pamela says to me, “My friend Carol is coming. I’m suppose to m
eet her in Oaxaca in a week.”
I’m not sure how I’m suppose to react. I stand there thinking. Then say, “Are
you telling me our time together is through?”
She squeezes my hand and says with a smile, “Of course not. I’m telling you I
have to meet Carol. We’ve been planning this a long time. We want to go to
Huatla de Jimenez to see Maria Teresa. You’re welcome to come along.”
I have no idea who Maria Teresa is, but I will find out. I say, “I’ll tag alon
g for awhile and be your chauffeur.”
We leave in three days and drive to Oaxaca
Oaxaca
1
We’re loaded up and on the road, driving into the unknown.
Pamela drives.
For the first this trip I’m not at the wheel. Tucson seems a lifetime ago.
I was worried how Pamela would do with a stick shift, and when I see how great s
he handles the gears, I say, “You didn’t tell me you were an expert” and smile w
armly.
She smiles back, my hand on the inside of her right thigh. “My first car was a
n Austin Healy Sprite. Quite the hot rodder when I was young.”
I squeeze her thigh, amused by this, she only being in her late twenties, “You s
till are young.”
“I don’t feel young,” she says with a wistful look, “I guess I never really hav
e.”
I smile at her and nod my head for her to go on, thinking how wonderful it is to
be traveling with her, to have met her, to be able to hear her because I’m not
driving and having the hearing in my good ear masked by the wind.
“I went crazy. Rob, my husband rescued me. He saved my life.” She gives this
 as a flat statement of fact.
“When I was growing up my grand mother lived with us. My mother’s mother.” Her
eyes deepen as she looks into the past and doesn’t like what she sees.
“She was always watching me. I couldn’t do anything, go any where without her w
atching me. She never bothered by brother who was two years older. She was a
lways watching. Sometimes, even to this day, I think she haunts my every move.”
She throws a glance my way, seeing how I’m taking this, and wondering if she i
s talking too much.
“Rob saved me, took me away, helped me to escape to New York and dance and the t
heater.” A slight smile flickers across her face when she says this.
“He listened to me talk for hours and hours, helping me to put together the pie
ces, assemble the puzzle of my life.” She looks straight down the road as she s
ays this, not wanting to acknowledge that she is telling me this.
“We were together for nine years, slowly turning the love we shared to dust, gri
nding it under the heal of indifference and too much familiarity. We decided t
o go our separate ways, hoping that some day we may connect up again.” A single
tear forms in her left eye and trickles down her face.
I look at Pamela, driving Little Red, her hair blowing in the wind, the dogs cra
shed in the backseat, the silhouette of Little Red with the cargo piled on the r
oof-rack following alongside of us. “It sounds sad.”
“It wasn’t,” Pamela says defiantly, her eyes lighting up. “It was great to be
away from the family, living on my own with Rob. My family had money, and it w
as a curse.” Her face takes on fierceness.
‘The most fucked up people I’ve ever met are the ones from wealthy families.” D
istain is boiling in her yes.
I nod my head at this because it has been my experience as well. I want to k
eep her talking, discovering the intricacies of her life, so I say, “What do you
do now?”
“I teach poetry in Bay Area schools. I teach poetry to kids.” She smiles when
she says this, still that contradiction of not wanting children, but loving the
m.
I’m immediately leery of this. I completed a graduate writing program a few sh
ort years before, am running away from having to go on tour and promote a book o
f my collected poems that had been published nine months before, and it has be
en my experience that a large number of people who call themselves poets know l
ittle, if anything, about writing.
Pamela sees the look of doubt on my face, rummages around in her hand bag, and c
omes up with a copy of a book. A book of poems that she has written. She hand
s it to me, and I start reading.
I smile with pleasure. The poems are jewels, distilled gems of words, crystali
zed images, faceted planes of reflection, unmarred marvels of insight into many
aspects of the human condition.
Out of the corner of her eye Pamela watches me read, beams with pleasure at my s
mile.
“You are a wonderful writer,” I say.
“So are you,” she says, “I found a copy of your manuscript and I read it. I di
dn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you would react. I could see a lot of the
pain that you try to keep hidden in your words.”
I want to deflect her from talking about me, so I squeeze her warm and lush th
igh, and say, “Do you have a degree in writing? To have gotten a position teac
hing poetry to children. . .”
“I never completed a degree in anything. Not even an undergraduate, though I ha
d enough talent and practical experience to teach ballet. That led to voluntee
r work teaching literacy, and that, in turn, led to teaching poetry once my firs
t book of poems was published.” She smiles.
“That’s wonderful,” I say. “More power to anyone who can bypass the bullshit a
nd fucked up politics of universities, and the infighting within every departmen
t.” I almost want to add, don’t get me going.
Pamela and I have plotted a course that takes us on back roads, mostly dirt road
s, to Oaxaca, Oaxaca.
We drive through kilometers of bananas shimmering and glowing with their greenne
ss in the sun. Follow roads up and down hills dotted with coffee trees and litt
ered with pineapples, scattered with papaya, punctuated with mangoes in multiple
crop cultivation.
The snow capped sierras gleam overhead and we are happy with one another, conten
t with our relationship and the world, still in love with one another.

The day is magical sunshine, and by the time the sun has made its turn into the
horizon we are pulling into the pueblo-ness of Oaxaca, Oaxaca.
By that time, I am driving and Pamela has pulled out her guide book and guides m
e to the hotel we will be staying at.
The thirty something man that checks us in asks if we are married, and we tell h
im, “No.”
He starts flinting with Pamela, and she flirts back.
I am jealous and none too please with this.
Pamela is smiling and laughing, and feeling pretty and attractive.
2
The bed in our room has a plastic protective wrap over the mattress to protect i
t and it makes a crackling racket as we give it a thorough try-out.
Pamela says, “Everyone will know.”
“So,” I say, “Is that bad?”
She starts tickling me, and while I laugh she says, “No.”
Pamela and I get up late, wander out and put the dogs on leashes which neither o
ne of them care for, and go explore.
Within two blocks we find an open air restaurant. The dogs wait expectantly at
our feet as we order.
The breakfast is served with blue corn tortillas. The tortillas are hand made,
freshly prepared and moist with the mystical color of the gods.
“Aren’t these great?” Pamela says.
I know the indigenous peoples don’t eat tortillas like these. They are used on
special ceremonial occasions and offered to the Sun and Moon and other gods.
“They’re wonderful,” I say, asking myself, what right do the gringo and European
tourist have to be offered a food of the gods?
After breakfast we explore the carefully prepared Pueblo tourist-ness of
El Centro, the downtown area filled with foreigners and traditionally dressed in
digenous women carrying enfant children and seeking alms.
We give money, and I think how the glorious cultures of this tropical wonderland
have come to prostitute themselves before the great god of money, and the worst
god of all–the American dollar.
A long-haired brunette tourist woman in a full flowing flowered dress asks, “Can
I pet the dogs?”
“Sure.” I say, not really wishing to talk with this woman.
“How did you get them here?” she asks. Isn’t it hard on dogs to fly them in?” s
he gushes breathlessly.
“We drove.” I say with studied indifference.
“My God!” she says with wonder and fright in her eyes, “Weren’t you scared?” she
says with typical US American paranoia.
“Not nearly as much as driving in a large city in the states.” I say stern mea
nness in my voice.
“I came by myself, because I was afraid to bring my son.” She quickly looks aro
und at the mention of her son as if anyone was watching and listening.
“Why’s that?” I ask, already thoroughly disgusted with her.
“He might be hurt. Kidnaped. And the poverty,” she says while twiddling a larg
e Navajo squash blossom necklace.
“How old is he?” I ask as if I really gave a shit.
She gushes, “He’s only ten!”
I’ve had more than enough of this. “Do you think you can protect him from the w
orld? Shelter him from reality? Is it any wonder things are so . . .”
The women is taken aback and frightened.
Pamela grabs my hand and pulls me and the dogs away.
“I didn’t realize that you had that streak in you.”
I look at her sadly and say, “It just pisses me off. The unreality of the Unit
ed States and the first world. Do they think everyone else are just a bunch
of savages. Fucking California hippy! It’s no wonder our foreign policy suck
s. And she’ll go home and tell everyone how wonderful the Indians and Oaxaca
are, except for this really rude American she met. As if she actually saw anyt
hing more than a carefully crafted tourist world. As if she went to a village w
ithout running water or a sewer system. As if she walked barefoot through corn
fields on almost vertical hillsides! As if she drank corn beer and mescal with
them while singing and dancing until dawn.”
Pamela wraps me in her arms and kisses me. She says, “Don’t get so upset. We
have each other.”
I laugh and say, “The dogs too.”

3
We drive out to Monte Alban, an archeological site, and someplace I would never
explore on my own.
We wander in and out of the ruins which are set on top of a hill. Grass spr
eads like a carpet down to lush rainforest.
Pamela is sure and says, “It was an observatory, a place to calibrate the moveme
nt of the stars and planets.
I take Pamela’s hand and say, “If we could only build an observatory, calibrated
to the movements of our emotions and feelings.”
Pamela asks, “how can you be so romantic, and act the way you did with that woma
n?”
I can’t see any contradiction, nevertheless, I say nothing and lapse into silenc
e, sail on the blue water of my distant eyes.
We enter the underground sacrificial chamber. Feel the coldness of the stone a
nd hollowness of the lost lives the superficiality and indifference of the gods.
My fingers feel the gray stone and know the gods haven’t changed.
The dogs love the site, and we have managed to stumble onto it when it is not pa
cked with tourists.
It is with relief and regret that we head back to Oaxaca.

4
The next day we go to Dimas and San Pedro Elesias.
A huge and squat tree at Dimas has a trunk so thick it looks as though it was p
lanted before the beginning of time.
Pamela assures me, “It is the oldest tree in the world.”
I don’t want to contradict her with my doubt, so I say nothing and believe the
tree was only planted the day before.
The three days pass rapidly, and soon we’re picking Carol up at the airport.
5
Carol is a stocky, athletic woman of at least five ten with dark hair and warm b
rown eyes.
She offers me her hand and has a firm grip.
She hugs Pamela.
It is relatively early, but Carol is tired from travel so we retire to the hot
el.
Carol is in a room adjacent to Pamela and me.
Over breakfast the next day Carol says, “The sheets were talking loudly last nig
ht.”
Pamela and I look at each other, not positive of what Carol is referring to, tho
ugh we both start blushing.
“When I gave up the habit,” Carol says, “When I ceased being a nun, my landlady
would accuse me of making the sheets talk loudly at night. And I’m happy to sa
y that they did.”
We all laugh.
I am curious so I ask Carol, “Why does one become a nun?”
Carol levels her brown eyes on me and says, “At that time I believed. I was r
aised in the Church, and all the most interesting people I met, the ones doing
the most in the world and for the world, were all nuns and priests. It is obv
ious that I couldn’t become a priest. I have no regrets about it. I went t
o rural China. It changed my life for the better, and hopefully I changed a f
ew others lives for the better.”
6
Soon we are headed for Teheuacan, Puebla and Huatla de Jimenez, Oaxaca.
Little Red is still running great.
Fortunately Carol loves animals because she is in the backseat with Turkey Dog
and Trina.
Her luggage has been added to the small mountain already piled on the top of Li
ttle Red.

Bob Dylan’s rasping and nasal voice resounds inside of Little Red as I drive.
I’ve had very little music playing on the car stereo since I left Tucson, pref
erring to listen to what’s playing inside of my own head.
I drive as Pamela and Carol catch-up on their lives and their friends, the peopl
e they mutually know, the connections they have and people they only know of.
The Bob Dylan tape is Pamela’s. She has a number of them. I have never paid
much attention to his music after the sixties and I have no idea what is playing
.
After awhile they all sound the same to me.
We’re headed to Tehuacan, Puebla. I can’t ever remember having been there, tho
ugh driving through I’m not impressed with anything I see of the industrialized
city.
I think of all the friends that I have who are affectionados of Dylan. That
must be my fate this incarnate, to be surrounded by them.
We drive through a tropical pine forest. The pungent freshness causes Turkey a
nd Trina to pay attention. They know the true outdoors when they encounter it.
Forty kilometers pass the city we turn to the right and head for Huatla de Jimen
ez. It’s a dirt road and it’s a good hundred kilometers to Jimenez.
It’s been raining and starts raining lightly again.
The road is being prepared for paving. It seems to be heavily traveled. With
all the loose dirt from the road preparation, it is a quagmire of mud.
I worry about Little Red. I don’t want it to be caked in mud, dirty and un-car
ed for. This little car has taken me so far, further into myself than I think I
’ve ever been.
We follow a heavily loaded truck, and I mentally cross my fingers, hoping we wil
l make it through, hoping nothing goes wrong with Little Red.
I throw out the question, “Who is Maria Teresa Zavala?” having no idea what sort
of response I will get.
“I thought everyone knew about her,” Carol says most seriously and examining me
with intensity, trying to determine if I’m pulling her leg or if the question is
serious.
“I have no idea who she is,” I recklessly toss back and steal a glance at her fa
ce.
Pamela says with a calm intense look on her face, “Bob Dylan has gone to see her
and so has Mick Jaggers.”
I’m still lost and I ask, “Why?” not being impressed with either Jaggers or Dyla
n.
“She’s a curendera. She can see into your soul, look into your future.” This
is said by Pamela with such absolute certainty that have to force myself not to
smile and laugh outloud.
I don’t believe this for one little second. I believe that the only one who ca
n find themself is the person seeking themself. I say, “Really!”
“Absolutely,” they both say, absolutely sure of themselves.
I only wish that I could be so sure of anything.
A stand of eucalyptus grows on a hillside and floods the air with their aromatic
and healing fragrance. I want to close my eyes and drift with this almost mag
ical scent. I don’t dare, less we end up stuck off the road.
The road keeps getting wetter and wetter and muddier and muddier.
We crawl along at a snails pace.
I stop and unload Turkey and Trina, and they run happily and gloriously coated i
n mud beside and ahead of Little Red.
Little Red is such a great car. Not a big or powerful car, but a wonderful ca
r. In my mind I thank it for financing this trip.
About eighteen kilometers before Huatla we come to a badly washed out section.
I ease Little Red into the deepening mud, hoping it won’t get stuck, grateful fo
r the rear motor and the rear wheel drive, praying the extra traction it provide
s will be enough.
We’re in almost halfway across in at least ten inches of soft sucking gooey mud,
and the rear wheels start spinning.
I can’t help myself and say, “Shit.”
Both Pamela and Carol are wearing shorts and sandles. They kick off their sand
les and say almost simultaneously, “It’s okay. We’ll push you out.”
Before I can protest, they’re out the car and pushing.
Little Red lurches forward, and they fall on their knees in the mud, and then Li
ttle Red gets traction and showers them in mud.
Turkey and Trina are trying to help Pamela and Carol, and think this is a wonder
ful holiday.
The girls slosh across the muddy wash and climb back into Little Red, and we slo
wly and cautiously proceed along the muddy way.
This same scenario plays itself out seventeen more times before we pull into the
mud calles of Huatla de Jimenez.
Huatla grows on and hangs onto a hillside covered with lush vegetation.
Checkerboard corn fields dot the surrounding hillside, with an occasional thatch
ed or red-tiled roof visible.
It’s getting late. We’re caked in mud, as are the dogs and Little Red.
7
I notice Huatla has a bank and seems to be a center for a lot of remote and isol
ated pueblos.
I ask and we are directly to Huatla’s only hotel.
There is only one room available, and with only one bed, but the room has a show
er.
I shower last and hope to hell all the mud doesn’t plug the plumbing up.
We go in search of something to eat and find empanadas filled with meat, and eto
le to drink. Etole is a sweat heated corn drink dosed with cinnamon and vanill
a. It’s great for warming the insides on a damp and chill evening.
Back at the hotel, we’re all beat. I’m not sure what to wear to bed. Pamela
and I are used to sleeping in the nude.
Pamela and Carol strip down to their bras and panties and climb into bed.
I would do the same, but I quit wearing underwear years before.
Pamela laughs and says, “Don’t worry. We’ve both seen naked men before.”
I peel my clothes off and Soon we’re all asleep, intertwined in one another.

8
In the morning Pamela and Carol set out in search of Maria Zavala, and a glimpse
into their future.
After hosing the mud off Little Red and praising the old car for being so relia
ble and dependable and so wonderfully eccentric, I set out with Turkey Dog and T
rina to explore Huatla de Jimenez.
First off I encounter a couple of people from an indigenous tribe. They greet
me in unison with what sounds like, “Dollie.”
I try to repeat “Dollie.” And they smile. They repeat, “Daulie.”
I again try to repeat this, and again they smile.
Once again they repeat, “Daulie.”
As hopeless tone-deaf as I am, I can hear the distinction, and I repeat it back
to them, “Daulie.”
They nod their heads and walk on.
The rain has stopped, but Huatla is still a morass of mud.
I have a pair of huaraches on and I don’t care. My legs up to my shorts are so
on coated with thick black goo.
Huatla doesn’t have a paved street in its entirety. The dogs are in a filthy,
slippery mud painted heaven.
Turkey and Trina raise heads and sniff the air.
Even my nostrils pick up the roasting goat meat, marinated with cinnamon, vanill
a and chile.
I follow my nose and float to the mercado.
I’m surprised by the size of the mercado. It covers an entire city block, and
is one of the most level areas in the pueblo which climbs up and down hillsides.
The four entrances to the mercado all have a flowering arch of bougainvillaeas.
Blood red to the North, Orange to the East, Scarlet to the West and White to t
he South.
I enter from every direction, because I want to be properly anointed
I still follow my nose and the dogs which beeline for the stand with the roastin
g meat.
I order tacos and the meat is cut off of an upright spit that turns on inside of
an orange wood fire, fragrant with the perfume of citrus.
I am given fresh handmade corn tortillas, and the condiment table is pointed out
to me.
I pile the tacos with purple onions soaked in lime juice, chile Serrano, tomato
and roasted garlic. I pick-up a half dozen large roasted green onions, and bit
e into their succulent sweetness.
The dogs are engrossed in my eating, so I purchase some bones at the butcher sta
nd.
They are content to chomp on their bones, but would really like to have one of m
y tacos.
I discover that I am ravished for the food, and the dogs get nothing of mine.
The dogs and I explore every street and alley of Huatla, discover that the merca
do is the most interesting of all places.
Soon we take to a trail leading higher into the sierra.
We follow the fragrance of flowering coffee, high on the caffeine of this delica
te and rich sweet aromatic blossom.
We encounter many more indigenous people. I’m ready for them now. I have “Dau
lie” just right.
I try varying the tone, but find it doesn’t work. I have to concentrate to get
the tone just right, or they won’t know what the hell I am saying, not that I r
eally have much clue as to what I’m saying.
I try Spanish on an indigenous man whose dressed as a conventional poor Mexican,
jeans, a cowboy hat and a flowered western shirt. I ask him, “Que lengua esta
hablando gente indigena aqui?”
He answers in one word without looking directly at me.
“Misotec,” and walks on.
So the language of the indigenous here is Misotec.
When we get back to Huatla, I start asking around and discover that Misotec is a
tonal language. A word can be said in four different tones and mean something
entirely different in each tone.
I am told that some Chinese tourist had visited and had been able to converse wi
th the Misotec, because their languages were basically the same.
I find that amazing because I know the languages have been separated for hundred
s if not thousands of years.
Back in the room I shower and clean up, and lie down to rest and await Pamela an
d Carol. I am curious to know how their day has gone, but soon I drift off to s
leep and dream of following goats into bougainvillea and coffee covered hillside
s.
I get lost in the perfume and sink deeper and deeper into a sleep that has me sm
iling.
10
Pamela and Carol coming in pull me back from the fragrance of my dream.
They seem pretty quiet and subdued. When I ask, “What did you find out?”
Pamela wets her lips and says, “Maria would like to meet you and assess your aur
a.” She says this totally solemn. I’ve never seen her like this.
It sounds pretty ominous to me, but I don’t want to upset Pamela because I reali
ze how serious she is about all this. She wouldn’t appreciate my sarcasm. I
lie and say, “That sounds great.”
Something has happened, and I don’t know what it is, but the magic has gone out
of the room, left a hollow vacuum, an emptiness dissolving my heart.
In the morning we all go to see Maria. She is a withered and frail old cron
e with long gray hair. She is dressed in a long skirt and her eyes are clouded
with cataracts.
She takes my hands and holds them for a good five minutes. She then nods her he
ad, and Pamela motions me to leave the smoldering incense filled room smelling o
f burning dung.
I don’t know what to make of this. In spite of having studied anthropology, I’
ve never been into this mystical gobbly-gook, and believe that all mystical, mag
ical or spiritual feelings, things or entities emanate from within ones own self
.
11
The dogs and I go out and check on Little Red. I extract my trusty manual typew
riter and some paper.
The dogs and I again beeline to the mercado where I install myself at a table a
nd start writing.
Over the next three days I write five articles and send them off, hoping that th
ey will find homes and generate a cash flow.
The dynamic between Pamela and me has changed and our relationship is withering
and dying rapidly.
Pamela and Carol are eating psychedelic mushrooms with Maria.
It’s suggested that I eat them too, though I have absolutely no desire to try th
em, realizing that I’m too precariously balanced to risk teetering over the edge
.
I notice other wayward souls have made it to Huatla to consult with Maria.
The place is beginning to take on the character of a hippie commune in Californi
a.
I say to Pamela, “I think it’s about time I leave.”
Her eyes are sad and her smile is distant. “It would probably be better.”
She walks me out to Little Red, kisses me and says, “I know you want to get marr
ied, and I know you will find her. Watch out and take special care of Trina.”
I fire Little Red up and leave, grateful that the road has dried out considerabl
y.
I wonder about Pamela’s statement. How would she know I would like to get marr
ied. We never talk about anything like that. And what did she mean about Tri
na?
Why didn’t we exchange addresses, or do we both know that we will never see each
other again?
12
Turkey’s back to riding shotgun and Trina is sprawled on the backseat.
There seems to be little or no traffic. Besides, they are both car savvy.
I stop and unload Turkey and Trina. I drive slowly away from Huatla, letting L
ittle Red take it easy, and allowing the dogs the freedom of running, lost in th
e absence of Pamela and pondering her words.

