Incidents of Travel in Latin America

by Lars Holger Holm

  In socially hermetic environments like this, reciprocal calumny is often rampant and incriminating news spreads faster than the jungle drum can beat. This particular evening I was listening in on the gossip from the German sector, the street acting as a trench between it and the French camp. Apparently neither of the two gentlemen involved in the conversation would ever contemplate going over to the French side, not even for a drink on Christmas Eve. Perhaps they were under some kind of banishment too, because the French chef, albeit very competent in her field of expertise, is capricious and sometimes known, for what seems to be no good reason, to tell people that they are no longer welcome in her establishment. But this I didn’t know as yet. For the time being I was content ordering one drink after the other while occasionally throwing some fire on the conversation.

  I began asking if there was by any chance a house in the village that I could rent for a couple of months — it had crossed my mind that hanging in Galéras might be a good way to dodge another winter of discontent. Whereby Wolfgang said he had another house on his property. With hindsight I no doubt would have been better off accepting his offer. But the next day, as I inspected the house he had for rent, I felt that to live there would be like staying in a prison because of the high walls surrounding the buildings at close distance. Also the mattresses were not very inviting. He had been ready to accept my offer of $600 a month, and I guess the place was roughly worth it, not the least considering its proximity to the beach. The next day, however, as I came looking for Wolfgang, Mark intercepted me. He told me not to jump at the deal before I had at least checked out with some other people in the village what they had to offer in terms of housing. This is how I ended up meeting Jean, a Belgian real estate broker, who led me to the house I eventually came to rent.

  It belongs to an American lady, he told me, and he himself was the one who had actually designed it for her. Alone its location was spectacular, even a bit spooky. The house was erected on a single block of lava that must have been a submarine reef during the latest glaciation. It had a mysterious cave too. The house, perched on top of the rock, and shaded by high trees, the roots of which crept like giant fingers over the reef, looked really big from the outside, but that was because it had to be built in so many stories to accommodate itself to the towering mountain below it. A lot of the building was in reality just supportive structure and inhabitable space.

  The liveable portion of the house consisted of one very tall but not enormously large room joined to an open kitchen, annexed to the former. The salon’s centre piece was a low sofa-bed; apart from that there was no other furniture except two wooden barstools next to the kitchen counter. But the room opened up through two grand doors to a spacious terrace, which was simultaneously a dining room and a deck for relaxing in the hammock during the heat of the day. The view from here included two private homes, as well as a vast, adjacent tropical garden — magic to watch when the Moon was up shedding its liquid silver on the leaves of the banana trees. Beyond it all there were other buildings nestled in colourful and luxurious vegetation. All this could be seen day and night since there were large windows, like so many grand facets, all around the living room.

  Next to the terrace was an outdoor space housing the barbecue, where also the wooden recliner could be installed and padded for optimal stargazing and optional wine drinking. There were footpaths meandering around the house made from flat stones; all kinds of shells decorated the alcoves and there were one or two indigenous sculptures in the garden. The low bipartite wooden gate was at some distance from the house itself, and in order to reach the entrance door one had to negotiate another stone laid footpath while being very careful not to miss a step, since the rocks were not only deep below in the dark but razor sharp as well. Apart from the big terrace there were a number of smaller balconies, enabling the occupier to move around the building in constant pursuit of the best angle in relation to time of day and personal mood. From the living room, right behind the sofa/day-bed, a straight staircase led up to the second floor and the bedroom. It contained a queen bed under an oblique wooden ceiling, a fan and a mosquito tent, and on ground level some shelves, straw boxes and wardrobes for storage of personal items. Adjacent there was a nicely tiled bathroom. When I first came in there all of the landlady’s toiletries were still there, as though she had just left the house to go for a stroll and never came back. Sure enough, Jean explained to me that she had actually left her house quite abruptly and hastily some months ago, and that this was the first time she wanted to rent it out in her absence.

  Some things inside were overdone, such as the amateur wall frescoes featuring palm trees and parrots. There was an odd mixture of wannabe hippies and Martha Stewart’s country lodge in the way she had decorated and set up the place in general, the crowning symbol being a framed photo of a red-dotted Indian woman in white sari on guru-like display for inner peace on the book shelf above the bed. The books laying around in various locations were invariably of the kind which only highly middle-aged women with spiritual inclinations can take an interest in, and that I can’t even remember the titles of.