I drive slow and let Little Red loaf along. The dogs chase rabbits and deer an
d cover incredible distances, mostly staying ahead of me, and always out of the
way of the slight traffic.
I smile when I think of Little Red’s resiliency. Who would think a twenty-two
year old Renault would be carrying me to the end of the world in nineteen eighty
-five.
We come to the stand of eucalyptus and stop. I get out and walk among the blue
leafed trees, and inhale deeply of their medicinal fragrance, let it perfume and
heal every cell of my body.
I lean up against a white trunk where a large tree has shed its skin as if it we
re a snake. The dry crusty grey bark forms a mulched mattress around the tree.
The decaying eucalyptus sheddings add a new dimension to my olfactory sense.
It is as if the fecund earth is entering my nostrils with the perfume of the eu
calyptus.
Some small odorless blue mushrooms grow around the tree, looking like pieces of
the sky fallen to the ground.
The natural clean smell fills the void in my heart separating from Pamela has cr
eated.
The dogs, Little Red and I linger there for almost an hour, contemplating our dr
ive into the future.
I know that most people would think it insane to be planning on driving through
Central America. There are two definite wars taking place, along with innumera
ble guerilla actions.
I smile and think how I’ve never let questions about my sanity stop me from doin
g anything.
I get serious when I remember hitch hiking from Vietnam to Western Europe in 197
1.
I was told it couldn’t be done. But I made it, and that’s another long complica
ted story.
That it took me two years to cover the ground I could have flown in thirteen hou
rs is irrelevant.
Who is going to tell me I can drive through Central America, that it can’t be do
ne? Fuck ‘em I think and smile.
Picking some eucalyptus leaves, I carry them to Little Red, and load the dogs.
 They’ve had enough running for one day and are pooped.
The eucalyptus leaves keep my head clear as I drive, anxious to get as far as po
ssible.
12
In Tehuacan we take the highway for Frontera Comlapa.
It’s a concession we make to the war in El Salvador. We won’t take the PanAmer
ican highway, which is like being in a shooting gallery as you go down the highw
ay in El Salvador.
Besides, I have traveled that highway too many times before.
Entering the remote highlands of Guatemala may actually be more dangerous, but t
hat is a chance we’re willing to take.
Chiapas
1
Soon we have left Oaxaca and enter Chiapas, but Pamela’s smiles which still p
lays in my mind refuses to fade.
We drive through seemingly endless kilometers of bananas, platanos, with their s
weet sad scent that longs for a nurturing love.
It’s getting late and we hole up at a Pension in Tuxtla de Gutierrez, the capita
l of Chiapas.
The room is cheap, but it isn’t much, though it serves my purpose with it four a
dobe walls.
A window looks out into a courtyard.
The bed is old and sags, and a naked light bulb hangs from the ceiling. The lin
en is clean, and I’m grateful for that.
I shower and cocoon myself in the sheets, and reach out for someone who is no lo
nger there

2
I dress in the dark and we leave in the quarter light before dawn. It’s a nicke
l after four.
Turkey and Trina are still asleep. I wake them up and let them out, stiff and
yawning and wondering what the hell I am doing up so early.
They do their duty and are soon back in Little Red.
That it’s early doesn’t bother Little Red at all. This diminutive car is alway
s ready to go.
We escape Tuxtla, which can get quite congested with traffic, before anything bu
t a stray taxi is on the streets.
We zigzag through turns and up and down mountains and hillsides blooming with co
ffee and pineapple, breathing in the rich sex of the tropics.
We come to a secluded yet sizable valley planted as a large grove of mandarin o
ranges.
Small delicate white stars glow on the dark citrus plants.
The stars are incense burners of a rich, sweet and heady perfume.
Perfectly shaped mandarins hang on the flowering trees.
It’s already past sunrise, but it is still quite early.
I let Turkey and Trina out and we walk through the grass, wet with dew, to the t
rees.
The dogs spot a rabbit and go bounding after it.
Little Red waits patiently by the roadside, always accepting and unquestioning.
I breathe in the magic of oranges, feel as if the bioflavonoids , their scent, t
heir fragrance are lifting me up to the clouds.
I look up and can see potential rain clouds already starting to bank up along
the sierra.
We should leave, but I linger in the cool morning sweet comforting and complex
scent, imagine endless possibilities, a diverse and complicated future, living a
simple life in reverse, driving into the future peering into a rearview mirror,
getting lost in a hall of mirrors, dancing with trees, swimming in a waterless
pond.
3
We load back up and are soon following the curves and twists the morning throws
at us.
We have had a vacant road to ourselves and I am startled back into a more cogniz
ant reality when a large Kenworth semi, hauling doubles appears from around a be
nd.
It’s roar is my morning reality check.
I settle down and start paying more attention to the road and my driving. I kn
ow little Red appreciates it, though the car is quite tolerant of my sometime
s sloppy and haphazard driving.
Finally at about three thirty we come to Frontera Comlapa and leave Mexico and e
nter Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, Guatemala.

GUATEMALA
1
The officials in Guatemala look at my passport and everything is in order. Un
fortunately the 1962 title for my 122 Volvo sedan does not match Little Red, whi
ch is a 1963 Renault R-8.
I tell them it is a special European model. They are willing to believe me bec
ause the car is already quite old and not worth much.
I pay fifteen bucks and well Turkey Dog, Trina and I wait outside, Little Red is
sprayed with pesticides to keep from spreading fruit flies.
When we are back on the road all the windows are open wide to air the bug spray
out. It smells as bad as a cheap bar after someone has been sick in San Diego
and the MPs have dragged the sailor away.
Every twenty-five miles or so (we are back to using miles again) we are stopped
at a check point manned by the military and forced to show all our documentation
.
Each one of these stops takes about twenty minutes to a half an hour.
This makes for slow going and a long day.
The hills are green and lush with palms and mahogany.
We come to one finca, a farm with a mature orchard of vanilla. The tree are bl
ooming and I’m instantly lost in a heaven of white ice cream, lusty with sweetne
ss and a forbidden hint of sex.
We stop even though it’s getting late and luxuriate in the intense and passionat
e perfume.
We start up again and not long afterwards the bottom falls out of the sky. It
comes down in torrents. Little Red’s wipers are unable to keep up with the ra
in.
It is pitch black and we have fallen into a water filled hole in the mountains.
Not literally, but it feels as if Little Red’s headlights ware navigating unde
r water.
We spot a sign for a motel and pull in. I am drenched by the time I make it to
the office. The twenty something woman that checks me in makes it quite obvi
ous that she would like to join me in my room.
I am tired, and I still want to embrace the memory of my time with Pamela.
I grab a bag off of Little Red, leave the dogs in the car, and I’m soon showered
, dried and resting in the room. It could have rained all night. I have no ide
a.
2
In the morning the sun miraculously reappears, not being washed out of the sky f
rom the previous nights downpour.
Little Red has waited patiently outside all night, giving a dry cosy shelter to
Turkey Dog and Trina.
We eat a breakfast of tacos and handmade tortillas cooked over a charcoal fire
. Thoroughly enjoying the rich smoky taste and the odor of the carob wood used
in the fire.
We load up and continue our doglegging and zigzagging across the Guatemalan high
lands, still being stopped every twenty-five miles or so by soldiers armed with
fierce looking rifles.
The dogs and I are getting used to the routine.
Up ahead it looks like another routine stop. That is until I notice the men st
opping us aren’t dressed as soldiers. They are indigenous Mayan men.
The guns they hold look just as deadly, if not deadlier than those of the soldie
rs. They carry Cuernos de Chivas. AK 47s.
We are the only car on the road which is paved and not in bad shape, Little Red
rolling down it easily.
The men shout something in a dialect that is far distant from Spanish.
I try to repeat it back to them as I hear it, and they laugh.
I swallow and hope that is a good sign.
They repeat what they said before. This time I pay more attention and hear it
better.
I throw it back at them, and they smile.
Turkey growls which set Trina to barking.
The men wave me on, and I’m grateful to drive on with my life still intact.
I think, Fools trend where wise men fear to go.
We drive on and slowly or maybe it’s suddenly we’re floating on the sweet chocol
ate scent of cocoa wafting into Little Red’s open windows.
We would stop, and I would go commune with the trees and their aromatic perfume
while the dogs did their thing, but I can’t see any trees, and I can’t really de
termine where the scent is coming from.
It’s one dogleg and curve after another, oranges, limes, bananas, mangoes, papay
a appearing around every bend. An occasional coffee tree and pineapple are thr
own in for good measure.
I dream and drive more by instinct than sight, always managing to stop for the c
heckpoints and not have any bullets chasing after Little Red. The car wouldn’t
appreciate being holed.

Honduras

1
By one o’clock we approach the Honduran border at Copan Ruinas.
I go through the dog and pony show again over the wrong title I have for little
Red, but the Hondurans, like their Guatemalan counterparts, let us enter the cou
ntry.
Little Red is sprayed again. All of us are getting sick of the chemicals. We
wonder if fruit flies actually respect international boundaries.
We’re all back inside Little Red and sailing smoothly.
I am hungry so we beeline for Santa Rosa de Copan which is quite a few winding m
iles away.
When we get to Santa Rosa, I discover that Trina is missing. That she has jumpe
d out somewhere between the border and here. I know her well enough that she w
ould never jump out while we are moving fast. It had to be when we slowed down
 for a sharp curve.
I grab a quick bite of roasted chicken and Turkey Dog, Little Red and I drive sl
owly back towards the border on the road we just traveled over. All the while
I have my eyes open and shout “Trina” over and over again out the car window.
Trina is nowhere in sight.
Once at the border we head back to Santa Rosa again. Still with no luck.
Over the next three days we make the trip seventeen times without finding her, s
houting myself hoarse.
The one consolation we have is that Trina’s body is not lying on the side of the
highway.
The windows have been open the entire trip. Why did she decide to jump when sh
e did? Did she have a dislike of Honduras? Was she thoroughly sick of the tr
opics, and decided to take matters onto herself?
I remember what Pamela had said about Trina. How could she have known? Was s
he on some frequency that only she and Trina knew about?
Turkey Dog, Little Red and I are left to continue on by ourselves. I will miss
Trina, and I imagine Turkey will as well. There is no counting for Little Red’
s feeling.
I have discovered that the only border crossing that is open into Nicaragua is
the on the Pan American highway.
2
The three of us, Turkey Dog, Little Red and I head for Teguicigalpa, the capital
of Honduras. It’s a goodly ways west.
The road is good if windy and curvy and up and down.
The clouds roll in and out of the sierra, creating the illusion of driving throu
gh clouds, floating in the highlands.
The rain forest is lush with patches of maize checkerboarded throughout the hill
s. The yellow and green patches looking like chips of butterscotch scattered am
ong the sierra.
Little Red is starting to lose power. I stop and check the motor, and everythi
ng is in order. Oil, water, spark. Everything is fine.
Still Little Red is not going as fast as before. I apply more throttle, but st
ill we hardly go much faster.
This slows us down, especially with all the checkpoints.
The three of us are getting thoroughly sick of checkpoints. I realize that it
is a country almost at war, but still it is a pain the arse.
We’re within about thirty miles of Teguicigalpa when Little Red ceases forward m
otion.
Shit, I think. We’re stuck out in the middle of fucking nowhere. How the hell
are we going to get Little Red fixed.
I’m convinced it has to be a clutch problem, because the motor and the electrica
l system are working a-okay.
I mentally kick myself in the head for not having the clutch replaced while I ha
d the chance in Puebla. I wouldn’t doubt if it was the original clutch.
I stand by Little Red, wondering what I’m going to do.
It seems strange to me that there is so damn little traffic on the road, conside
ring how close we are to Tegoose.
I’m feeling discouraged and dejected, thinking I have been on the road for too l
ong.
I’ve about decided I will end up sleeping inside of Little Red. It’s not someth
ing I look forward to. I’ve done it too many times this interminable trip.
I’ve about given up hope. Turkey Dog is exploring along the roadside.
He is an experienced hitch hiker, having made many such trips with me over the y
ears, and he picks up on what’s happening before I become cognizant of it.
A young woman driving a white Toyota pick-up slows and stops, and Turkey Dog rac
es up to the truck.
She asks me what happened and I tell her, “I don’t know. It just stopped going
forward or in reverse, for that matter, though the motor seems to be running fi
ne.”
She smiles and I see that she is a quite attractive young woman somewhere in her
twenties.
She asks, “Es un standard?”
“Si. Es un stick,” I say.
She pulls out a heavy nylon rope, and says, “I can pull you into Tegucigalpa.
Do you know anybody there?”
I shake my head.
She says, ‘Es okay. Yo lleva a ti a mi casa.”
I think, that’s great. She’s going to take me to her house.
I ask her name and she says, Atenira.
Renault must have known these little cars would need towing, because there is a
tow hook to attach the rope to underneath the front of Little Red.
We attach the rope to the back of her pick up after I have already attached on e
nd to Little Red.
We are soon off and rolling. Little Red is trailing about twelve feet behind t
he Toyota.
Too close for my liking. Especially since she’s going forty to forty-five mile
s an hour.
I know that she’s done this before because before she brakes she lowers her hand
out the window to signal me so that I can keep tension on the tow rope.
The closer we get to Tegoose the more complicated it gets because of the traffic
.
Finally we pull up on a dirt street on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa. The house
s are solid brick, but the street is dirt, only a couple of blocks long and rund
own. It reminds me of many places I’ve been around the world.
She pulls up to the end of the street, and I can see where a mechanic has his ya
rd there. There are cars and parts strewed around and there is a corrugated cov
ered work space.
A heavy metal gate keeps people out of the yard.
I detach and coil the rope and hand it back to Atenira, and thank her.
It’s dark and Turkey and I start settling in for the night.
I’m about ready to fall asleep when there is a tap on the window.
I peer out and it’s Atenira. She has a covered dish with her. She says, “I th
ought you might be hungry. My mother made this for you.” She hands in a larg
e covered bowl.
I say, “Gracias,” and she disappears into the night as if she had never been the
re.
I shove Turkey Dog out of Little Red so that I can eat in peace.
I discover broiled chile, spinach salad and a baked yam with a whole wheat rol
l.
I dig into it, discovering in the process that I had been famished.
Turkey Dog gets his standard fare of dog food, much to his disappointment.
After I eat and Turkey is back inside of Little Red, I’m soon asleep and gratefu
l that Turkey doesn’t snore.

3
I awake early and let Turkey Dog out. I feel rested, if a little stiff from Sle
eping in Little Red. Even with the reclining seat, I am forced to sleep curled
up.
A macaw or parrot is screaming somewhere in the distance.
The two block street looks more forlorn than it did the night before.
A lime tree blooms in the mechanics yard and delicately scents the air.
We are far enough away from the main body of Tegucigalpa so that we are not effe
cted by the air pollution that seems to permeate all Latin cities.
It’s early. I look at my watch and see that it is only six thirty.
I pull out a book and start to read, knowing there is really nothing I can do un
til the mechanic arrives.
At seven I am pulled out of my book induced revelry.
Atenira comes smartly dressed, freshly showered and smiling and says, “Come in.
Have some coffee and breakfast. Meet my mother.”
Turkey dog and I follow her back to her house. I can’t believe my good fortune
in meeting her, and how kind she has been to me, someone she doesn’t know, a tot
al stranger.
I am introduced to her mother, Louisa, and I try to be as polite and correct in
Spanish as I can.
“Mucho gusto y muchas gracias por tu hospitalidad. Ustedes estan tratando muy b
ien conmigo.”
I learn that they are Seventh Day Adventist, vegetarians, and that Louisa is a w
idow and had been married to an Italian.
A little later Mia, Atenira’s sister, comes out. She is in high school and sev
enteen.
She has long curly and unruly black hair and mischievous greyish green eyes. Sh
e’s all smiles and innocence.
It comes out that Atenira is twenty-four and is engaged.
“Su novio es un Negro,” Mia blurts out and smiles.

Atenira gives her a dirty look, and Mia smiles and says, “Well, it’s true.”
Atenira says, “He’s not that black.” Her dark brown short hair and warm brown e
yes show fire.
I am amazed at this. I am well aware that Central America’s Carribean coast is
populated mostly by people of Color, and that a Black Vernacular English is the
predominant language. Still it is uncommon for people of Color to intermarry w
ith lighter skinned Latins.
I learn that Louisa, Atenira and Mia live in the house built by Rigo, the husban
d and father, by themselves.
We linger and talk.
Soon Mia leaves for school and Atenira for work.
Louisa and I talk a while longer before I excuse myself to go see if the mechani
c has arrived, and to extract myself from what I can imagine could become a comp
licated situation.
I read for another half hour before the mechanic, Carlos, shows up at nine.
I explain the situation and the two of us push Little Red into his compound.
He agrees with my diagnosis that it is the clutch. I don’t much like it when h
e tells me, “Necesito sacar el motor.”
I look at the transmission and bell housing in Little Red, and realize that he i
s right. There is no way to get to the clutch without pulling the motor.
“Cuando?” I ask him.
“Today,” he says, “You are lucky because I don’t have much work right now.”
I sit and read under the lime tree with Turkey Dog lying beside me while Carlos
pulls the motor.
I keep enough of an eye on him to quickly realize that Carlos knows what he is
about in terms of mechanics.
Carlos’ movements are sure, not making any unnecessary effort. He is slow becau
se he is hampered by not having all the tools that would make the job easier and
faster. He does have adequate and sufficient tools for what he is doing.
I lose myself in the book Nineteen, Nineteen by John Dos Pasos while Carlos work
s at pulling the motor.
Turkey Dog rests in the shade.
It’s an all day project.
Louisa comes around one and invites me for lunch. We are alone by ourselves in
the house. I’m telling myself, be careful. You don’t want to get into somethi
ng like this.
We have a very proper lunch together. Maybe, I’m misreading the signs
By late afternoon Carlos has the motor pulled. He shows me the clutch disc and
pressure plate, tells me he thinks they are original. That doesn’t sound reas
onable to me on a twenty-two year old car. But then, he’s the mechanic. . . The
clutch disc is almost wore out as is the throw out bearing. The pressure plate
is completely shot.
The day is spent and it’s too late to go and get the parts. It looks like anoth
er night sleeping in Little Red.
I’m grateful it’s a dense book and will take a while to read it. I’ve read the b
ook years before but don’t mind, John Dos Pasos being one of my favorite authors
.
4
At about six Atenira comes to get me and says, “We have a spare bedroom. We wou
ld like to invite you to stay with us until your car is fixed.”
They have been so good to me I am starting to feel guilty. Yet, at the same tim
e it would be impolite to refuse. I don’t look forward to another night in Litt
le Red. I say, “I would be delighted.”
I explain to them that tomorrow I have to buy a clutch, pressure plate and throw
out bearing, and ask if there is a Renault dealership in Tegucigalpa, though Ca
rlos has already assured me there is one. They don’t know, but imagine there i
s one.
We pass a pleasant evening talking, though I’m called on the carpet by Atenira f
or not believing in God.
I’m showed where the bathroom is, shower and retire to the room where I’m to sle
ep. It’s still relatively early, but I’m tired and fall fast asleep within minut
es. I dream of complicated and fragrant flowers, though I can’t identify them.
I notice Louisa likes copper cookware and keeps fresh flowers in the house.
In the morning, Wednesday morning, I ask where I can pick up a bus to go downtow
n. “At the end of the street,” they tell me.
After breakfast I set out, feeling guilty because these good people are doing so
much for me.
Turkey Dog is not pleased about being left behind. He’s always ready to go anyw
here.
I pay attention to which bus I need to take to make it back, because I know it i
s easy to get lost in a city like Tegucigalpa.
The sun is shining bright and tropic, and the downtown area is congested and cro
wded, bustling with many people and cars.
I walk by a large mercado and breathe deeply of the various and mingled scents
, getting lost in an olfactory bazar.
It takes me quite a bit of wandering around and asking questions to find the Ren
ault dealership.
A large heavy set woman of Color, dressed in a very short skirt that barely cove
rs her ass, fishnet stockings and high heels says in English, “i can show you a
real good time.”
I smile and say in English, “I’m not looking for a good time.”
I carry the parts I need in a black plastic sack.
When I finally find the Renault dealership, I open the bag and dump the parts on
the counter. The parts man nods his head and says, R-8.
‘Si,” I say, happy to know he is an experienced parts man, one that doesn’t have
to rely strictly on a catalogue.
I buy the parts and am pleased that they are only seventy-five dollars. In Tuc
son I would have had to wait weeks for the parts to arrive and pay at least twic
e as much.
I’ve noticed a beautiful copper kettle at a mercado while looking for the dealer
ship. I retrace my steps and purchase the expensive kettle and fill it with fl
owers.
By the time I make it back to Louisa’s it’s five in the afternoon and the day ha
s only small change left.
Louisa is please with the kettle and the flowers, and makes a fuss.
Carlos puts Little Red back together the next day and it runs great.
5
Turkey Dog, Little Red and I leave the next day with kisses and hugs from Atenir
a, Louisa and Mia.
We are headed over to the Pan American highway, and Honduras’ little toenail on
the Pacific coast.
It feels good to be on the road again, sailing down a highway, watching cows gra
ze in pastures, and smelling the fragrance of coffee blossoms drifting through t
he air, driving into the great unknown and a war zone in Nicaragua while heading
 for the Pan America Highway.
Turkey dog rides co-pilot while Little Red hugs the road and we head west for th
e Pan American highway.
We loaf and drive slow, taking in all the sights. A field of Blue Bells entice
s us with their scent.
A crow has picked up our outfit and decided to tag along with us.
He floats along overhead, seeming to keep up with us without effort. Every once
in a while letting out a harsh caw that always causes Turkey Dog’s ears to perk
up.
I’m hoping we come to another field of flowers so that we can stop and I can get
lost in their fragrance and dream and think about something other than driving.
It’s late afternoon before we hit the highway.
Turkey is already bored with the trip and no longer pays attention. He lies do
wn in the front passenger seat and rests. I look at him, and think, smart dog.
I still wonder what happened to Trina.
We hang a left on the Pan American highway and head South for the Nicaragua bord
er.
I am ready to be done with Honduras and thinking I will sleep in Nicaragua tonig
ht.
It’s only two more hours, and God knows how many more check points. It’s alrea
dy after dark, but still the three of us should shortly be in Nicaragua.
It’s been so long ago I can’t remember the last time I was in that Banana Republ
ic. Or more rightly, A Banana Dictatorship.

I can tell we are approaching the border because of the string of lines separati
ng the two sides, the two different countries.
As we get closer I discover a large number of trucks and cars parked on the Hond
uran side. There are food and soft drink stands everywhere.
No one is moving and everyone is out of they vehicles and milling and wandering
around.
We pull up and park and Turkey Dog and set out to explore, try to determine wha
t the hang up is.
I park near a Hino diesel box truck.
The driver watches me pull up and when Turkey Dog and I are outside of Little Re
d he comes over and points at the oil cooler and scoop on Little Red’s rear dec
k and asks, “Que es eso?”
I explain to him what it is and what it is for. He finds it fascinating.
I tell him, “My name is Shaine, y tu?”
He tells me his name is Oler and that he is from Costa Rica and that he is heade
d home from making a delivery to Mexico. He adds in Spanish, “The war sucks. I
t really messes up commerce.”
Oler has a black full head of hair, about five eight, a little stocky, but not a
t all fat.
We strike up an immediate friendship.
I ask why we’re waiting here, and he says, “Porque la frontera es solamente abie
rto en el dia.”
I think, so much for spending the night in Nicaragua. It’s not going to happen
if the border is only open during daylight hours.
Oler and I bullshit for hours. Finally Turkey and I are ready to called it a ni
ght and go to crash inside of Little Red.
Oler sleeps in his cab which has a very narrow sleeper.
We’ve agreed to travel together the next day, to keep each other in sight.
It won’t be for some while before I realize the luck I’ve stumbled into by meeti
ng up with Oler.
26
5
In the morning both Oler and I are up early in the gloaming hour.
Oler is out of toothpaste so he gets a dab from my tube.
Soon we are in line with all the other travelers trying to make it into Nicarag
ua.
We are numbers five and six back. Oler is fifth.
It s going to take awhile. The sun isn t even up yet.
Oler and I are in line. We re out of the vehicles walking around, getting a bi
te to eat.
Someone approaches Oler and whips out a huge wad of currency, multi-colored bill
s of all the nations of Central American, including Mexico.
Oler shakes his head and the thin man with a huge drooping mustache and sad dark
eyes and bronze skin approaches me.
I ask Oler, "Que paso?" not really sure of what s happening or what I should do
.
Oler rapidly explains to me that the man is a Cambiador and a Cambiador is one w
ho deals in currencies at black market exchange rates. Sort of a mobile exchang
e house.
I quickly ask, Es buena idea comprar Cordova, the currency of Nicaragua?"
He shrugs his shoulders and says, "No se."
I notice that Oler has a thick stack of bills from all the countries of Central
America.
I ask, "Que s el rato oficial por un dollar?"
He smiles mischievously and says, "Sixty to one."
I ask the cambiador what type of rate he will give me.
"Twenty thousand to one," he tells me in surprise.
I have no idea if it is a good exchange rate, but it sounds pretty incredible to
me.
I buy fifty dollars worth of Cordova.
I smile. It s the first time I ve been a millionaire in a long while. The las
t time that happened, I was in Bolivia.
The sun breaks like an orange-yoked egg and splatters the horizon with sizzling
yellow grease and bubbling red and frying orange egg.
The line starts moving and we inch our way forward.

Nicaragua
1
Oler s paperwork is all in order and he manages to make it into Nicaragua relati
vely quickly.
I end up going through a song and dance about my Volvo title for the Little Red.

I slip the official a thousand Cordova note, and suddenly the Volvo title is val
id.
Little Red has to be sprayed again as Turkey Dog and I wait.
I m still skeptical that the bugs actually respect international boundaries.
Oler has gotten ahead of us. I want to hang tight with Oler. He s already bee
n great to me.
With the new clutch and pressure plate, Little Red is running like a champ. Yo
u would never know the vehicle was twenty-two years old.
I put my foot into the accelerator and the three of us haul ass, trying to catch
up with Oler.
It s going to take a while because within twenty-five miles there is a check poi
nt manned by armed soldiers.
I have the paperwork ready, and they give a glance at the vehicle and wave me th
rough.
Maybe there is an advantage in driving such an old car. I notice that newer ve
hicles are delayed quite awhile.
I glance at the gas gauge. We re low on fuel. I had wanted to gas up yesterd
ay in Honduras and had kept my open for a filling station, but had encountered n
othing.
Now I m worried about running out of gas.
I smile because just ahead I see a service station.
I have to wait awhile but I finally make it up to the pump. The attendant says,
"Your coupons."
Shit, I think. Nicaragua is at war and they re rationing gas.
I ask, "Cuanto por un gallon?" hoping to hell I can talk my way into some gas or
Turkey Dog, Little Red and I could end up getting stranded in Nicaragua.
I ve been waylaid in war zones before, but every other time I was well paid for
it. This trip is at my own expense.
I m anxious to get through Nicaragua and into Costa Rica.
The attendant says, "Four hundred Cordova."
I say, "I ll give you a thousand for each gallon."
He nods his head.
Little Red is filled up along with the two five gallon Jerry cans.
I do some quick calculations in my head. At the official exchange rate gas cost
s six sixty-six per gallon. At the black market exchange rate at a thousand Cor
dova per gallon it costs five cents a gallon.
I smile. I ve never bought gas this cheap in my life. Even when I was a kid
it never got lower than fifteen and nine-tenths cents per gallon.
I definitely want to top off Little Red s tank before we exit Nicaragua.
The road in Nicaragua, after being torn apart by war, is in pretty sad shape.
That with the checkpoints, we re not making very good time.
It s only at the fifth checkpoint that we finally catch up with Oler.
He has a big smile for us when we pull up. "I knew you d catch me. I have to
go real slow in the truck and take care of it. The road s a mess. The war is
a pain in the ass."
I nod my head in agreement.
I miss the vacant countryside and fields and forests and jungle that we ve been
traveling though.
The Pan American is littered with crummy pueblos, and the roadside is filled wit
h trash and washed and stinking with oil and diesel.
The one business there are a lot of and always busy along the highway are llante
ras, tire repair shops. They all have a huge truck tire painted white outside.
It s one of the trademarks or logos for traveling in Latin America.
Fortunately Little Red s tires are holding up and I have a number of spares with
me.
I thought Nicaragua was going to be a quick day s drive, but it s not going to b
e that way.
2
It s already dark and we re just pulling into Rivas.
I signal for Oler to stop.
He asks what s up.
I say, "Why don t we hole up here. We were up late last night."
"But I ll have to pay for a room here," he says, looking disgusted.
"No you don t," I say and smile, "I m paying."
He looks at me questioningly and I nod my head and add, "I m buying dinner too."
He grins and gives me a thumbs up.
I tell him, "You have to pay for your own whore."
He laughs and then says, "Maybe."

Oler and I sleep late, both being road weary. We wait until the sun booms in th
e sky, and get up around five.
Over breakfasts of huevos pico gallo (black beans and rice with fried eggs on to
p) washed down with café colado, we talk out the day s plan.
We eat in a palapa near the highway and already the smelly trucks are racing and
roaring by. Oler says, "It s better if you go ahead of me. I have to drive s
low because of the state of the road."
"It ll take you a less time to get across the border than me. You can wait for
me on the Costa Rican side and then we can drive to San Jose together."
I give him a thumbs up and say, "It sounds good to me."
Turkey Dog is hanging close with Oler, because he has been slipping him food.
He knows better than to beg from me.
Walking to our vehicles, Oler adds, "If I see you stopped some place, I ll pull
over."
I give him a sloppy salute, smile and say, “Ondale."
Soon Little Red, Turkey Dog and I are racing down the road ondale.
I m smiling at Little Red. I changed oil last night before we turned in. It w
asn t really that dirty, and Little Red hadn t burned any, but Tucson was a god
awful long time ago.
I reason that it is better to keep the viscosity up and to never let the oil get
dirty and gritty.
I don t turn the radio on or put a tape in. They would disturb the thoughts pla
ying in my own head.
I keep an eye on the sky, watch the melody the rain pregnant clouds play as they
dance and glide by overhead.
Occasionally we hit drizzles, but nothing serious.
The air smells of distant islands studded with coconut palms.
I watch the road, but I see the palms swaying in my mind.
The checkpoints are interminable and frequent.
Turkey Dog, Little Red and I have a routine down for the checkpoints.
I hand them the paperwork and pull the latch for the trunk which is up front whe
re the motor would normally be. Then I get out and open the motor compartment
in the rear.
They wander around with their AK 47s and check over everything, and squeeze the
tarped up items on the roof and wave us on.
We ve never made it though one of these in less than fifteen minutes.
The checkpoints are actually time expansion devices, they can make a day seem li
ke it goes on forever.
It s alternately hot and muggy or chilly and rainy. Driving through Nicaragua i
n the rainy season is like driving though a greenhouse.
I m grateful we don t have to enter Managua. Every time I ve been there I ve m
anaged to get lost.
We re starting to climb and it s cooling down and getting more and more forested
the closer we get to the Costa Rican border.
The tropical pines and eucalyptuses perfume that air with a clean medicinal qual
ity. I breath deeply and sigh.
Costa Rica
1
I look at my watch. It s four-seventeen when we pull out of Nicaragua and enter
Costa Rica.
I do my dog and pony show with my Volvo title for the Renault I m driving. The
rotund Costa Rican officials smile at me and pass me into their country.
I park and wait for Oler, relaxing with Turkey Dog, wondering what he thinks abo
ut the trip.
The border entry station is in the mountains. It is cool and smells of clean f
resh air. Turkey Dog and I feel at home.
We hunker down and keep an eye out for Oler.
He doesn t show up until something like six-twenty-one.
"He asks how things are going, "Do you know where you are going to stay tonight
in San Jose."
I shake me head, not having any idea where I ll be staying that evening. I say,
"No se."
He says, "Sigame a mi casa. Encontromos un logar para ti manana."
That s great. I ll follow him to his house, and sleep in Little Red tonight and
he ll help me find a place tomorrow.
I follow him to San Jose which is like a cosmos of lights shining in the dark un
iverse of a mountain valley.
I am introduced to Oler s wife, Gloria, but soon Turkey Dog and I are crashed ou
t and asleep in Little Red.
2
The morning finds Turkey Dog, Little Red and me on a comfortable paved street in
a decent Central American middle class neighborhood.
We get up late, still tired from the previous three days of travel.
The sun dances in the tropical sky to a definite calypso beat.
I breakfast with Oler and Gloria and meet their two children, thirteen-year-old
Eduardo, and eleven-year-old Nadine.
I ask Oler, “Where can I catch a bus downtown.”
“A la esquina enfronte,” he says.
When I ask, “Is it okay to park Little Red here and leave Turkey Dog for a littl
e while.”
He smiles and says, “Sure thing, but we need to put the car in the yard.”
After breakfast he directs me to a metal gate at the back of his property which
is walled in.
Oler heads off to work, and I head downtown.
I hop on a bus and am amazed that it is a clean and modern Mercedes Benz. It’s
a totally different world than the rest of Latin America.
I’m anxious to get downtown, though I still pay close attention to where we’re g
oing and the bus I need to take to get back to Oler’s.
The streets are more crowded, the closer we get to downtown. I start to feel m
ore comfortable with the more familiar surroundings, the chaos of people and the
jumble of buildings.
The air is chilly and thick with exhaust fumes, though that does not deter my up
beat mood.
Once we’re downtown, I spot what I need. A long distance phone booth station.
I just checked my funds the day before, and I’m running pretty low. I need to
call my sister and have her wire funds. I also need to have her check and see
if the articles I sent in from Oaxaca were accepted, and if there are checks fro
m them yet.
I had a great time with Pamela, but realize I farted around for a long time and
spend a lot of money. Way too much money and for far too long.
I call my sister and end up talking to my niece, because Lora is at work. Myla
, her daughter is sixteen and very responsible. I tell her what I need and whe
re I am, and that I would like the money to be wired via Western Union, a locati
on of which I’ve already noticed here.
There’s nothing much to do. I’m not broke yet, so I set about exploring San Jos
e’s downtown via shanks mare.
Out on the street, I close my eyes for a minute, and take in the mingled odors o
f the city. The smell of diesel and car exhaust. A meat market is somewhere in
the neighborhood for I can smell the scared dead animals flesh.
The smell is clean, but still it is of death.
Now my nostrils catch wind of a flower shop and I travel following a bee to clea
n natural nectar.
I detect a market somewhere with it’s mingled earthy, fecund smells.
While I stand there a bakery’s ovens have gone to work, and the perfume of yeast
and bread fills the air.
I open my eyes and follow my nose.
The sidewalk is crowded and I’m a-goggle at the number of truly stunning woman,
all of them elegantly attired.
As I let me nose guide me towards the bakery, a beautiful girl, perfectly formed
and with raven hair and white skin and large black eyes walks up to me and slip
s her hand into my crotch.
She dazzles me with a perfect smile and says, “A good time?”
I shake my head sadly. How could it be someone so beautiful and obviously attr
active be working as a streetwalker?
It’s still morning and not even night. I lose myself in thoughts and speculatio
ns about men and society, and don’t pay attention to where I’m going. How can i
t be?
My nose is a sure guide and soon I’m in front of the Panaderia La Unica.
It’s filled with pastries and pan intregal and white bread rolls.
There are five small square metal tables painted white and with the logo of Cerv
eza Tica.
The pastry and breads are displayed in shiny glass cases.
I notice they have a cooler at the end filled with various cheeses.
I look at my watch, and notice it’s one o’clock. No wonder I’m already hungry.
I pick out two empanadas filled with a pumpkin paste, snag a miniature loaf of d
ark wholewheat pan intregal, and order a small piece of fresh and pungent smelli
ng goat cheese.
I notice that they serve café colado and order a cup topped off with steaming mi
lk.
The glass front of the bakery is perfect for watching the world walk by.
In my estimation, the woman tending the counter is gorgeous. She has high cheek
bones and a wonderfully symmetrical face. Her skin is bronze, and her eyes gre
en. She has thick luscious and sexy eyebrows, and her lips are full and unpaint
ed with a natural mysterious purple tint.
I catch myself staring and look away. I notice that she unfortunately wears a
wedding band.
The bakery is busy for awhile. I take my time and watch the world go by. Befo
re long, I am the only customer in the bakery.
The beautiful woman who tends the place cleans and wipes the tables and smiles a
t me. She has a small waist and about five, five. Here breasts look to be firm
and not overly large.
She says with absolute certainty, “You are a foreigner.”
I smiles back at her and say, “Si.”
She gets a dreamy look in her eyes and says, “To be able to fly anywhere in the
world, to land in another country, another culture, too not have to work every d
ay.”
I grin and say, “I drove here.”
She is surprised and it shows in her face. “It is so dangerous now. You could
have been killed.”
I laugh and say, “Crossing the street.”
I glance away for a second and then look directly at her. “My name is Shaine, a
nd I’m a crazy gringo. And yours would be. ..? ”
She smiles and extends her hand, Mucho gusto. Me llamo Matilda Guadamuz de Moli
no.”
I take her hand and I’m tempted to reach over and kiss her. She seems to have t
hat look on her face. Her handshake is firm and she lets her and linger in min
e much longer than normal.
I order another coffee and spend the time talking with Matilda.
I discover that her husband is a fisherman and away at sea most of the time, and
that they have no children and desperately want one or two.
I notice there is a small Pension called the Tica Linda across the street from t
he panaderia.
I like the name Tica, what the Costa Ricans call themselves, Ticos and Ticas. Fo
r me it’s a type of T magic. So much better than Tijuana.
I go across the street and check out the Tica Linda. I discover it is a Pension
that only rents to foreigners and it is totally international, and that the roo
ms are only sixty cents a night. There is only one room available and I take it
.
I head back to Oler’s, thinking tomorrow I will have lots of money.
3
The morning finds Turkey Dog, Little Red and me on a comfortable paved street in
a decent Central American middle class neighborhood.
We get up late, still tired from the previous three days of travel.
The sun dances in the tropical sky to a definite calypso beat.
I breakfast with Oler and Gloria and meet their two children, thirteen-year-old
Eduardo, and eleven-year-old Nadine.
I ask Oler, “Where can I catch a bus downtown.”
“A la esquina enfronte,” he says.
When I ask, “Is it okay to park Little Red here and leave Turkey Dog for a littl
e while.”
He smiles and says, “Sure thing, but we need to put the car in the yard.”
After breakfast he directs me to a metal gate at the back of his property which
is walled in.
Oler heads off to work, and I head downtown.
I hop on a bus and am amazed that it is a clean and modern Mercedes Benz. It’s
a totally different world than the rest of Latin America.
I’m anxious to get downtown, though I still pay close attention to where we’re g
oing and the bus I need to take to get back to Oler’s.
The streets are more crowded, the closer we get to downtown. I start to feel m
ore comfortable with the more familiar surroundings, the chaos of people and the
jumble of buildings.
The air is chilly and thick with exhaust fumes, though that does not deter my up
beat mood.
Once we’re downtown, I spot what I need. A long distance phone booth station.
I just checked my funds the day before, and I’m running pretty low. I need to
call my sister and have her wire funds. I also need to have her check and see
if the articles I sent in from Oaxaca were accepted, and if there are checks fro
m them yet.
I had a great time with Pamela, but realize I farted around for a long time and
spend a lot of money. Way too much money and for far too long.
I call my sister and end up talking to my niece, because Lora is at work. Myla
, her daughter is sixteen and very responsible. I tell her what I need and whe
re I am, and that I would like the money to be wired via Western Union, a locati
on of which I’ve already noticed here.
There’s nothing much to do. I’m not broke yet, so I set about exploring San Jos
e’s downtown via shanks mare.
Out on the street, I close my eyes for a minute, and take in the mingled odors o
f the city. The smell of diesel and car exhaust. A meat market is somewhere in
the neighborhood for I can smell the scared dead animals flesh.
The smell is clean, but still it is of death.
Now my nostrils catch wind of a flower shop and I travel following a bee to clea
n natural nectar.
I detect a market somewhere with it’s mingled earthy, fecund smells.
While I stand there a bakery’s ovens have gone to work, and the perfume of yeast
and bread fills the air.
I open my eyes and follow my nose.
The sidewalk is crowded and I’m a-goggle at the number of truly stunning woman,
all of them elegantly attired.
As I let me nose guide me towards the bakery, a beautiful girl, perfectly formed
and with raven hair and white skin and large black eyes walks up to me and slip
s her hand into my crotch.
She dazzles me with a perfect smile and says, “A good time?”
I shake my head sadly. How could it be someone so beautiful and obviously attr
active be working as a streetwalker?
It’s still morning and not even night. I lose myself in thoughts and speculatio
ns about men and society, and don’t pay attention to where I’m going. How can i
t be?
My nose is a sure guide and soon I’m in front of the Panaderia La Unica.
It’s filled with pastries and pan intregal and white bread rolls.
There are five small square metal tables painted white and with the logo of Cerv
eza Tica.
The pastry and breads are displayed in shiny glass cases.
I notice they have a cooler at the end filled with various cheeses.
I look at my watch, and notice it’s one o’clock. No wonder I’m already hungry.
I pick out two empanadas filled with a pumpkin paste, snag a miniature loaf of d
ark wholewheat pan intregal, and order a small piece of fresh and pungent smelli
ng goat cheese.
I notice that they serve café colado and order a cup topped off with steaming mi
lk.
The glass front of the bakery is perfect for watching the world walk by.
In my estimation, the woman tending the counter is gorgeous. She has high cheek
bones and a wonderfully symmetrical face. Her skin is bronze, and her eyes gre
en. She has thick luscious and sexy eyebrows, and her lips are full and unpaint
ed with a natural mysterious purple tint.
I catch myself staring and look away. I notice that she unfortunately wears a
wedding band.
The bakery is busy for awhile. I take my time and watch the world go by. Befo
re long, I am the only customer in the bakery.
The beautiful woman who tends the place cleans and wipes the tables and smiles a
t me. She has a small waist and is about five, five. Here breasts look to be f
irm and not overly large.
She says with absolute certainty, “You are a foreigner.”
I smiles back at her and say, “Si.”
She gets a dreamy look in her eyes and says, “To be able to fly anywhere in the
world, to land in another country, another culture, too not have to work every d
ay.”
I grin and say, “I drove here.”
She is surprised and it shows in her face. “It is so dangerous now. You could
have been killed.”
I laugh and say, “Crossing the street.”
I glance away for a second and then look directly at her. “My name is Shaine, a
nd I’m a crazy gringo. And yours would be. ..? ”
She smiles and extends her hand, Mucho gusto. Me llamo Matilda Guadamuz de Moli
no.”
I take her hand and I’m tempted to reach over and kiss her. She seems to have t
hat look on her face. Her handshake is firm and she lets her and linger in min
e much longer than normal.
I order another coffee and spend the time talking with Matilda.
I discover that her husband is a fisherman and away at sea most of the time, and
that they have no children and desperately want one or two.
I notice there is a small Pension called the Tica Linda across the street from t
he panaderia.
I like the name Tica, what the Costa Ricans call themselves, Ticos and Ticas. Fo
r me it’s a type of T magic. So much better than Tijuana.
I go across the street and check out the Tica Linda. I discover it is a Pension
that only rents to foreigners and it is totally international, and that the roo
ms are only sixty cents a night. There is only one room available and I take it
.
I head back to Oler’s, thinking tomorrow I will have lots of money.

4
I wake early at the Tica Linda. The room isn’t much–-four walls, no window. It
has an old bed upon which I have my sleeping bag, a writing table, a sink and a
single lightbulb overhead, hanging from a cord.
The walls are a dirty, years old green. What the hell, it’s only sixty cents a
night.
I went back to Oler’s yesterday afternoon and picked-up my pack. Turkey Dog wil
l hang out there until I leave. He likes it because of the kids and Gloria who
has already taken to spoiling him. He loves being spoiled.
Last night I walked around El Centro with Roberto whom I met here at the Tica Li
nda.
Roberto is Italian, though he lives in Geneva and was educated as a Civil Engine
er in Switzerland. He is twenty-five with dark brown hair and eyes, about five
nine and handsome and broad shouldered with a medium thin waist.
I’ve already started to adopt his European accented English.
I envy his ability to speak so many languages well. He speaks Italian, French G
erman, the Swiss dialect and English.
When he arrived in Mexico four weeks ago he didn’t speak Spanish. Now he can m
imic accents and he is reading novels in Spanish.
It’s night time when we walk out. Roberto is smoking one of his inevitable ciga
rettes.
The cars are cruising, lights are everywhere and people walking. It’s slightly
chilly and the building in the old part of downtown could be Paris in the night
time.
“Let me have a cigarette,” I say to Roberto. The blue smoke and smell remind m
e that I smoked years ago. Smoked big time in a young and stupid way.
I notice a young girl of about four or five seeking alms. She is with a slightl
y older sister and they both have long black braids on each side of the back of
their heads.
I don’t have much, but tomorrow I should have sufficient money. I drop some coi
ns in the younger girl’s hand and she smiles sweetly and says in an intoxicating
voice, “Muchas gracias, senor.”
I love her smile and want to protect her, but realize that her future is not bri
ght.
“I didn’t think you smoked,” Roberto says, in that pleasant accent of his. We u
se English as the lingua Franca between us.
I look away, glance up at the sky and can’t see the stars for the glare of the c
ity, though I know they’re up there and I believe in them.
“I don’t normally,” I say. “I just feel like one right now.”
He gives me a thumbs up and passes the pack to me. I take a cigarette and ligh
t it. The harsh acrid taste is like heaven even after all these years. I let
the smoke burn down my throat in a drag and then exhale the smoke through my no
se.
Roberto watches me, smiles and says, “Buy you a beer?”
I give him a thumbs up. We’re walking by a night club–The Key Largo. I think
as we enter, if it were so easy to enter into a Hemingway short story.
The place is nicely done with a beautiful bar of some red colored wood. Calyps
o music permeates the place, and it has the scent and energy of sex.
There aren’t many men here, but the place seems to be swarming with gorgeous wom
an dressed to kill.
A middle-aged man. who is obviously a foreigner, spots us and comes over. “The
first time you’ve ever been in this dive?” He speaks with a mid-western America
n accent and it’s obvious he’s been drinking for quite awhile. He reeks of sta
le tobacco.
We nod our heads. I ask, “What’s with all the girls here?”
He smirks. “They’re whores. All of them working girls. Relatively high class
, but cunts everyone.”
Roberto glances at the girls. “They don’t look that damaged.”
Our new found friend says, “Don’t let that fool you. I’ve fucked them all and t
hey ain’t worth. . .”
We have a few more beers, and we get the hell out of there, and good riddance to
that asshole.
We hit the streets again and walk in subdued silence, mellow with the beer and s
ad for the girls forced to sell their asses, and pissed at the typical ugly Amer
ican.
We eventually make it back to the Tica Linda.

5
That was last night and it plays through my head this morning.
It’s still early, and fortunately I make it to the cold water shower before ther
e is a line backed up. The cold water hits me like a punch, but fortunately do
esn’t knock me out, rather it revives and invigorates me. I’ve gotten so used
to not drinking, that three or four beers leaves me with a mild hangover.
Roberto is not up yet. I envy him his ability to sleep late. It’s seems my des
tiny is always to be up with the birds and eating worms.
It’s too early to check and see if my money wire arrived. I head over to the b
akery for breakfast. I know Roberto will realize where he can find me because I
’ve told him about Matilda.
His reaction was, “Why are you wasting your time on married women when there are
so many single and willing women around?”
I shake my head, not even understanding myself, “Who knows?”
Matilda greets me with a smile, “Hola. Como dormicio?”
I tell her I slept well and ask how she slept.
“Bien,” she says, and adds that she slept alone.
When things calm down she joins me at my table as I’m finishing up my huevos pic
o
gallo.
We talk about nothing and flirt with one another. I’m almost tempted to ask her
out, but I don’t want to upset her and put her off. We seem to have a great f
riendship developing.
Finally I finish my breakfast and the coffee. After I’ve paid and I’m about to
leave, Matilda takes my hand and squeezes it.
I’m confused. I don’t know if that is a promise of something to come or just a
simple gesture of affection for a friend.
At the Western Union office I ask if a money wire has come for me. There is no
thing. I think, maybe my sister didn’t have a chance to wire it yet. I’ll che
ck back in the afternoon, and call again the next day, if it doesn’t arrive.
I go back to the Tica Linda and Roberto is just now emerging from the shower.
“Sleepy head,” I say.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Why get up early when you don’t have to?”
“It’s not a conscious choice on my part,” I say, ‘It seems to be ingrown and inn
ate for me. Besides, the morning, especially early morning is my favorite time
of day.”
He lights a cigarette and blows a cloud of blue smoke that smells of vanilla.
I accompany him while he has breakfast and have another couple of cups of coffee
.
After breakfast we go exploring–-find mercados and fancy hotels, small little pa
rks tucked between high-rise building where we people and especially girl watch.
We walk all the way over too Oler’s to see Turkey Dog. It’s probably about seve
n miles across town.
The neat little bungalow type detached houses painted in picks, yellows, oranges
, greens and blues, look like flower gardens.
In the afternoon I check again at a Western Union office. Still no wire. I’m
getting nervous about money, I’m becoming desperately low on funds.
I turn in early and skip Roberto’s offer to go out and explore and slip into the
night.
6
I’m up before dawn and walk out in the silent streets, no traffic moving, a thin
fog making everything seem surreal–building as if you could walk through them,
light losing direction and bouncing off water molecules, bread baking and its fr
agrance becoming one with the fog, silence crowding the edges of the street, a
floss silk tree blooming, it’s white waxy magnolia petals scenting the air with
a fragrance somewhere between lime and vanilla.
I come back in and shower, still before anyone else has risen, before this colle
ction of foreigners-- all existing in different time zones, have stumbled out sl
eepy-eyed and yawning, their hair looking like scrambled bird’s nests.
It’s still really early and I’m the first one in for breakfast at the bakery.
Matilda is smiling and doesn’t say anything, but kisses me on the cheek and sque
ezes my hand. I still don’t know what to think.
I only have coffee and a roll, because I need to start watching my expenditures.
I am happy, content and at peace with the world–the morning has done that for me
.
I watch the sun come up over the buildings, looking out the window of La Unica.
Soon there is a rush of people and I leave. I want to savor the time I had alon
e with the world in the morning.
I wander aimlessly around while everyone rushes by in a hurry to get to work, un
til it is time to go to the Western Union office.
There is still no wire.
I call to my sister’s, and I speak with Myla again. She tells me, Lora sent the
money.
I say, “Well, I haven’t received it. Could you ask her to check on it again.”
“Sure.” she says.
I’m at a loss because I don’t really have any reading material. I purchase a l
ocal paper and read it thoroughly, though I’m normally lazy about reading Spanis
h, even if I can understand it.
I sort of want to be by myself today, and avoid going back to the Tica Linda and
seeing Roberto.
I slip into the Tica Linda, unseen and snag my manual typewriter.
The bakery by this time is empty of the café morning crowd and only has custom
ers coming into to buy bread and pastries.
I ask Matilda if it’s okay if I set my typewriter up at a table and work, even i
f I don’t buy anything.
“Sure,” she says, “As long as it’s not crowded.”
I write my impressions of the trip from Tegucigalpa to San Jose, and describe Sa
n Jose.
Before I know it, I have ten singled-spaced pages written, and the morning is go
ne and the bakery is starting to fill with the lunch crowd.
I put them in an envelop and send it off to London, hoping they will find a home
with a check.
Now I’m at a loss for what to do. The magic of the morning seems to have faded.
I start walking, realizing that’s often when I do some of my best thinking.
I halfway pay attention to where I’m at. Then I see it–-a bookstore. A books
tore selling books in English.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. Most of the books are not my type of b
ook at all. They’re all current and brand new, and they have no classics–no cla
ssical literature.
One book does catch my eye. It’s by Richard Bach–A Bridge Across Forever. I’v
e read some Bach before, and I find him a competent writer, though not great.
He always seems to have something to tell and he tells it straightforwardly.
I pick up the book and start reading it. I think this is his best book. I’m a
lmost immediately hooked. I don’t know if it’s the book or that I haven’t had
much to read lately.
I know I shouldn’t, and I can’t afford it, but I shell out twenty-five bucks for
the book.
I find a bench in a park, and I’m soon lost in the book–oblivious to the world.

It’s only when the sun starts to fade that I head back to the Tica Linda. I’m
almost halfway through the book.
I let Roberto talk me into accompanying him in an explorations of San Jose’s nig
htlife. I really want to stay and finish the book, but I don’t want to read tw
enty-five dollars worth of book in one day.
Roberto and I wander around, not really sure where we’re going. Finally, we fin
d ourselves on what we jokingly refer to as Hooker Avenue.
The girls are decked out, and not gaudy and slutty like American hookers, but dr
essed nicely and conservatively in pretty and modest dresses.
That doesn’t mean that they’re not hookers. They all give us the eye and say in
accented English, “Show you a good time.” Or “You wanna fuck?” More than a few
of them slip their hands between out legs, trying to get us to arise for the oc
casion.
Roberto and I both think it’s sad, and we make it back to the Tica Linda early.
7
In the morning there is still no wire for me at the Western Union. I call and t
alk with Myla again. She tells me that they’ve been told that the money is in
San Jose and that it hasn’t been picked-up.
I tell her, “I just checked, and it isn’t here.”
She says, “We’ll check again.”
Now I’m really kicking myself for having bought the book. I tell myself, I wish
there was a way that I could access my money with out going through all this ri
gamarole.
Rather than read the book, and finish it too soon, I walk out by myself to see T
urkey Dog. He always cheers me up with his unconditional exuberance .
When I get there, Oler is home. He takes one look at me and asks, “What’s wrong
?”
I explain to him about the money and he smiles, and whips out his wallet, and pe
els off the equivalent of about a hundred dollars. He says, “Pay me back when y
our money comes in.”
I can’t believe his generosity. He lives well, but I know he’s not wealthy and
watches his expenditures closely.
I’m overwhelmed. He hardly knows me and has been great to me. I give him a be
ar hug, and then take Turkey for a walk.
When I get back, I’m feeling better, and I take a bus downtown.
I have dinner at La Unica again. When Matilda has some free time she comes over
. I ask her, “What do you do in the evening?”
She gets a sad look on her face, “I sleep.” And with an even sadder face adds,
“All by myself.”
“I meant for fun.” I say and smile warmly at er.
“I don’t really have fun anymore,” she bites her lower lip. ‘Ever since I’ve be
en married, all I do is work, and keep house and sleep alone.”
I glance out the window at the traffic passing by a second. I say “That doesn’t
sound like much of a life. Would you like to go out dancing? I love to dance.
I’m not great at it, but I love it and will try dancing to anything.” I cheer
up and throw my blues off when I say this.
Matilda’s eyes light up and sparkle. “I really shouldn’t.” She looks both way
s and back towards the ovens and then out the window. “I’d love to. I’ll meet
you in front of here at nine.”
I may not have much money on me, but I feel on top of the world, though I realiz
e that nothing much more than dancing will take place. Still....
I love dancing, and she looks like she’ll be light in my arms.
I’m waiting at nine and I almost don’t recognize Matilda. I’ve always known tha
t she was beautiful, but she’s always been conservatively dressed with her baker
y apron on. Tonight she is decked out in a low cut clinging chiffon dress and l
ow black high heels. The dress is full length and accentuates her thin waist a
nd firm small high breasts.
In the afternoon I had gone back to Oler’s and snagged a clean pair of tight fit
ting black jeans and a camel hair sports coat. I wear a blue button-down dress
shirt open three buttons down. I’ve ditched my hiking books and sandals, and du
g out my pair of penny loafers. I even had them polished by a shoeshine boy.
Matilda smiles when she sees me and slips her arm in mine. “Can we take a cab?”
she asks.
I hail one and we’re soon sailing down the boulevard, Matilda sitting tightly ne
xt too me. I put my arm around me and she gives me a conspirators smile.
We go cross town and out a good five miles into the country. I give her a ques
tioning look, and she says, “We have to get a little ways out so no one will rec
ognize me. If Juan knew, I don’t what he would do.”
Soon we’re at a quiet, but busy place, A six piece live Calypso band plays. Ma
tilda beckons me with her arms, and soon we’re dancing a modified tango of our m
aking. We seem to blend perfectly with each other’s moves.
Then the tempo changes and it’s a slow number. I smell the perfume of eucalypt
us and cedar which ring this tucked away little club. Matilda smells of vanill
a and cinnamon.
There are only six or seven couples on the modest-sized dance floor. We start t
he dance conservatively with sufficient space between us, but soon Matilda is fl
ush against me. She puts both arms around me, and I put both arms around behind
her back and move them up and start massaging her back. She clings tighter, an
d I let my hands wander down to her buttocks. This brings her closer still.
Soon our lips find one another’s. Our tongues explore each other’s and speak in
a language all their own, as our hands continue exploring and massaging one ano
ther.
All too soon the number is over, and we go b ack to our table holding hands. S
he drinks rum and coke and I sip on red wine.
The band takes a break and we sit at out hidden table and make out.
Before long the band plays again and we dance.
After we’ve been there for about an hour and a half, Matilda says, “We ought to
go.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. I know that she’s having as good of a time as I
am.
She says, “I have to work in the morning.”
I nod my head.
When we go outside, i notice that there is a motel attached to the club. Not a
bsolutely sure what will happen, I point with my eyes to the motel.
She smiles and nods her head.
Soon we are thoroughly exploring each other’s bodies and moaning and grunting wi
th pleasure in a room.
After a couple of times, Matilda says, “We really have to go. I have to work in
the morning.” We shower after Matilda has called the office and asked them to
ring a cab.
It’s a mad race in a night empty of traffic back into the thriving and simmering
sexual city.
Matilda gets out two blocks from her apartment, not wanting her neighbors to kno
w and see.
She gives me a quick kiss goodby and says, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I laugh and say, “I think it is morning.” It’s a morning to remember and I feel
on top of the world.
I try to pay attention as to where Matilda more or less lives, but get lost and
confused with all the turns.
After I pay and tip the cabby, I calculate that I’ve spent twenty-three dollars.
It certainly isn’t much, but then I don’t have a lot, and what I have was loan
ed. I hope Oler won’t be upset with me. I smile when I think this because I k
now he would be happy for me.
When I get back to the Tica Linda, I’m not ready for sleep and wander the empty
and vacant streets of downtown for a good half hour, floating on air and sex.
In the morning when Matilda fetches me coffee, she bends over and says, “Can we
do it again tonight? I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good.”
This makes me feel like a million. I fill my chest and smile. “Most definitely
.”
Later at the Western Union Office, I’m told that my wire still hasn’t come in.
Shit, I think. The money that Oler lent me won’t go far if I’m taking Matilda o
ut every night, eating and paying for my room.
I go back to the Tica Linda and write another story about Oaxaca and send it off
, hoping it will produce some cash. After that I find I am tired and am able to
get a good nap in. Just before I fall asleep, I think of poor Matilda having
to work. I hope she’s not too tired.
That evening at nine I meet Matilda again. We head out to the same location, b
ut don’t bother going to the club, but head directly for the motel.
We are easy and comfortable with one another in bed, and she is not at all inhib
ited, nor am I. The sex is incredibly rich and delicious, and soon we’ve fucke
d ourselves out.
She has brought a change of clothes with her, and she calls the office and gives
them a call time, saying she wants a cab here at that time.
We sleep comfortably entwined in each others limbs, glowing with a mutual warmth
.
We both sleep well, but it seems the call comes all too soon. We shower and dr
ess, completely comfortable with each other.
Matilda exits at her normal bus stop and walks to work. I wait awhile and head
to the Tica Linda, and who do I encounter just heading in? Roberto.
He looks at me and sees the tired, but happy smile on my face and says, “You old
dog.”
This freshens me up. “Just out howling at the moon.”
Roberto is chipper and happy. “I can imagine that moon was just like the one I
was exploring.”
We both go into our separate rooms, tired and happy.
I add some numbers in my head before I fall asleep and realize that I’ve only sp
ent sixteen dollars. I think a cheap date, and a great fuck before I pass out.
8
I don’t know what it is with me and the morning, but I find myself waking up and
it’s only seven. I’m still the first one to the shower.
I go over and see Matilda. She looks incredibly good and glowing, as if the se
x had awaken some sort of primal energy in her.
When she brings coffee, she licks her lips and says, “I can’t get enough. Can w
e do it again?”
I wink at her and squeeze her hand. I hope it isn’t too obvious to everyone el
se that we are falling in love.
At the Western Union Office, my money wire still hasn’t arrived. I talk to Myl
a again and she says that the Western Union people have assure Lora that the mon
ey is there.
“Well,” I say, “it has God damn well not arrived.” I shout this and think I shou
ld apologize, though I don’t, realizing the lack of sleep is taking its toll on
me.
“I don’t know what the hell to do,” she says, upset that I’ve lost my normally e
ven temper.
“Please try again. I’m living on borrowed money right now.”
“Okay,” is all she says.
This goes on for days.
Finally one morning I go into the Western Union office and my wire is waiting fo
r me, and it is for nineteen hundred dollars and not a thousand.
This is great, I think as I call to Tucson one more time, My sister, Lora, ans
wers the phone.
She says, “I can’t believe those dumb fucks at Western Union. The assholes sent
the money to San Jose, California and not to Costa Rica. I raised such a stin
k, and threaten a lawsuit, so they sent along another hundred dollars. You also
received a tax refund check for almost an even nine hundred, which I was able t
o cash and I sent it along.”
I hope it is enough, and that you are okay.”
I tell her I’m getting by and really everything is jake.
She closes with, “You take care.”
I never like to hear that and say, “Never.” Never will I take care. I like to
live dangerously, hang out near the edge. The view is so much better from ther
e.”
She laughs, having known me all my life, peeking in the wind watching me being b
orn. “Get outa here.”
I go back to La Unica, all smiles and happy to have sufficient money in my pocke
t again.
When Matilda comes over with my coffee, I can see that she is upset. “You can’t
come in here again. My husband is back. He’s incredibly jealous, and I don’t
know what will happen.”
Her eyes, the beautiful sparkling windows to her heart are sad. She squeezes m
y hand for one last time.
All the air has been let out of the balloon I walked in with. I feel that as i
f I’m a balloon rapidly careening around the room, moving without direction unti
l I lay spent and lifeless on the floor. I don’t faint or anything. I just fee
l punctured and hollow.
9
I take the bus out to Oler’s and he’s actually home. I pay him the money he ha
s lent me and thank him profusely. We agree to go out that evening. He with h
is wife and Roberto tagging along with me.
That evening Oler says, “I know the perfect place.”
Imagine my surprise when we go to Matilda’s and mine hideaway.
The waiters are very discreet, and don’t let on that they know me, though it is
probably true that Matilda and I spent more time in one of the motel’s room’s th
an we spent their dancing and making out and warming each other up.
Roberto has decided to accompany me to Panama. Turkey Dog, Little Red, Roberto
and I leave the next morning.
10
Roberto, Turkey Dog, Little Red and I don’t leave that early the next morning.
The traffic is humming along with its odor and I can’t smell the enticing arom
a of fresh baked bread like when I get up relatively early on my own, though I r
aise muh later than normal.
Roberto and I go across to La Unica for breakfast and coffee, and I receive one
last smile with my order from Matilda.
Soon we’re out of San Jose and climbing. Little Red is humming nicely. I drive
on the well paved two lane highway, and the traffic is not very heavy.
Within an half hour of leaving San Jose we’re in a tropical frost sensitive pine
forest. It’s a heavier sweeter pine scent than a frost tolerant pine forest.
We inhale the clean fresh pine scent and our lungs are free and clear. Our han
govers evaporate with the fragrance.
The telephone poles along the highway sprout flowers and plants, and become part
of the forest with their showy purple, white and pink flowers.
We had a really good time the night before and ate and drank too much, and now w
e ride in silence.
Roberto falls asleep for a couple of hours, and only wakes when I pull into a ro
adside stand to get coffee and let Turkey uses the facilities.
A misty rain drifts down and it’s sweater weather. Roberto and I rummage aroun
d and find jackets.
They serve fresh roasted hot chocolate here and café colado. I have them combi
ne the two and drink it at a half and half mixture. The slightly bitter unsw
eetened coffee and chocolate warm my soul as well as my hands.
Roberto and I talk of inconsequential things and further exchange histories.
Now Roberto drives and I run my tongue over my lips, savoring the taste of the h
eavenly mixture that I’ve been drinking, there still being the flavor of it on m
y mustache and beard.
In four hours we’ve dropped down out of the real high mountains and travel in lo
wer mountains.
Roberto drives as we approach the border checkpoint that will take us into Panam
a.
We get out passports stamped on the Costa Rican side to show that we are leaving
the country.
Panama
1
Roberto and I both have our visas and passports in order.
I do my dog and pony show about the car title, explaining how a title for a 1962
Volvo 122 four door is actually a title for a 1963 Renault R-8. The sour lookin
g official is willing to accept that.
The frowning middle-aged customs officer looks at Turkey Dog. I hand him Turke
y Dog’s paperwork, his passport, rabies and all the other shots certificates.
He shakes his head. “He has to go into quarantine . There is an outbreak, an e
pidemic of parvo in Panama.”
I offer him a hundred dollar bribe to let Turkey Dog in.
He shakes his head and sneers. “I don’t take bribes. I think he must be an ex
tremely rare type of Latin American government official.
Roberto says, “We’ll put him in quarantine. Where do you want us to drop him of
f in Panama?”
The snarly official won’t go for it.
“How long will he be in quarantine?” I ask resigning myself to what looks like
is going to happen, then look up at the cool blue sky, hoping for a miracle.
Still frowning, the stuffy official spits out, “Thirty days. They fly the anim
als down to Panama, and you can visit him at the animal control center.”
I shake my head in disbelief. It’s going to be no go with this asshole.
Roberto and I get back into Little Red and start our drive into Panama.
The car feels empty and lonely. Turkey and I have come a long ways together thi
s trip, and we have been together for many years, and have made many trips toget
her. Turkey dog even got thrown in jail in Canada, but that was only for ten d
ays.
Roberto sees how upset and down-fallen I am, and says, “Why don’t we make a side
excursion to Baugette? I’ve been reading about it, and it’s not too far from
here. It’s apparently mostly settled by Hungarian emigrants, and it’s suppose
to be very picturesque.”
I mumble, “Might as well give it a shot.”
Roberto continues to drive, and I continue to be bummed out.
Soon we are in high mountains, the only real high mountains in Panama. We come
around a curve and there are flowers everywhere, a patchwork of color, a Renoir
painting and we’re driving into it.
It’s cool and our olfactory senses get lost in the array of perfumes.
I look over at Roberto intensely driving Little Red, “I don’t know about you, bu
t I think I can float the rest of the way to Baugette.
Soon we’re coming into a Hungarian mountain village that became lost and ended u
p in Panama.
We find an inexpensive pension that cost six dollar a night. We are struck by
the elegance of some of the hotels. They don’t look grandiose, but when you en
ter them they are plush with mahogany and brass, thick carpet and crystal.
I’m feeling rich and generous. After Roberto and I have stashed our packs in th
e room, I say, “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner at one of them fancy hotels.”
Roberto puffs on one of his cigarettes and gives me a thumbs up.
Soon we are ensconced at a table in the corner of a huge dining room with crysta
l chandeliers. I look at the menu and am a little shocked at the prices. The
re still about half of what you pay in the states for dining at such a fancy pla
ce, but then I’ve become accustomed to the the inexpensive prices in the rest o
f Cental America.
I order goulash and Roberto “Hungarian” chicken, red with paprika. They both co
me with cold soup.
We split a magnum of Merlot.
After the merlot we head back to the pension and fall asleep instantly.
Before I fall asleep I think about that asshole official, and wonder where Turke
y is sleeping tonight. Then I’m reminded of Trina. God knows where she is.
2
Roberto and I are up early. It has rained during the night and the air is wash
ed clean. A slight breeze blows and the perfume of the flower fields permeates
the air, making us heady with expectation. Of what we expect, I do not know.
After breakfast we are on the road, Little Red humming and washed clean by the r
ain.
Both far sides of the windshield carry numerous transparent visa and fumigation
stickers.
Neither one of is used to drinking and we are subdued from the wine the night be
fore. This is the second night in a row.
The clouds lift and the sky is infinite and sparkling blue up here on the spine
that runs through the Americas.
I drive, though Roberto would happily drive the entire distance. He has a pas
sion for driving I lost years before.
The roads are smooth and not potholed, the best I’ve encountered the entire trip
.
With the lushness and exuberance of the tropics, everything so green with a riot
of growth, it feels as if we’re driving in a greenhouse.
There is so much moisture in the air, my allergies have drown.
I look out over the stub nose of Little Red, the incredible tough minute vehicle
it is, and see the dull oxidizing deep red original paint, and think I should p
robably polish the car, but then think better of it. There is something about s
hiny vehicles and speeding tickets that I don’t like.
The luggage rack with the four tires and two five gallon jerry-cans of gas and t
he five gallon galvanized water jug, casts a top-heavy shadow.
After three hours, when we stop for gas, I turn the driving over to Roberto. H
e lights a cigarette and blows blue smoke out the window. The wind from our ope
n window air conditioning, blows his curly dark hair, and he smiles, happy to b
e at the wheel again.
There is no war in Panama and the checkpoints are only every hundred miles or so
.
We talk little and let our eyes take in the panorama.
Occasionally we catch glimpses of the immense Pacific off to the right. It seem
s we’re riding on one of the spines of the world and that we should be able to
view the Carribean off to the left, but it is too far away and we are left with
a mass of greenness on that side.
The silence is easy and not oppressive. It seems strange not to have Turkey Dog
riding inside Little Red.
The day is an seemingly endless ribbon of asphalt, and it’s dark before we know.
We switch off again, and I drive into an unknown night, Little Red’s not overly
bright headlights piercing a whole into the steaming tropical blackness.
3
Finally we cross the Bridge of The Americas, the one that goes over the Panama C
anal, that manmade gash disconnecting two land masses.
The traffic has become horrendous and I am nervous. Roberto sees my nervousness
, and says, flashing a smiles, “Would you like for me to drive.’
I shot him a quick grin, not wanting to take my eyes off all the cars, “Sure.”
I’m tired and disoriented from having traveled all day, and Panama is a port cit
y, with hardly a straight road. I have little sense of where we are.
Roberto takes over and I can see that he relishes city driving, which I hate.
He has checked his guide book and seems to know where he is going, He stops at a
light and shouts out a question through the window to a cop, “Donde esta el cen
tro?”
It happens fast because the light changes rapidly. “Derecho.”
Roberto is enjoying the city driving. “At least we’re heading in the right dire
ction.”
Before we get downtown, Roberto hangs a left.
I protest, “Where are you going?”
“I want to check out the bancaria.”
“ The what? You’re going to get lost,” I say, hoping that we don’t.
He smiles impishly. “Trust me. The bancaria is the banking district. There ar
e hundreds of international banks here.”
I look at the interior of Little Red, and realize I don’t have any other option.
The street is brightly lit and we can see all sorts of people out walking, and t
all building trying to pierce the sky, each one trying to outdo the other in te
rms of modern architecture .
Somehow or another, Roberto seems to know where he is going. He hangs a right o
n Avenida Oscar Arias, and we go by the Hotel Ecjutivo. I know this is way too
rich for our blood.
Roberto drives down a street lined with what look like mansions.
Then he comes to a light and hangs another right, and we’re on the street takin
g us back downtown. How he did what he just did, I’ll never know. We just arri
ved, don’t know the city, none of the streets in the city seem to continue for
more than three blocks and it’s nighttime.
Soon we are headed into downtown. It is rundown and sleazy. I say to Roberto,
“It sort of feels like home, after all those fancy building.”
We pass by an entire street filled with hookers out soliciting business and disp
laying their wares. These aren’t the subdued, conservatively and elegantly dre
ssed prostitutes of Costa Rica. These are cheap looking whores, and there’s no
mistaking that.
Somehow or another, Roberto finds the Royal Hotel. It looks anything but Royal.
We pay six dollars for a room at the five story shabby hotel. That’s ten time
s what we were paying in Costa Rica and here we’re sharing a room.
We ask, “Is there a parking garage?”
The man at the desk smiles at us as if we were insane. It seems no one with a
car ever shows up at this place.
He rummages around and finds a key. Says, “Follow me.”
He takes us around and unlocks a chain link gate to an open weed-filled lot arou
nd behind the hotel.
He hands us a key. “Don’t lose it. I think it’s the only one we have.”
Roberto parks Little Red in the lot and we extract our packs, and head in to eat
and catch some shut eye. We noticed that the dump had a restaurant.
I look back at Little Red. The car looks so forlorn and abandoned in the weed-
filled lot.
4
Roberto and I sleep late (a rare occurrence for me). We eat at the none too cle
an and greasy counter at the misnamed Hotel Royal. The fare is bland American,
and the prices are considerably higher than what we were paying for better food
in Costa Rica.
The little diner is run by a couple from China and they shout back and forth to
one another in their shrill singsong voices,. Seemingly screaming at one anothe
r.
The woman serves, buses and is in charge of the money. The husband cooks.
The food is mediocre at best, but the coffee is strong and that s what we need.
After breakfast we set out to explore on foot.
Downtown is bleaker and more rundown than it seemed upon arriving the night befo
re.
Garbage collects in the streets, and most of the building seem abandoned and sta
re with vacant windows out upon their dismal surrounding.
I smile at Roberto,"There s nothing like staying in an upscale neighborhood."
His eyes laugh back at me. "What say, we do a little exploring in Little Red?"
He likes my name for the little Renault which has gotten so old that there are
few of them left even in Europe.
Roberto tells me, "I remember these cars from when I was a kid. They were old
even then."
I give him a dirty look. "Rub it in. I can remember when they came out and th
ey were meant to compete with the Volkswagen."
I unlock the gate and open it and Roberto drives Little Red out. Little Red is
always willing to go explore a new city, and I am content to let Roberto drive,
having no love of city driving.
The sun is shining and the air is muggy.
Soon we re whipping down the street. I try to pay attention to where we are at
, but soon I m hopelessly lost. I quit struggling with where I m at and take i
n the sights.
In no time at all we are in the bancaria. I start reading the names on the buil
dings: The Bank of Israel, Singapore International Bank, The Royal Bank of Switz
erland, Bancomer, The Royal Bank of Canada, Banco Santander, The Bank of Engla
nd, Credit Swiss, The Bank of Credit and Commerce International, Bank of America
, The Bank of Korea, Japanese International Bank, Banco de Uruguay, Deutsche Ban
k and more. The names of banks goes on and on and I can t wrap my mind around
them. I can t imagine how they can all survive and thrive here.
That the banks are doing well seems obvious. Every bank seems to strive to hav
e a bigger, fancier and more modern building than the bank next to it.
Building soar to forty, fifty or more stories, all emblazoned with the names of
banks. Mirrored sides of building reflect the sky back onto itself.
Even with all the concrete and steel, they can t keep out the tropical jungle th
is modern quagmire was built on. Palm trees sprout in the most unlikely places.
Lush green feathery banana leaves stand guard at bank entrances.
Hibiscus and gardenia scent the air with their heavy sweetness.
In places, magnolia roots buckle the sidewalk.
With banks everywhere the eye can see, it is apparently not enough. We re out
walking now, and we pass construction sites where they are building more high ri
ses, and the signs at the work sites all announce the future location of another
bank.
Walking along, we discover Jewish delicatessens, Hindi restaurants, Italian bist
ros, restaurants offering Iraqi style roast goat, French restaurants, American h
amburger chains, a lone Mexican restaurant, an Italian bakery, Chinese Woks, Nor
th African cuisine.
There is everything imaginable and we have trouble taking it all in. Our olfac
tory senses get lost in a jumble of scents–all inviting and mouth-watering.
Roberto comments, "The girls aren t as pretty here as in Costa Rica."
I agree. "Maybe because it s a crossroad of the world–everyone coming through a
nd breeding, homogenizing the thin delicate high cheek bones and light skin, rou
nding the face, and darkening the skin."
Roberto shrugs his shoulders, not knowing what to make of my rather anthropologi
cal statement.
We don t see any houses and few apartments in this area. I wonder what homes al
l these people populating these offices go home to at night.
We stumble onto a calle of luxury shops, inhibited and attended by impeccably dr
essed young men and woman.
Roberto and I feel shabby and underdressed in our hiking boots and jeans. The
windows are glistening with stylishly dressed manikins decked out in the very la
test of fashions.
Jewelry stores glitter with diamonds and gold, and we feel poor, insignificant a
nd out of place. We could be the destitute walking down Rodeo Drive, and just ab
out as welcome.
At one in the afternoon people empty out of the building and swamp all the eater
ies. Some people unfold their own lunches brought from home, and find a bench
or a patch of grass and watch the world go by. They linger and don t go back to
work until three or four.
I hear snatches of Portuguese, Hindi, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, French, German
and a jumble of other tongues that I am unaware, then I hear the familiar sound
of Vietnamese.
I close my eyes for a few minutes and travel the world with its different sound
s and languages.
Roberto watches me, not knowing what to think. He asks, "Are you still here?"
"I m not thinking about checking out just yet.." I reassure him.
We notice a local city bus stop and we are immediately drawn to it. These aren
t the new Mercedes buses of Jan Jose. These are old US school buses, but each
one has its own color scheme, as if some mad artist were turned lose. There is
a riot of reds, oranges, blues, greens and every other color. There are dragons
and demons, angels and naked women, Christ walking on water, there are serpents
and fish. No bus is the same. They are all unique.
Each bus as a radio blaring salsa and meringue, calypsos and cumbias, and roars
and coughs great clouds of blue smoke.
We peak inside some of them, and always a Madonna or Christ rides in a cage look
ing over the driver as he maneuvers the awkward bus through city traffic. I wat
ch how the drivers whip the buses around and don’t wonder if the Christ and Mado
nna aren’t a good idea.
Each bus is a unique work of art.
I look at Roberto and he nods his head. We hop on a bus, not having any idea w
here we are going.
Soon we are out in a colonia, a middle class neighborhood.
The houses are all constructed of concrete block, and look small and stuffy with
 few windows. Multiple air conditioners hum on all sides of the houses.
The yards are small, but the owners try to add color with bougainvillaea and hib
iscus, with bananas and canna lilies.
It s a world away from the bancaria, and where most of the people working in the
bancaria live.
We hop another bus and are soon headed back to the bancaria. Within three quar
ters of a mile from where Little Red is parked and waiting patiently for us, we
jump off the bus and walk up a street.
It is a street of luxury homes. Huge houses with multiple bathrooms, acres of w
indows and lawns that could be pastures. The lawns are groomed and immaculate
, the hedges and tree trimmed.
The houses have the appearance and feel of old money. The architecture style va
ries, but they all have a feeling of solidarity and substance.
We learn that bank managers, ship owners and foreigners own most of these mansi
ons.
Roberto and I each have a spinach quiche at a French sidewalk café, relocate Lit
tle Red and head back to the Hotel Royal, the day having managed to disappear on
its own.
Little Red has been waiting patiently, and starts right up upon command, proud t
hat it s the only car driving through Panama, Panama with Arizona plates.
5
Roberto and I are up early, recouped from our trip. We eat at the misnamed hote
l Royal diner.
“Roberto,” I say, “I want to go check on Turkey Dog today. See if he’s okay. V
isit him. Let him know he’s not forgotten in jail.” I look out at the forlorn
downtown area we are in, and I want to escape it.
Roberto smiles his mischievous smile, looks at his watch, “It’s only seven. I d
oubt if they’ll be open until nine. What say we go down to Calle Oscar Arias an
d do some serious girl watching until it’s time to check in on the T dog?”
I smile back at him. “Sounds like a plan.”
Soon we’re on a concrete bench, hidden in a perfuse tumble of orange and red bou
gainvillea, the soft tissued pyramid shaped colored leaves smelling faintly of l
ime and cinnamon.
I soon get bored with girl watching and get lost in the scent and texture of the
plant that surrounds us. I imagine walking into the jungle and never returning
.
Roberto jabs me in the ribs and points out an Asian girl. “Check that one out.”
I look out at the girl Roberto points out. She is dressed in a tight fitting sk
irt that comes halfway down the leg above her knee. She has very tan and well s
haped legs, and doesn’t appear to be wearing nylons. She wears medium height he
els and a conservatively buttoned mens blue dress shirt . She also has much l
arger breasts than the average Asian woman.
I smile at Roberto and say, “She’s hot.”
With a wicked grin, Roberto says, “She too young for you. That one’s mine.”
She’s pretty, but I’m more interested in what she thinks and what type of person
ality she has. “She’s all yours.” I look away after I say this, having learne
d long ago that there a lot more than good looks.
The two hours can’t go fast enough for me, and I am grateful they soon pass.
We finally locate the quarantine pound, a real jail for dogs. Turkey Dog is thr
illed to see me, but there’s really nothing much I can do for him. He’s normall
y a real active dog, but he’s not a whiner, and can lay patiently for hours, los
t in his own thoughts, dreaming of running in water and being wet. His keep here
is costing me six dollars a day. The same as Roberto and I are paying for a ho
tel. I know that Turkey Dog would much prefer a hotel room.
I still harbor the idea of driving Little Red all the way to South America. Whe
n we leave the pound, I say to Roberto, “What say we drive over to Colon and che
ck and see how much it is to put Little Red on a boat and ship it over to Colomb
ia?”
Roberto smiles, always ready to travel, “Sound like a winner to me.”
We’re soon driving on the eighty mile coast to coast trip over to Colon. I ask
Roberto, “Did you know that Panama had the first transcontinental railroad in t
he Americas?”
His dark eyes follow the two lane curvy black taking us to Colon. “I think I re
ad that somewhere.”
The highway takes us by huge lakes built to provide water for the locks. The lo
cks are built with powerful tight fitting gates, and water is pumped in and ou
t to take ships uphill and lower them back down to the ocean in graduated steps
in the canal. The lakes are immense and hold unknown large quantities of water.
The transcontinental highway winds its way through thick tropical lush green jun
gle with towering evergreen broad-leafed trees.
Birds scream and cry out to one another, and I get lost in forest sounds as Rob
erto happily drives along.
It’s not too long and we’re at the docks in Colon.
Colon, like the entire Central American and part of the Mexican Atlantic and Car
ribean coast is mainly populated by people of color.
The small docks are dingy and old, rubber tires lining the concrete so the ships
don’t bang the dock.
We get out and ask about shipping Little Red. The people here speak a harsh cl
ipped Spanish with a very distinct accent.
I have trouble making my ear understand the dialect, but Roberto has no such pro
blem. He’s able to accurately mimic the accent and throws it back at them.
We soon find out that large ships don’t dock here, and the only ocean going vess
els that travel to Colombia are relatively small boats.
I am disappointed to find out that it will cost fifteen hundred dollars to ship
Little Red to Colombia. That puts it out of my budget, besides I would be worri
ed about strapping Little Red onto one of these decks. I would be worried the l
ittle car would be washed overboard.
Before we head back to Panama we stop at the free trade zone, and check out huge
piles of merchandise that doesn’t interest us, and is only sold in large quanti
ties.
It’s the rainy season, and on the way back to Panama it starts to pour as it doe
s every afternoon. It will be sunny in the morning, and a torment of rain will
fall in the afternoon.
The rain makes the parrots and other jungle birds happy, and they chatter even l
ouder than the rain.
We drive back to Panama in silence.
6
We’ve been in Panama two days short of two weeks, and have wandered around every
where, and I’ve written three articles and sent them off, hopefully to find home
s that produce checks..
In the morning over coffee at the Hotel Royal diner, the morning sun coming thro
ugh the dirty windows, Roberto says, “I think I will be taking off in a week. I
have to get back to Europe, Switzerland and work.”
I’m surprised, he has never said anything before about returning to Europe at an
y time, and look at him with somewhat of a blank expression, “When did you decid
e this?”
He licks coffee off of his lips, “I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, I’m ru
nning low on money and haven’t said anything.”
I smile at him. “I fully understand the part about running low on money. I’ve
sort of been praying for a miracle.”
That mischievous smile plays across his tan face, “You and me both. Can we run
down to Oscar Arias in Little Red? I need to take some money out of my bank, a
nd I’ve seen a location of it there.”
I give him the thumbs up and say, “Only if we stop and see the T Dog first.”
Turkey Dog is always happy to see us. He’s not enjoying his stay in jail, but
he’s already served half his time.
We are early getting to the bancaria and we wander around, people watching, and
always fascinated by the architecture and skyline.
Roberto confesses, “I always felt I should have been an architect and not a civi
l engineer.”
“Then why did you go into engineering?” I asked, surprised at his disclosure.
He looks away and says, “There was more money in it and there were more jobs.”
“Are you happy?” I want to know.
He shakes his head with a bitter look on his face and tone in his voice, “No.”
Soon we are in the luxurious offices of the Credit Swiss branch.
I am surprised at the small lobby. There is only one teller window and we are t
he only ones there. I shake my head in disbelief. How can they keep this larg
e building with all of it’s offices open? It must be ten stories high, and the
building registry only lists offices of the bank. I don’t understand this at a
ll, but then there is a great deal that I don’t know about banking.
Roberto withdraws twenty-two hundred dollars and we leave.
Roberto is happy and smiling now that he has money. “Come on. I’ll buy you a l
atte and a pastry.”
At a sidewalk café we sip lattes, soak up the tropical sun and watch the world g
o by with it surfeit of pretty woman.
We have books to read and we each get lost in our books. Soon the sun is going
down.
Roberto takes out the wad of hundred dollar bills he received from the bank and
counts them. He recounts them and then hands them to me. “Can you count them
for me. I think there is a mistake here.”
I count them twice. “There’s fifty-two hundred dollars here.”
Roberto beams, “That’s what I counted too. I only withdrew twenty-two hundred.
I don’t think there’s fifty-two hundred in my account.”
I smile, almost laughing, “That’s as good as winning the lottery.”
We’re not far from Sarti’s. We’ve been by the place many times and have comment
ed on it often. It looks elegant and expensive, far beyond our meager budgets.
Roberto points at Sarti’s, “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner there.”
I look at his suspiciously. “I don’t know that they’ll even let us in.”
“Get out of here,” Roberto says with a grin.
“Once they wouldn’t let he into a restaurant in Bogota because I wasn’t wearing
a tie. And they didn’t even offer to furnish me one.”
Roberto waves me over, “Let’s give it a try. They can’t be as parochial as Bogo
ta.”
They let us in, even as casually dressed as we are in Safari cargo shorts, sanda
ls and tattered shirts.
The place is subdued and elegant with dark blue table clothes and candle lit tab
les.
A large fountain bubbles in the middle of the room. There are brass furnishing
everywhere, and not more than a dozen diners.
One of the tuxedoed waiters hands us our menus. We study the menu and both d
ecide on lasagna, it being the cheapest item on the menu at twenty-two dollars.
Roberto orders a thirty dollar magnum of red French wine that he is familiar wit
h. It is dry and superb.
I think the lasagna is excellent, but Roberto says, “For it to be truly good las
agna, it should alternate regular lasagna noodles with spinach noodles.”
“Really,” I say, “I’ve never had it served that way.”
We have a strawberries flambee for dessert followed by an after dinner sherry an
d coffee laced with brandy.
We leave in a mellow state after Roberto pays the hundred and fifty dollar tab w
hich includes the tip.
Downtown we park Little Red and lock te car into the lot behind the Hotel Royal.
When we go in to pick-up the room key, the night auditor says to Roberto, “You’r
e to call Gloria Morales.”
We are both totally surprised at this. There is only a phone at the hotel desk
in the Hotel Royal. None of the rooms have phones. It’s not that type of hotel
. We really don’t know anyone in the city, and neither of us has been in conta
ct with anyone from either Europe or the states. No one knows that we are here
. Besides, neither one of us know a Gloria Morales.
The auditor sees our confusion, and says to Roberto, “You are Roberto Marconi.
Isn’t that correct?”
Roberto nods his head.
The auditor hands Roberto the phone, and Roberto stares at it as if he had never
seen one before in his life. “The lady wants you to call immediately upon you’
re coming in, no matter how late it is.”
Roberto lets out a long whistle and dials the number on the old rotary phone.
He doesn’t say much until he closes with “Hasta manana.”
“What happened? What’s up?” I want to know.
“It was the teller. She wants me to return the money tomorrow. She discovered
her mistake.”
I realize that Roberto doesn’t have to return the money, because it was the bank
s mistake. “You’re going to return the money?”
“Yes,” Roberto says sadly, mostly likely thinking about all the money he spent f
or dinner at Sardi’s, “I know the Swiss banks. She’ll lose her job if the money
isn’t returned.”
I think more highly of Roberto for his sense of caring, and his honest responsib
ility.
We fall into our beds and are immediately asleep.
7
We are there when the Credit Swiss opens in the morning. I ask the teller, “H
ow did you find us?”
“When I discovered my mistake,” she says, “I had Roberto’s name, and I hoped you
would be staying at a hotel somewhere in the city. I was lucky. I only had t
o call twenty-seven hotels until I found you. If you had been staying with frie
nds in the city and I couldn’t find you, I would have lost my job.”
I’m still a little confused. “How did you know which transaction it was.
She smiles and says, “You were the only walk in customer we had yesterday.”
I’m totally lost. What are all these banks for?
Roberto returns the money, and in a week I drive him to the airport and he flies
to Geneva.

8
I explore around the city by myself after Robert has left, and start to get a di
fferent feel for it than when I was being chauffeured around by Roberto.
Before I left Tucson I stopped in and saw Mrs Von Miller. She’s the mother of
twin daughters I’ve known most of my life. One of the daughters was once my ve
ry first girlfriend.
Mrs. Von Miller lives in the same house in the same neighborhood where I grew up
. Most of the other parents of my childhood friends have moved or died.
“April is living in Panama with her husband,” Mrs. Von Miller said, “He’s a medi
cal doctor in the military and is stationed in Panama.”
Amber, the other twin, was my girlfriend.
I remember a high school English class with April, seated next to each other and
passing notes. I look back and find it a miracle that I actually learned how
to write, and learned to love it and literature.
I know that April has become a Latter Day Saint, but I don’t hold that against h
er, we have a long history of friendship and conspiracy.
Now that I am in Panama on my own, I decide to look her up, to see if I can trac
k her down and find her.
I drive over to Balboa, just outside of Panama City, the American enclave, or wh
at’s left of it.
Once I’m passed through the gate, and the Arizona plates on Little Red are given
a once over wild-eyed inspection with the question, “How did you get here?”
I answer nonchalantly, “I drove.”
Even more incredulously, “All the way’?”
I nod my head wisely and say, “All the way. It was much better than having to p
ush it.”
As I drive through this misplaced world of single detached homes with neatly man
icured lawns, looking as if the had been dropped in from some place in the mid-
west, I realize that an entire regiment of gardeners has to work full time to ke
ep the native jungle at bay.
The feeling is surreal and unworldly, a totally misplaced world with strange val
ues.
I watch some gardeners working hard to keep the native lushness in check. I ca
n tell that they are Panamanian. The only Panamanians I see are all working at
humble menial tasks.
I see the headquarters building and enter and ask for Captain Reed. I am infor
med that he is stationed in Cristobal on the Colon side of the isthmus.
I smile at this, anxious to leave this artificial environment, and decide to imm
ediately drive the 80 miles over to the other side of this very short coast to c
oast world.
Soon Little Red and I are cruising along through lush tumbling, vibrant and fecu
nd rain forest jungle, the highway a thin ribbon of asphalt winding through unst
oppable green life.
I don’t even realize it’s Sunday until I’m halfway to Colon, breathing in the co
nstantly decaying and growing sweat of the jungle, smelling of the dark, wild an
d unknown, much like a rotting mango.
In Colon I’m directed to Cristobal, the US enclave on this side of the isthmus.

Here the homes don’t look like a misplaced mid-western suburb. Most of the home
s are two story wood Southern Colonial. The yards are studded with native trees
, and many of the yards are naturally overgrown.
I stop a soldier and ask him where I can find Dr. Reed.
I am told Captain Reed is probably at church and am directed to the Mormon Temp
le.
As I pull up, church is letting out, I get out of Little Red and wait, hoping to
catch a glimpse of April and that I will recognize her when I see her.
A man in a Army Officer’s dress uniform comes up and says, “May I invite you to
learn more about the Latter Day Saints?”
At that moment April spots me and comes over. “Shaine! How good to see you.
What are you doing here? I see you’ve already met Jim.”
I give her a hug. “I came looking for you. Your mother told me you were in Pa
nama. I stopped to see her before I left to drive down.”
She exclaims, “You mean you drove all the way!”
I smile and say, “It would take someone as crazy as me to do something like that
.” I try to look innocent as I say this.
April has long red hair and stands at five eleven. She is thin and one would ne
ver know that she has given birth to five children.
Captain Reed, Jim has close cropped blond military cut hair and is over six feet
.
Jim says, “I was just starting to tell him about Mormonism.”
April shakes her head no. She knows me well enough to realize that it is usele
ss to talk religion to me.
She tells Jim, “I’ve known this character most of my life. We went to school t
ogether from third grade on. He has no more interest in religion than he does
in The Man In The Moon.”
I smile and say, “That’s not true. I have a lot more interest in the Man In The
Moon.”
They both laugh at this and invite me to their house to visit.
I feel at home in their house, visiting with April, and over run with their five
daughters, the youngest of whom is five years old.
All the daughters are blond and statuesque and beautiful.
I know April is of Finish decent, though I don’t know Jim’s ancestry.
I say to the youngest girl, “I bet your name’s George. Isn’t it?”
She indignantly says, “I’m not George.”
“Okay,” I say, “It’s good to meet you Not George.”
She screams, “Mommy! Make him stop!”
“Okay,” I say, “I won’t call you George anymore. Is that okay, Sue.”
She looks at me suspiciously with her blue eyes. She says, very sure of herself,
“My name’s not Sue either.”
I laugh and she laughs, finally realizing that I’m only teasing.
April and I visit and relive old times. She tells me that Amber has remarried.
I tell her, “Wish her well, and happiness. I didn’t realize that she had div
orced.”
I make friends with the one-and-a-half-year-old Boxer bitch that the Reed famil
y has.

Soon I’m driving back to Panama. It’s getting dark and the jungle takes on a my
sterious fragrance of ripe bananas.
The light of Panama are a beacon and guide me to the Hotel Royal.
9
I’m hiding out in the Hotel Ecjutivo lobby on Calle Oscar Arias, escaping from t
he heat, but nevertheless loving the bancaria section of Panama.
I’m there watching people and minding my own business. A man comes over toward
s me. I can tell immediately he is from the United States.
I am not quite sure how I can do this. It’s not entirely dress, though the man
is dressed casually in an expensive beige polo shirt and light green canvas sla
cks. He is wearing soft leather boat shoes. His even cut face is tan and brow
n hair is cut neatly short. He could have just stepped off a sail boat.
At five seven, the man is not tall, but he has broad shoulders that taper to a t
hin waist. He looks almost like a fullback with his shoulder pads on.
What tells me that he is from the states more than anything else, is the way he
strides so confidently, and the cocky way he looks around.
As far as I can tell, I’m the only other one from the states here.
The man comes up to me, smiles and sticks his hand out. He says with a distinc
t West Texas drawl, “The names’s Dane Hansen. Buy ya a drink?”
His handshake is firm and his brown eyes hold mine with a level gaze.
“Sure,” I say, “what’s on your mind?” I notice the indoor fountain behind him
and the banana plants around it perfuming the air with their sweet fragrance.
Dane’s eyes look away, survey the lobby, “Looks like we’re the only Americans ar
ound.”
I let my eyes drift around. It did look like we were the only people around fro
m the states. I refuse to say that I am an American, because two continents an
d an isthmus are all part of America as far as I’m concerned. I freely admit t
hat I’m from the United States, though I am always flattered if I’m mistaken for
a European.
This Texan still hasn’t told me what he has in mind. I decide to make small ta
lk. “What brings you to this tropical paradise?”
With that West Texas drawl, he says, “I’ve got a few business deals in the hoppe
r. I’m waiting for something to pop. There’s a lot of money to be made around
here.”
This gets my attention. It’s costing me way to much to stay in Panama and my l
imited funds are diminishing all to rapidly for my liking.
“What type of deals?” I cautiously throw out.
Dane drawls, “This ain’t no place to talk. Come on over to my apartment. It
’s only a couple of blocks away.”
I am a little leery of this. He’s not putting out any vibes like he’s gay, but
then I’ve been surprised in the past and want no part of that scene. I do reali
ze that he lives it a high rent district.
Dane sees my hesitation. “You don’t need to worry. I ain’t queer.” He looks
directly at me. “By the way, what’s your name? You never did say.”
I smile in embarrassment and say. “Shaine,” well looking him
directly in the eye which he seems to enjoy, as if it gave him some sort of secu
rity. I am always hesitant about throwing my name out in a strange situation.
He flashes a thin lipped smile as if he is losing patience with me. He asks, “Y
a got a last name?”
I shake my head no, and say, “Somehow or another it was erased off my passport,
and I never could seem to remember it. It seems like it was always changing.”
He shakes his head in disbelief and says, “Whatever.”
He has a second story two bedroom apartment which he also uses as an office. I
t has a good view of a sizable section of the bancaria. It is an expensive and
luxurious address.
The place is nicely furnished and neat for a bachelor, because I’ve noticed that
Dane doesn’t wear a wedding ring.
“Been here long?” I ask non-committally while looking around.
“Couple of weeks,” he says and looks around, “I rent the place furnished. I onl
y have to hump the landlady once in awhile to get a good discount. Mostly I’m i
nterested in a lot younger woman, though nothing under twenty-two or three.”
I judge Dane’s age to be forty-five or fifty, though I don’t ask him. I am a li
ttle startled at this revelation . I smile at him diplomatically and say, “That
’s a good age.”
Dane grins and takes a tack to a different subject. “You speak Spanish?”
I decide to play along and see where this is going to lead. “Like a dog,” I say
, “When I’m not sure of what I’m saying, I say it with confidence and authority,
and can always make my point understood. It’s like howling at the moon. It co
mes natural.”
“Great.” he says and flashes me that thin-lipped smile of his that sends chills
down my spine, “I could use an assistant.”
I’m still leery of this, cautious that I’m not stepping into something that I wi
ll regret, “What’s in it for me?” I’m always interested in work and money and a
m always willing to see where things lead.
Still with that thin-lipped smile, “I can cut you in for twenty percent of each
deal that we do.” I notice he doesn’t look directly at me when he says this, a
nd I’ve already noticed that his level direct stare is one of his characteristic
s.
Alarm bells sound off everywhere for me. It’s like a five alarm fire has just s
ounded in my head. I’ve seen and heard of deals that fell through everywhere,
and twenty percent of nothing is still nothing.
I’m not ready to confront him on this yet and say, “What type of deals are you t
alking about?” I’m still interested to see where this is going.
That thin-lipped smile again, “Mostly commodities deals, though sometimes we dea
l in imported goods coming through Colon–you’d have to go over there and make su
re that the goods actually exist.”
I’m becoming a little interested, “So what would I do?” I say this and look out
the window. I can see the Credit Swiss Bank location across the street.
He gives me a real smile this time, thinking he has me hooked, “Mostly you answe
r the phone, sit here and tend home base, while I’m out arranging financing and
scoping out deals.”
I’m still not convinced and continue looking out the window and don’t say anythi
ng, I’ve seen too many hustlers in my time.
This makes Dane nervus and he bristles . He says, “What do you think all the ba
nks are here in Panama for? This is one of the deal centers of the world. Thi
s is where a lot of shit goes down! This is where big money is made.”
The banks are starting to make a little more sense to me, but twenty percent of
nothing is still nothing. “I couldn’t do it,” I say, “Unless I have some sort
of guaranteed salary.”
Dane doesn’t like this and it shows in his face. He waits for a long pause, and
I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning. “Alright,” he finally says,
“I’ll pay you a thousand a month, nothing taken out, but you only get fifteen p
ercent of the deals.”
I smile big at this. I can easily live on under a thousand a month.
I throw out, “Is it okay if I bring my typewriter over. so I can get a little wr
iting done while I’m waiting for the phone to ring, or if I’m not busy with some
thing else?”
“What type of writing ya do?” Dane asks, obviously annoyed at this.
I decide to lie. “I’ve been known to string a word or two together, and actual
ly form a coherent sentence, but it don’t amount to much. Mostly I write for
myself and the trash can.”
There is relief written all over Dane’s face when I say this. “Feel free.” he s
ays.
I stick my hand out and we shake on this.
“When do I start?” I ask with a faraway look in my eyes as if I’d just traded m
y freedom for the unknown. I’ve worked independently for so long, I feel as if
a cell door had just slammed shut on me.
Dane actually has a warm smile now. “No time like the present,” he says. “I
have to go out and check on a couple of things. Answer the phone with, Dane H
ansen Enterprises,” he gestures towards the phone, “And take notes.”
After he leaves, I stare out the window looking at what seems an infinite number
of bank buildings, fully unaware of what I’ve gotten myself into.

I sit down and stare at the phone, wishing I had my typewriter, the trusty old m
anual with me, so that I could put down notes on what is happening. I know it
is almost useless for me to write anything out by hand, because if it sets for o
ver two days I know I won’t be able to read my own handwriting. I smile and th
ink, I never could, and the irony of that was that it led to my having a steady
income while I was an undergraduate.
I’d take notes in class and on the readings, and on the night of the day I took
them I would type them up in outline form. I ended up selling a lot of notes,
and for that I can thank the summer school class I took in typing before I enter
ed the eighth grade. And I absolutely hated the class.
I sit there staring at the phone, willing it to ring, to jar me out the boredom
that is settling over me like an itchy wool blanket.
A tap on the door shakes me out of myself.
When I open the door a bleached blond women of about five two is standing there.
I judge her to be in her late forties or early fifties. She wears a shear se
e-through blouse and has no bra on underneath. Her breasts are firm and stand
erect.
She is obviously surprised to see me and asks in Spanish, “Is Dane here?”
I tell her no, and she says, “Let him know that Dalila stopped by to see him.”
I learn later from Dane that this is his landlady, and that she had been a param
our of the late dictator of Panama, Omar Torrijos, whom the CIA had removed by k
illing him in a plane crash, and that he had set her up with this building conta
ining her house and three apartments.
From what I learn about Torrijos, I discover that he was a relatively uncorrupt
dictator who did a lot of good for the country, good that the CIA was not please
d about.
One of the last books Graham Greene wrote was called Getting To Know The General
, and was written about the late General Omar Torrijos. It is a very sympatheti
c picture of Torrijos, and I have met few people that don’t share that sentiment
.
Finally Dane returns. I tell her about Dalila’s visit. He says with that thin-
lipped icy smile of his, “I never should have thrown a fuck into her.”
There have been no phone calls. I retrieve Little Red, and we make it back to
the Hotel Royal together. Turkey dog is still in the slammer.
10
Over the next few days I learn a lot more details about Dane’s life than I ever
really cared to know, though I will learn later that he is providing me with a n
eatly edited version of his life.
Dane seems to be one of those people that have to be talking constantly. He has
to have a radio or television on continually, and can’t seem to handle silence
and his own thoughts.
I seldom or ever turn a radio station on, and have never owned a television set.
There is nothing I like better than to load up a mule and a pack mule and hea
d off out into the desert or forest for a month or more, living off the land, an
d seeing and talking to no one.
Living off the land for me doesn’t mean killing animals. I have never taken an
animal’s life aside from a man who was in dire need of killing. By that I me
an when I was a civilian reporter covering a fire fight in the delta in Nam, the
group of soldiers I was with was penned down overnight, and a sergeant had seen
fit to arm me, and before dawn I caught a Vietnamese creeping up on me, set to
blow me away. I had the distinct displeasure of killing him before he killed m
e.
Living off the land means watching what the mules eat, and pretty much eating th
e same.
I learn from Dane that he is the youngest of six children. “I was pretty much o
f an only child. My brother nearest to me in age is nineteen years older.” Dan
e doesn’t look pensive when he says, but rather like a child that’s just grabbed
all the marbles, and doesn’t have to share them with the others. He looks out
the window at the Credit Swiss Bank and flashes that cold icy smile of his.
I find out that Dane is a petroleum geologist and studied at the University of T
exas at El Paso.
Speaking of petroleum, Dane says with enthusiasm and absolute conviction, “That’
s why I came down here. I discovered oil seeps leaking into the Pacific off th
e coast of Panama. I’ve checked out the geology and it’s all indicative of a s
izable oil field, and it’s in shallow enough water where it’s feasible to pump i
t with floating oil rigs.” He looks directly at me with those intense eyes of
his when he says this. The love of money sparkles in those eyes.
I look at him with wonder and a slowly growing respect, “Then, what’s with the c
ommodities deals? It would deem to me that oil is where the real money is at.”
 There’s been a lot thrown at me lately, and I’m not sure what to believe.
He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I could partner with some big oil company
, but I want the is baby all for myself. I had some set backs not too long ago
, and I’m trying to rebuild my working capital so I can go it on my own. This b
aby is going to make me really rich.” His eyes get dreamy with the feel of mone
y that he can almost touch.
One time I ask him, though I am getting a feeling of how things are in Panama, “
What’s with all the banks in Panama?”As I ask this I look out across the street
at the Credit Swiss Bank and all the other bank building that I can see.
He looks at me like I’m a child in need of enlightenment. “The currency of Pana
ma is the dollar. Sure, they call it the Balboa, but they don’t print their ow
n money and they use the dollar which is on par with the Balboa.”
His icy eyes look at me, “None of the other currencies in Latin America are stab
le and all the money gets funneled into Panama. Besides a great deal of the wor
ld’s trade passes through here.”
We’ve already talked politics and I know he thinks Ronald Reagan is God’s gift t
o big business which I realize he worships.
He smiles warmly for a change. “It’s hard not to make money if you are a major
bank.”
He goes on about this and I can only half follow the logic, but from what I can
gather is that for financing and playing along with the swindle of deficit spen
ding, the banks are able to suck in all the capital in the world, and keep re-le
nding it at higher and higher rates. rates, financing more deficit spending whic
h continually works to their advantage
This fits in with my basically low opinion of banks. In reality, I have trouble
keeping my checkbook balanced, and I use it as infrequently as possible. I’m p
roud of the fact that I’ve never made a car or any other type of payment, except
for mortgages. I figured if I couldn’t pay cash for a car or something, I did
n’t need it.
I even paid cash for a couple of properties, and I never had a mortgage that too
k me over five years to payoff, but then I wasn’t married and never had any chil
dren.
I learned long ago that I didn’t handle credit well, besides, I was a child of p
arents that had lived through the depression, and in spite of all my rebellion,
that had managed to instill some sort of sense frugality in me.
One time when I was tired of writing and listening to Dane’s constant talking, I
mention to him that I’m free of debt. “And I don’t have any credit cars.”
He looks at me in amazement. “What are you–un-American.”
I smile contentedly and say, “Must be.”

10
One morning I go in, and I find Dane whistling and happy. There is a total tran
sformation in him. It’s like I’m meeting a new person for the first time.
We’ve been working on putting a two-and-a-half million sale of bananas together,
and another for a half million worth of cacao.
It’s only about eight-thirty, and I’m early and get myself a cup of mud.
Dane joins me at the kitchen table, and puts a check down on the bubbled glass t
abletop.
I look at the check. It is for ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred and six dol
lars and forty-three cents. It is written on the Bank of Credit and Commerce I
nternational, and is written by West Texas Oil Exploration, Inc.
It is made out in my name, because by this time I have provided Dane with my leg
al last name.
I look at the check, and then I look at Dane. His eyes almost seem warm this mo
rning. I have no idea why the check is made out in my name, and I don’t like it
. I can smell a rat here.
Dane smiles and says, “I’d like you to go down to the Royal Bank of Canada and
open an account.”
I run my tongue over my lips, glance out the window at the Credit Swiss Bank, se
e a hummingbird dart at a red bougainvillea, then look directly into Dane’s eyes
as he is so fond of doing this, and ask, “Why is it made out in my name?”
Dane gives me a disarming and frank, seemingly genuine smile. ‘Because I trust
you and have faith in you. Also by doing it this way, I can cut you in for an
extra ten percent.”
I look at him questioningly.
He doesn’t miss a beat and says, “That’s a lot of money.” This seems to be all
that really concerns Dane.
My mind is racing. This still doesn’t seem right to me, though lord knows I co
uld use some more money. Every time I’ve needed money, I’ve had to approach Dan
e as if I were a child approaching a parent. He’s suppose to be paying me appro
ximately two hundred and fifty a week, but every time I’ve had to approach him f
or money, he’s given it to me and made me feel like he’s doing me a favor.
He shows me another check made out in his name for three hundred and twenty-one
thousand dollars. The check is written by the same company.
He smiles warmly again, “Your check is for the cacao deal and mine is for the ba
nanas. I’m going over to the Bank of Singapore and open an account.”
That sort of reassures me. I’ve noticed that Dane never deposits more than one
check into any bank account, and that seems fishy to me. I’ve also noticed he n
ever uses any US banks, and there are a number of them in Panama. There is Amer
ican Express, Bank of America, Wells Fargo, Chase, Citibank, Chemical Bank of Ne
w York and others.
I can’t see where I’ll be liable for anything, because I assume that the bank wh
ere I will be depositing the check will confirm the validity of the check befo
re excepting it, though somehow it still doesn’t seem right.
Still with a number of reservations, I say, “Okay. I’ll do it, but don’t forget–
I get an extra ten percent. That means I get twenty-five percent of the profit
on the deal.”
Dane smiles warmly and says, “Right-o you are.”
The Royal Bank of Canada is only three-and-a-half blocks away, and I walk, the c
heck neatly folded in an envelop and the envelop securely buttoned in a shirt po
cket. There is nothing to arouse anyone’s suspicion, and no one aside from Dan
e knows I am carrying such a valuable cargo.
When I go up to the teller and tell her I would like to open an account and she
sees the amount of the check, she says, “You’ll have to talk to the manager.”
She talks to the manager via an intercom, and the manager steps out of his offic
e and says, “Won’t you come in?”
The manger wears wireless glasses, and has a sports coat and tie on. He has sh
ort sandy-colored hair and a pale complexion. His accent is British.
He looks at the check with his pale blue eyes, and asks, “What type of account w
ould you like to open?”
This confuses me. All the other times that Dane has had checks come in, he has
opened the accounts himself, and hasn’t really let me know what he is up to.
I look at the bank manager, Ian Wright, in his plush office with the beautiful m
ahogany desk. I say, “I’ll have to call my boss.”
Wright looks at me questioningly when I say this, probably wondering why the che
ck is made out in my name. He asks, “What is the check for?”
I’m starting to get a little nervous, as if I were doing something wrong. I blu
rt out, “It’s for a deal on cacao. Lately my boss seems to be getting a lot of
deals through the Bank of Credit and Commerce International.”
Wright’s pale blue eyes pierce me. He says something that sets bells to ringin
g in my mind. “It seems every questionable deal in Panama is run through BCCI.”
This is said at least 10 years before BCCI is investigated and becomes known as
the Bank of Crooks and Criminals International. That is, before it’s shut down.
I’ve given Wright the number to Dane’s apartment, and we wait in silence as the
phone rings. I don’t expect Dane to answer it, because the bank he was going t
o was a lot further away than the one I headed to. Besides, every other time t
hat he had gone out to open a new account, it had taken hours.
Wright has the speaker phone on, and Dane picks up the phone on the third ring.
He doesn’t speak Spanish and says, “Hello,” in that West Texas twang of his, “
What can I do for you?”
Wright explains the situation, and Dane, not even bothering to talk to me direct
ly, says, “Send him back. I should have known better. I’ll take care of it mys
elf.”
Both Wright and I smile at Dane’s pronounced twang.
I thank Wright and apologize for wasting his time.
I’m real curious as to how Dane managed to get back to the apartment so quick, t
hough I decide not to ask him, realizing that he will probably tell me in his ne
ed for constant talk.
When I get back to the apartment, I don’t say anything to Dane. I simply hand h
im the check. For once he doesn’t say something to me. He just gives me a dirt
y look and leaves.
It is only later that I will realize that Wright saved my ass.
11
I get up early, go outside in the derelict downtown which surrounds the misnamed
Hotel Royal, but don’t notice it. The sun is starting to blossom in the sky to
the east. Clouds are banked up to heaven and they reflect the sun in every sh
ade of the spectrum. I stand in awe, and wonder what the day will bring.
I head to the Bancaria in faithful Little Red with grave doubts in my mind about
Dane. How long can I hold out with him?
When I arrive, it’s like the problem of me not being able to open a bank account
never happed.
Dane is smiling and it’s a warm happy smile, and his eyes almost seem warm this
morning.
I smile ack and say, “What’s lit you up like Broadway?”
“A skirt,” Dane says grinning, “A lovely wench, and she’s only twenty-seven. An
d she likes to fuck.”
I don’t say anything, and think about the rotten luck I’ve had since I’ve been i
n Panama. I know that Dane can be damn charming when he wants. I know I don’t
have to question Dane, because the story will come out. It’s almost like he c
an’t help himself and has to talk. I think he pays me to be around to listen t
o him talk more than anything else.
“Her name is Belen,” Dane continues. “I met her at the Hotel Ecjutivo. She wo
rks at the front desk in the evening.”
I look at him blankly. I don’t have any idea who she is because I’ve never bee
n there in the evening. The sun shines warmly in and lights up the glass top of
the kitchen table. The aroma of the coffee I’m drinking fills my nostrils.
Suddenly Dane is done telling me about Belen or is he? “I’m going to be gone mo
st of the day, and may not get back until late. I hope yo don’t mind. I’ll ma
ke it up to you.”
“I’ll hold down the fort,” I say, “And try not to screw anything up.”
After Dane leaves, I can’t believe that he didn’t have me endorse the check for
the cocoa deal that was made out in my name, thinking something is fishy here.
I get out my old manual typewriter and start banging out another story about Pan
ama and my drive in Little Red to get here.
For once, the phone doesn’t ring all day long, and for that I am grateful, but t
hink it strange.
Dane doesn’t make it back until eight o’clock in the evening. He is always ver
y neatly attired, and everything is always in place. When he comes in he is in
total disarray.
I detect the odor of sex on him and know that he’s spent the day with Belen.
“There’s been no phone calls” I say, expecting to draw a response from he, becau
se the phone is normally continually ringing.
He looks at me and smiles and doesn’t say anything. I think this girl of his mu
st be great if she can fuck the words right out of him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say as I step out, headed for Little Red.
I’m about halfway to where Little Red is parked, when I think, hell no. It’s n
ot far to the Hotel Ecjutivo. If Dane can pick someone up there, maybe I’ll hav
e some luck.
As I head to the hotel in the hot humid evening air, the blossoms of red hibiscu
s wafting through the heat, I notice a car that has always fascinated me. And i
t is a car I’ve never ridden in or driven. It’s a small little Renault 4.
The 4 was never introduced into the USA, but they were very popular when I was i
n Colombia.
A woman is stepping out of this green little car.
I say, “Buenos noches. That’s an interesting car you have.”
She smiles and says, “It isn’t much, but it gets me around.”
This woman is about five three and I detect a slight accent. Her face is plain
and a certain sadness gathers around her eyes.
We continue talking and since she seems unattached, I ask “Won’t you have dinner
with me?”
We dine at an Italian Ristorante called Romanaccios.
I learn that she is Italian from Napoli, divorced and working as a journalist in
Panama for a chain of Mexican newspapers.
After dinner and wine we end up at her second story apartment in a colonia that
is adjacent to the Bancaria.
The bancaria is constantly patrolled by security guards and I leave Little Red p
arked along the street in the Bancaria.
We go to Maria’s apartment in her little Renault 4.
Soon we are romping in bed, and we drift off to sleep intertwined in each other’
s arms.
When I awake in the morning there is a note asking me to lock up when I leave.
I lock everything up tight, and walk back to the bancaria, not sure of what will
happen.
12
A couple of mornings later I show up at Dane’s, not expecting much to happened,
but content because I will probably be able to get lots of writing done, still u
nsure if I should say adios to Dane.
Dane greets me with a huge smile, and something he almost never asks, “How you d
oing?”
I glance out at the Credit Swiss Bank building across the street, notice a green
parrot with a red day land on a banana tree growing there, and think, this Bele
n must really be something if she can so totally transform Dane.
I smile at Dane and think I’ll lay a little of my twisted philosophy on, somethi
ng that he has never heard out of my mouth before. “I’m doing great. I always
keep in mind that we die and that’s there’s an out to this shitty existence tha
t we call life.”
Dane looks at me with a worried expression. “What type of answer is that? To
day is great.” He smiles in spite of his worried expression. “Both the banana
and the cacao deals went through.”
He puts on a tie and a sports coat, and as he heads out, he says, “I should be b
ack around one or two.”
I give him the thumbs up and smile as he leaves.
I’m grateful to be by myself and not have to listen to Dane’s constant talk, hop
ing that I can get a lot written today.
I’ve just gotten into what I writing, and I am making the old manual typewriter
rattle with a good cadence to the clatter of it’s keys, when there is a knock at
te door.
When I answer the door it is Jim Greenwood, one of Dane’s friends whom I’ve met
before.
“Won’t you come in,” I say, wondering if my writing is done for the day, “Dane’s
out for a while, but you are welcome to wait.”
I can’t stay for too long,” he says, “But I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you
have one.”
“Help yourself,” I say.
Greenwood is about six one with close cropped dark brown hair and wears thick bl
ack rimmed glasses. I judge him to be about forty-five, but it’s hard to tell
because he has started to put on weight and is a little pudgy.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Greenwood says with a friendly smile.
Dane has told me that he was in the CIA, and I’m a little leery of him, neverthe
less, I go over and pour myself another cup of coffee after Greenwood has poured
one for himself.
I sit across from Greenwood at the glass table, and to make conversation I ask,
“Have you known Dane very long?”
“I knew him back in the oil patch in Texas,” he says with a furtive look.
“Dane’s told me a lot about Texas and the oil fields, I say, non-committally.
Greenwood gives me a guilty look and blurts out, “I really didn’t know Dane very
well until we did time together.”
I don’t say anything, but give him a questioning look. This is certainly somet
hing that Dane has never told me about.
Greenwood still feels like talking and continues,” I think Dane served three yea
rs. He was in for some swindle he put together with the Bush family. They bi
lked a lot of investors for millions.
I can’t help but swallow hard when I hear this. “Dane says your quite an old h
and in Latin America...”
Greenwood is starting to get restless. I imagine that he is beginning to think
that he’s said too much. He says, “I worked as a linguistic missionary in Cent
ral and South America for five years.”
I find this interesting because I had taken a number of linguistic courses in co
mpleting my degree in anthropology, but it doesn’t jive with Dane told me.
“Know anything about the CIA?” I throw out, having no idea what type of respon
se that this will bring.
“They’re a useless piece of scum,” Greenwood says with vehemence in his voice.
“They’ve done more damage in Latin America and to American foreign policy than
anyone can imagine.”
I wonder how Greenwood can know that, but I don’t say anything.
After Greenwood finishes two cups of coffee laced with lots of evaporated milk a
nd sugar, he gets up and says, “I gotta run. Let Dane know I stopped by. I’ll
give him a call later today.”
This is the deciding factor. I know I have to break with Dane. Still my mind c
an’t help but play with figures.
I’m to get fifteen percent of the deals. The banana deal was for two and a half
million, and the cacao deal for a half million. That’s three million. If we
clear ten percent that’s three hundred thousand. Fifteen percent of that’s fort
y-five grand.
I want to get the money and run, but I’m worried because Dane and I have nothing
in writing. It seems obvious that I can’t trust him, but what the hell . . .
I go back to what I was writing, but I can’t make my mind concentrate on it.
I stare out the window at the bank across the street and watch the birds, writin
g dialogs for them in my mind, until Dane gets back.

Dane gets in at three-0-seven. He’s all smiles.

Dane owes me for two weeks at two-fifty a week aside from my cut of the deals.
He starts counting out hundred dollar bills. He puts twenty-five of them in my
hand.
I don’t say anything, but look at him meanly and intensely.
He says, “Alright,” and counts out another twenty-five in hundreds.
I still look at him intensely, and he says, “Look. I can’t afford any more righ
t now.”
I know that’s probably all that I will ever get out of him. I say, “I received
a phone call. My sister’s on her death bed, and I have to leave for Tucson im
mediately.”
He looks relieved, but says, “You really ought to hang around. There are a who
le lot of big deals coming up real shortly.”
“I have to go ,” I say as I pack up the old Royal typewriter, and the manuscript
I’ve been working on.
I shake Dane’s hand, and head out, not bothering to tell him that Greenwood had
stopped by.
As I walk towards Little Red I smile, happy to have escaped, thinking how Little
Red had originally financed this trip, and it was with only forty-two hundred d
ollars. I had never expected to get that much out of Dane.
I almost walk by a wine shop without stopping. I go in an purchase a liter bot
tle of Bordeaux. I want to sit in my room this evening and share a bottle with
the Royal typewriter, after all, it’s Friday evening and tomorrow I get to retri
eve Turkey Dog from the quarantine pound.
12
It’s Saturday and Little Red and I get Turkey Dog out of the slammer. He’s been
incarcerated for a month. He’s rested and ready to rock and roll.
He’s overjoyed to see me and to be out. I let him run around outside for awhil
e. He manages to go ape shit, but is traffic wise and pays attention.
Turkey Dog has always been a very active dog, after all he is an English Pointer
, though I know he faced his jail time without whining, being very stoic and pat
ient when necessary. Now he is smiling and grinning and all is jake in his worl
d.
I don’t have my friend April’s phone number, because I failed to ask her for it,
but I have decided to drive over to Cristobal and see if I can’t pay her to wat
ch over Turkey Dog while I’m still holed in a hotel.
April has kids, a yard a Boxer bitch, and T Dog loves being around kids, and I k
now he would get along with the boxer/ Actually, Turkey Dog is quite a lover an
d I’ve yet to see him encounter any female dog he doesn’t like. It doesn’t even
matter if they are spade.
we’re soon driving on the highway to Colon and the Carribean or Atlantic coast,
depending on how one wants to look at it. It’s sunny. The windows are down, a
nd the smell of the jungle permeates the senses. Birds screech and the world i
s at one with itself.
About halfway over on the transcontinental highway the three of us take a cut o
ut, and Turkey and I hop out of Little Red who stands patiently and awaits our r
eturn.
I grab a stick and throw it and Turkey Dog goes bounding into the dense jungle,
totally happy and free and concentrating on the stick–where the hell did it go–I
’m going to have to sniff it out.
Within a few minutes T Dog is back with the stick., wet muddy and happy. We do
this routine for over a half an hour while Little Red stoically waits.
We are on the road again, and T Dog is happy that I let him bring his stick insi
de of Little Red. He worries over it and plays with it, trying to make it run a
way so that he can chase it. I know he dreams about chasing things because his
paws twitch when he is deep within a dream.
It’s not too long and we’re at April’s with kids everywhere. Turkey Dog hits i
t off great with Maggie, the boxer. They are instant buddies, and I envy T Dog
his ability to make friends so fast, both the four-legged and two-legged variety
.
April says, “I didn’t know you had a dog.” She looks a little perplexed watchi
ng Maggie and Turkey play. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, tropical sun str
eaming in through a big picture window.
Her youngest daughter who is about four, rushes over to Turkey dog and starts pu
lling on his good-sized floppy black ears. She’s pulling hard and it must hurt
, but T Dog does nothing but turn his head to her and give her a lick.
This brings a smile of relief to April’s face.
“Turkey loves kids,” I say, trying to charm her on the T Dog.
A couple of other daughters come out and exclaim over Turkey Dog, and he laps up
the attention, making sure everyone pets him by placing his wide head in each o
f their laps.
Fortunately, Maggie doesn’t seem to be at all jealous.
There is a mango tree in April’s yard and Turkey Dog picks up a fallen fruit and
tosses it in the air and catches it again in play, enticing Maggie to chase him
to get the fruit. Soon they are chasing one another.
In April’s kitchen again, the dogs playing outside, I approach the subject I wan
t to talk to April about. “Do you think it would be possible that I could leav
e Turkey Dog with you for a week or two, until I have definite plans. I’m stay
ing in a hotel, and he’s have to sleep in the car. And I really don’t think it
is fair.” I say this without pleading eyes, only because I’ve never learned how
to make my eyes plead.
April gives me the look of a parent about to discipline one of their children.
Her brown eyes at that moment hold no warmth. She glances out the window a sec
ond.
She tries to be diplomatic. “I would really like to, but there is so much goin
g on around here. I really don’t need something or someone else to look after.”
Her eyes don’t meet mine when she says this.
I realize that it is pointless to try to talk her into it, and don’t want to try
. “It was just an idea.” I look out the window, watching the two dogs play as
I say this, thinking that Turkey Dog would be a great companion for Maggie.
I stay and visit with April for a couple of hours, catching up on what happened
in our lives over the past twenty years or so that we hadn’t been in contact wit
h one another. I don’t want her to think that I am upset, though I’m definitely
not happy how things are turning out.
When I leave, I literally have to throw Turkey Dog into Little Red. This is re
ally unusual, because he loves riding in cars. He looks back longingly at Maggi
e and the daughters that are watching this.
I wave goodbye, and Turkey Dog, Little Red and I head back to Panama and to what
ever awaits us. I’m thinking I’ll have to do something to make up to T Dog for
all the bad luck he has had recently.
I learn on my next visit that April felt so bad about my having to throw Turkey
Dog into Little Red, that she got in her car and tried to catch us before we lef
t. That she didn’t encounter us, sealed my fate.
13
The sun comes up glorious bright and ultra tropical on Sunday. A slight breeze k
eeps the air clear.
Turkey Dog spent the night in Little Red as he has many nights this trip that ne
ver seems to end.
T Dog has a love affair with water. If he had his druthers he’d stay wet all th
e time.
Once when we were back in Pennsylvania together in January, he’d run out and bre
ak through the ice in a stream so he could be wet. He stood in the water shive
ring, not sure if it worth it to be so cold just so he could be wet.
Turkey Dog has been a month in the slammer, quarantined for shots he already had
, and the paperwork which I showed the officials.
I’m not wildly thrilled about going to the beach, but I feel I owe it to T Dog.
He actually prefers fresh water over saltwater, but he was quite happy when h
e spent two years with me living on the beach front in Nayarit, Mexico. I walk
ed the beach and threw coconut husks out in the breakers for him to retrieve, al
ways being a little hesitant to swim out myself, not liking the saltwater in my
eyes.
I check the vital signs in Little Red and make sure the oil is full as well as t
he water. Everything is jake.
Little Red fires right up and we’re on our way to Balboa Ancon beach. As best
I can tell, it’s the nearest beach and it’s not more than fifteen minutes away.
It’s my first trip to the beach since I’ve been in Panama.
We park on a dune overlooking the beach. Turkey Dog and I leave Little Red to
stand guard and head down to the beach.
I am grateful I can see coconut palms swaying to the rhythm of the surf which ro
lls in across the wide majestic and infinitely blue Pacific. The barren desert
beach of Northern Mexico have never appealed to me.
Turkey Dog is already bounding down to the water, not having my qualms, water is
water. He stands in the surf, waiting for me to throw something, so he can go
swimming out past the breakers.
It must be low tide, and the moon not very full because the waves are small.
The sand is a light dusty white, definitely not a coral beach; nevertheless, the
warm sand feels comfortably warm on my bare feet.
I am dressed in tattered shorts and an old dress shirt with the sleeves rolled u
p past my elbows, looking very much like a beach bum with my relatively long sho
ulder length blond hair, and red beard and mustache.
The blue of the Pacific makes my eyes seem bluer than they are. They seem so bl
ue, one almost doesn’t notice the red from old eye muscle surgery.
I smile at the world and walk into the water up to my knees, which makes T Dog h
appy. He has never understood my lack of affection for swimming.
There are a few people on the beach and T Dog goes up and makes friends with eve
ryone. In his way of thinking, anyone at the beach has to be alright.
T Dog spots another dog and takes off running, wanting to play with it.
The dog is a white Cocker Spaniel with liver spots. It is small and can’t be
over six months old.
It rushes out to greet Turkey Dog in typical puppy fashion.
I encounter this little critter near the coconut palms. I find a small fallen
green nut, and toss it out as far as I can for T Dog.
He splashes out and is soon swimming back with the nut firmly in his mouth. He
brings it to me but, as always, won’t drop it and I need to wrestle it from him.
For him that’s part of the game.
The little spaniel follows him out as far as he can walk in the water, but isn’t
into swimming. He’s so busy watching T Dog, that he doesn’t pay attention and
is rolled over by an incoming wave.
He gets drench and looks like a sparrow fallen into a bird bath.
He shakes himself out, just as a bird shakes itself out.
A slim very pale skinned woman with a huge quantity of rumbling and curling rave
n black hair, calls out, “Chester. Vengate.”
Chester completely ignores her and continues playing with Turkey.
I go up to the woman who is about five three and dressed in a green bikini. S
he has full thighs and muscular legs, though the top part of the bikini seems to
be solely there to cover the small buds that are her breasts. I judge her to
be in her early twenties.
I smile and ask her in Spanish, “He’s your dog?”
She smiles back with even teeth. Her eyebrows are full with thick dark hair and
her eyes are as dark as her hair. “Si.” she says, “And yours?” gesturing towar
ds Turkey.
“Si,” I say and we start talking. We walk back to a towel she has on the beach
and get lost in conversation.
I discover that she is a student at the Universidad de Panama, and dances ballet
.
We talk about a lot of things while we sit on the towel and watch the dogs play.
She finds it hard to believe that I drove to Panama from Tucson.

The day drifts by and Angelina and I seem to be getting along fabulously.
I’m nervous about this, but thinking maybe I’ve found my salvation for my proble
m with T Dog, I ask, “Would it be possible to take Turkey Dog to your house, and
pay you to watch over him and take care of him until I decide just what I’m goi
ng to do?” I meet her level gaze when I say this.
By this time I’m already ware that she lives with her family in Panama and that
she the third youngest in a total of eleven children, though her father and moth
er have only had three children together. The other children are from her fath
er’s previous marriages.
“Sure,” she says and smiles devilishly with her full lips that seem the fuller b
ecause of her small slightly turned up nose, “But you don’t need to pay.”
It isn’t too long and Turkey Dog, Little Red and I are following Angelina’s br
onze colored Toyota Celica to her parents house.
The barrio that she lives in is about a mile from the Bancaria and near a privat
e airplane port. It is a very middle class Panamanian neighborhood, with no ost
entatious show of wealth, though all the house are solidly built of block.
The house Angelina lives in is blue green and has a four-foot wall around it.
A red hibiscus blooms at the front door entrance.
Turkey Dog and I are introduced to everyone. Angelina’s father is Eduardo and
is an engineer and is eight-six years old and a large ponderous man. He is sti
ll working and in good health and bears a remarkable resemblance to Anthony Quin
n.
Angelina’s mother, Lidia, is a small petite woman with heavy thighs. She’s onl
y forty-two and I can see where Angelina gets a lot of her looks.
Flavia, Angelina’s sister is the youngest, though she takes after her father, an
d is large and heavy set.
Enrique, Angelina’s younger brother looks very much like his father. He eyes me
suspiciously, but then he’s a banker, and most every banker I’ve ever known has
frowned upon me. He’s still single at twenty-three and living at home.
Lidia’s mother, Angelina’s grandmother, is a toothless old skinny hag with gray
hair. There is a twinkle in her dark mischievous when she looks at Angelina an
d me. She says with a leer at Angelina. “I like your boyfriend. You are goin
g to marry this man.” She cackles after she says this.
Angelina and her mother both look aghast at that horrible prospect.
After we are out of her grandmother’s hearing, Angelina says, “You mustn’t liste
n to anything she says.”
By this time it’s already gotten dark.
Angelina says, “Why don’t you walk with me and we can talk some more.
Angelina and I walk to the ruins of the ancient old City of Panama, which are m
ostly boulders and cut rock. It’s not far from where her parents live.
Before I realize what I am doing, our lips find each other’s lips, and my hands
explore the small buds of her breasts, though she makes it quite clear that they
are to go no further.
Before I leave, I ask Angelina, “Is it okay if I come visit Turkey Dog tomorrow?
”
She smiles, making her eyes laugh and says, “Sure. Turkey Dog won’t cry, will
he?”
“He hasn’t yet,” I grin. “Nobody cries for me.” I look away from her after I s
ay this.
She laughs at this and I leave, realizing that I am more interested in seeing An
gelina tomorrow than Turkey Dog. I drive home, wondering if I will ever get to
where I truly like beaches.
14
It’s Monday and I’m upearly at my usual ungodly hour sometime before dawn.
The morning is still and I can still see remnants of stars in the slowly lighten
ing sky.
I’m anxious to see Turkey Dog, and more importantly, Angelina.
I eat breakfast in the Hotel Royal diner, and linger over coffee, realizing that
I can’t show up to early because most people aren’t on my insane schedule.
I show up at Angelina’s house at nine, thinking it’s a reasonable hour, especial
ly for a serious student which I take Angelina to be.
Turkey Dog is always happy to see me, never stinting on affection.
Eduardo and Lidia, Angelina’s parents, invite me for coffee. Her mother telling
me, “Angelina is just getting going. She’ll be out in a little while. You’re
welcome to wait.”
I sit making small talk with her parents, getting to know them.
Angelina shows up at nine thirty. Lidia admonishes her, “Your going to be la
te to class. Your sister has class early today and has already left and can’t g
ive you a ride.”
I’ve learned from Angelina’s parents that she seldom drives.
Dark somber medieval Spanish painting stare down from the walls at us.
I smile, hopefully fetchingly, and say, “I’ll give her a ride to class.”
Both Lidia and Angelina smile at me, then Lidia frowns at Angelina.
As I maneuver Little Red through Panama’s traffic, heading for the Universidad w
ith Angelina’s direction, I’m thinking, I would like to spend a little more time
with this beautiful young new friend. I say, “When can I see you again? I wa
s hoping that we would have time to talk some more.” I almost have to shout thi
s because we are beside a Panamanian bus, bursting with wild color, and its radi
o blasting at full volume.
With those full lush lips of hers, Angelina says, “I have class all day long t
oday, and have dance practice this evening.” She looks directly at me with her
dark eyes under those sexy full un-plucked eyebrows.
I’m not to be put off. I say, “How about tomorrow?”
She purses her lips and says, “I’m free at noon. You can meet me on campus.”
I smiles widely at this, thinking that the sun has just gotten brighter. “Where
will I meet you?”
There is a twinkle in her eyes, “I’ll watch for Little Red and I’ll find you.”
She had found it amusing that I’d given the little twenty-two-year-old Renault w
ith its oxidized dull red paint a name.
She directs me where to stop, gives me a peck on the cheek and hops out of the c
ar.
I don’t know what to think or do, but as I drive on I notice the Bibliotheca.
I park gallant and patient Little Red and head into the library.
Soon I’m lost in the stacks, pulling out books on Panamanian history. Before l
ong I’m lost in reading about the building of the first trans-American railroad.
Then it’ on to the French first aborted attempts at building a canal.
After that it’s the American’s building the canal, what a feat of engineering it
was, and the canal’s opening in 1914.
I look at my watch. It’s already after five o’clock. I’m not sure where the d
ay has gone.
I head back to my misnamed hotel, not even bothering to stop by and see Turkey D
g on my way downtown.
Tuesday noon can’t come fast enough.
I wander innocently and foolish around the debris of a once proud downtown, seei
ng tomorrow in my mind’s eyes, imagining all sort of impossible things.
Without realizing where I am going, I find myself on a street populated by trans
vestites dressed as hookers.
I beat a hasty retreat to the Hotel Royal. It has never looked so good to me,
except for the first night that Roberto and I arrived after our long drive from
Western Panama with its mountains.
15
Tuesday morning is a blur of nervous energy spent in the bancaria, breathing in
the perfumed odors of ripe bananas, festering purple on a tree, swollen and sexu
al. That along with a red hibiscus trumpeting its perfume into the air.
Finally, Little Red and I are driving towards La Universidad, the tropical sun s
ounding a gong in the infinite blue, blue sky.
Like homing pigeons, Little Red and I show up where we dropped Angelina off the
day before, and it could have been Monday, for Angelina pops into the car as fas
t as she hopped out the day before.
I wonder if she has been waiting for this, anticipating it as much as I have. S
he smiles at me and brushes my lips with hers.
I avoided eating that morning and am hungry, and ask with a bright smile, simply
happy to be in Angelina’s presence, “Where are we having lunch?”
She smiles mischievously then runs her tongue over those full lips of hers. “Do
you like garlic?”
I do and am pleased to be with a woman who actually likes garlic, though she cou
ld suggest that we should go dine on toads, and I would be happy. “Yes,” I say
with a wide grin.
She is grinning too, and soon we are walking to bakery three blocks away, the bo
uloungerie. We walk next to one another, but are careful not to touch one anoth
er.
Not to long afterwards we are eating garlic French bread, and sipping on the bla
ckest and richest of coffee. I take my coffee black and watch with horror as A
ngelina dumps three heaping teaspoons of sugar into her coffee.
We sit on at a table outside in the sunshine, the small green umbrella offering
little shade. A white tea rose blooms in a pot next to us and delicately sweete
ns the air.
Angelina is telling me about the San Blas Islands and gesturing with her hands.
“There are three hundred and sixty-five of them . They’re part of Panama, but
off the coast of Colombia. The Kuna people live there and they are fabulous hum
ble people. And very artistic.”
She smiles and stops her recital for a second, and I think she is an animated tr
easure.
“The Islands are absolutely beautiful. The beaches are all white sand, and you
don’t have to wear any clothes if you don’t like.”

When she said 365 islands, I think of the 365 churches outside of Puebla, Puebla
, some of which Pamela and I visited. I remember the church built over the pyr
amid, and still think the pyramid is trying to thrust its way to the top.
I smile at Angelina, and then out of nowhere, not really thinking, I say, “Let’s
go visit the Islands.”
She smiles and says, “My father would never permit it.”
Now Im into the game and say, “We’ll get married and then your father cant say n
o.” I’m not really being serious when I say this, but have thrown it out, neve
rtheless.
Angelina smiles devilishly and says, “Alright.”
I’m a little in shock, but say, “Great!”
A dark cloud passes suddenly over Angelina’s eyes, then she brightens up again.
“When do you want to get married.”
Without hesitation I say, “Thursday.”
She smiles wickedly, thinking that she will be saved from her own foolishness, “
You’ll have to ask my father’s permission.”
I swallow hard at this, thinking Eduardo will probably save me as well, though I
know myself well enough to know that I’m perfectly capable of going through thi
s.
We walk back to the campus, holding hands and smiling at one another.
Once we are back alongside Little Red, Angelina gives me a long passionate kiss,
but it’s over all to soon for my liking and she is off to another class.
As I drive towards Angelina’s parent’s house, I remember that there also Kuna p
eople that live in the state of Nayarit, Mexico. I wonder if they are related.
I know these thoughts are running through my mind, because I don’t want to hav
e to think about talking to Eduardo.
It seems like I am almost immediately at Eduardo’s house. Turkey Dog jumps up a
nd greets me.
Lidia seems to give me a knowing smile. I wonder if Angelina has called.
Eduardo is not home from work yet. I find it amazing that he is eighty-six yea
rs old and still working. I tell Lidia this, and she says, “He doesn’t have to
work. He works because he likes to work.”
She gives me a little background on what he’s done. “He designed and built a b
rewery in Cuba, and three here in Central America.”
Lidia’s dark eyes look back into the past, and she says, “He was friends with Om
ar Torrijos and used to own five fishing boats. He’s slowed down a lot in the
last ten years.”
It isn’t too long and I’m shaking Eduardo’s hand. His Anthony Quinn face shows
the deep character of a person that has walked around the block more than once.
I run my tongue over me lips and say, “I’d like to have word with you if you don
’t mind.”
He looks solemnly at me and says, “What’s on your mind?”
I’m wondering if I should approach this from an oblique angle, but then mentally
shake my head, and plunge right into it. “I’d like you permission to marry An
gelina.” I sallow hard and my Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
A big smile passes his clean shaven heavily creased face. “You don’t have to a
sk me. Angelina is an adult, and if she wants to marry you it’s her decision.”
That was a whole lot easier than I ever imagined.
Soon Little Red and I are headed back to the Hotel Royal, where I pack up my thi
ngs and check out.
I have noticed the Hotel Mexico and have already checked it out. It is in a lo
t better location, is a lot nicer, has a private bath and is only fifty percent
more.
I couldn’t imagine Angelina ever entering the Hotel Royal.
16
On Wednesday the sun came up like it does every other damn day. It was offerin
g absolutely no assistance in this folly I was moving towards like a train wrec
k happening in slow motion.
This really struck home as I was out buying the rings.
I can’t believe myself. I’ve lived with a number of different women over the y
ears anywhere from three months to three years.
I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if I’m staring at a fool. I smile at
myself. At least it’s a familiar fool.
I mention to the jeweler where I purchase the rings what I’m up to and how fast
it’s happening and looks at me like I’m absolutely insane. This certainly doesn
’t boost my confidence. I give him a smile and a thumbs up when I leave.
I stop by Angelina’s house and visit T Dog. Lidia is busy sewing Angelina’s we
dding dress. Angelina is not there, being in class. I wonder if she is plannin
g on taking a couple days off so that we can have a little honeymoon. We have
discussed none of this. I only met her on Sunday, and I haven’t seen her sinc
e Tuesday afternoon when we decided to go through with this insanity.
I glance at some pictures of her on the walls of her parents house, just to make
sure that I can still remember her face.
She was a serious looking child, but the devil seems to have gotten into her as
she got older and discovered that she could use her beauty to manipulate people.
By the time I met her, she had perfected her dumb blonde routine, even though sh
e had raven black hair, and was anything but dumb.
I don’t stay long at Angelina’s parents house.
Little Red and I drive around lost, exploring colonias and barrios of Panama we
have never entered before.
We discover horrible slums, and places that would put Beverly Hills to shame.
Somehow the rest of the day dissipates and I find myself back at the Hotel Mexic
o, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, wishing I could see the stars beyond
the concrete. I smile at the fact that I am in the Hotel Mexico, having spent s
o many years in Mexico, always the foreigner and stranger.
17
Thursday becomes a blur.
Somehow everything is taking place.
At four fifty-three we are in a rundown Justice of the Peace’s courtroom.
No one from Angelina’s family is there, and my family has no idea what I am doin
g, nor have they for many years.
Angelina looks spectacular in a long white dress, topped off by her raven manes.
I have a sports coat and tie on. It is stuffy and humid, and I am uncomfortabl
e.
The courtroom is grungy and dirty with old unbreakable metal furniture.
The judge does not wear a robe, but has on a stained white shirt. He has a fles
hy face that seems to exude oil.
Two of Angelina’s friends from her dance troop are acting as witnesses.
I have the ring and I am nervous. I have never done this before.
Finally the judge is asking me if I take this woman to be my lawfully wedded wif
e. At least that’s what I think he said. The ceremony is all in Spanish, and
I am not familiar with some of the terms. When I say ‘I do” there is a tremor
in my heart.
Soon we are all at Angelina’s parents house. Everyone is congratulating us.
The reception party is going well.
I am asked a number of times, “Are you a sailor?”
I smile and say, “No. I’m the captain of a lisping ship.”
After the reception we go to a party put on by Angelina’s dance troop. At the
party we learn there as been a major earthquake in Mexico just about the time we
were saying, “I do.”
I smile wanly at this. I always knew that it would be in earth shattering eve
nt we I got married, but this is bordering on the ridiculous.
Eventually Angelina and I make it to the hotel.
As we enter the small hotel lobby staffed by the matronly woman whose the hotel
owner, she frowns at Angelina. Angelina proudly holds up her hand and shows th
e woman her wedding ring.
She says, “We were married today.”
The old woman almost chokes, but manages to enunciate, “Congratulations.”
The next morning while we’re still in bed, Angelina asks, “What is my name.”
“Angelina,” I say wearily, having no idea where this conversation is going.
With her devilish dark eyes on me, Angelina asks, “What is my last name?”
I know the answer to that so I say, “Parker.”
She purses her lips. “What is my maiden last name?”
I look at her and rack my mind, but for the life of me I can’t remember it. I
swallow hard and say, “Hell. I don’t know! I just met you on Sunday.”
We both burst into laughter after I say this and hug one another in a passionate
embrace.

THE END

Epilogue

For the record, while we were married Angelina’s full name was Angelina Maria La
rranaga-Flores de Parker. Mostly she didn’t use the de Parker part, accept aft
er we were divorced when she was working at the State Department in Washington,
D.C. with the green card she had obtained when we were married.
Angelina and I never went to the San Blas Islands together. We honeymooned on T
obago.
Angelina and I divorced after five years. We divorced on good terms and remain
friends. She has since remarried to a Cuban and lives in Madrid, Spain.
I remarried the year after divorcing with Angelina. The marriage didn’t take,
and getting out of that marriage in under a year was like finally shaking off a
bad viral infection.
Turkey Dog contracted a virus and died in Panama while I was stateside, arrangin
g the paperwork so that Angelina could come to the states. T Dog was twelve ye
ars old, a ripe old age for an English Pointer. He had a full, active and happy
life.
Approximately eight months after Angelina and I were married when we were living
in Tucson, I spotted an ad in the paper. Someone had found a blonde Afghan hou
nd with a red collar.
Trina was a blond Afghan and had been wearing a red collar when she jumped out o
f Little Red’s rear sliding window in northern Honduras.
I called and obtained the address, and went to check, certainly not expecting it
to be Trina.
She was thin and matted, but recognized me instantly and jump up and danced with
me and licked me on the face. I couldn’t believe she had made it all the way
back to Tucson. her own.
Angelina sold Little Red for five hundred dollars while I was stateside. The l
ast time I was in Panama in 2002, I spotted Little Red being drive on the street
s of Panama.
Dane and some of his associates were arrested for fraud and went to prison.
I haven’t seen Jill, Pamela, Matilda, Maria or Roberto since the events detailed
in the story.
Strangely enough, My friend April and I now both live in the same rural county i
n Arizona.