  The kitchen was functional and though it wasn’t very large, it too had a very high ceiling. The utensils turned out to be adequate, even though there was, as always, not one sharp knife in the wooden block. Plates, cutlery and glasses were nice enough as well. Still, one could feel that in spite of the serious efforts made to turn this into a personal and charming abode, there was something indelibly sombre and joyless about the place, as though abandonment had been writ large in invisible ink on the walls. I couldn’t really put my finger on it. It was just a hunch. Nothing more. But one that made me hesitate for a while as to whether this really was a place to actually enjoy the coming two months. Then it was the price. Jean had said he would suggest $900 per month all charges included to her, but it turned out, when I finally got back to him over the Internet from Fort Lauderdale some weeks later, that she wanted $1000. I reasoned with myself, realising that even though a thousand was quite a bit over budget, I’d probably spend considerably more per day travelling around, taking new hotels from one day to the other. And even though I really felt that there was something occult, even sinister, about this place, I accepted the offer.

  Perhaps I should have listened to that inner voice that tried to persuade me to take another route? I don’t know. But the fact is that while still in Fort Lauderdale, I frequently had dreams set in a strange and bizarre jungle environment. One dream in particular struck me as ominous. I dreamed that I was attacked by a snake that leapt from the ground and stung my forehead. I ran around in an unknown town trying to convince people that I needed to be taken to a hospital immediately, otherwise I would die. But nobody seemed to have the time to listen to me. I guess it was from the sheer lack of interest showed on their part that I decided to wake up and put an end to my misery.

  This dream visited me after I had returned to Southern Florida from the Dominican Republic to have my violin repaired. At that time I hadn’t as yet decided if I were going to go back to Hispaniola for the winter. Neither the Dominicans nor the expats in Galéras had impressed me to the point of actually making me feel welcome there. My main reason for wanting to return was actually that haunting, dream-like character of the place.

  During my second guest visit to Galéras I had deliberately sought out and stayed in the secluded environment of El Cabíto, a bar-restaurant with only two rooms to rent on the edge of the world. The small complex, located too far away from the village to comfortably be reached by foot, is accessible with a vehicle. A regular car, though, wouldn’t suffice. Portions of the road consists of hills, indeed stripped of vegetation but full of stones and meandering roots taking every chance they get to rip off the muffler. A four wheel drive would seem a minimum requirement, but with some skill it was also possible to get there on a motorbike. As mentioned above, I rented such from the bike taxi gang hanging out at the most strategic s
treet corner of the village main street. At face value the rent was surprisingly reasonable. But then again, there was no insurance included. Considering that it required some skill to run a bike up to Cabito, especially at night, this was to take a gamble. When sober, in daylight and spared the pools created by recent heavy downpours (and it does rain in Galéras, sometimes a lot and, in particular, all year round), I found myself being on top of the situation. However, there was also the midnight road home after a generous round of cocktails and a no less generously sprinkled dinner at the Frenchies’ place.

  I’m sure I could — and should! — have made it on this occasion too, if only I had kept my head cool enough when the bike stopped in the middle of the worst uphill under a sky so clear that it seemed to rub its countless stars like bundles of glistening grapes in my face. Then the wilderness took over, the sounds of the dense tropical forest leaping to my throat as the mechanical noise subsided. In a matter of seconds I was thrown back to the primordial darkness whence the world was created, and into which it plunges back every night for its regeneration, more often than not hiding every trace of its victims, the majority of whom was not even known to the world when alive. Although it would be a considerable exaggeration to say that I feared for my life, I did feel the need to get that darn’ thing working again (it was tricky enough to start and accelerate the ‘thing’ even in broad daylight, the clutch being oversensitive: letting go of it only a fraction too fast would stop the bike dead in its tracks, whereas letting go of it a fraction too slowly would result in the engine spinning more revs while releasing even more noxious fumes.)

  The bike wouldn’t restart no matter how hard I tried. Normally I would have understood a bit faster that the angle at which the bike was poised was too steep to allow for a new kick start. Even in these circumstances I did understand — it just took me slightly longer — this to be the case. But instead of letting the bike gently roll straight backwards, notch by notch, I tried to manoeuvre it. I think I even tried to turn it around. The consequence, of course, was that the bike fell out of my hands while I, luckily, managed to let go of it without inflicting any physical damage on myself. The bike was essentially fine too. Only the rubber arms holding the blink lights back had suffered some minor damage, and a plastic glass cover would have to be glued and put back into place. I didn’t find the lost blink light glass that same evening but the day after when I passed the same spot on my way to the village. At less than half the distance I ran across one of the bike taxi guys going in the opposite direction with some load. Ever anxious to find a reason to squeeze more money out of a tourist, it took him about three seconds to detect the damage through his rear mirror, and to come after me in order to inspect the vehicle. I now knew the jungle drum was on, and that they were going to cause me grievances because of this. Sure enough, as I returned the bike after the five days’ rental period was up, they presented me with two brand new parts for which they expected me to pay in full. It was clear that the rubber arm could have been glued together without even leaving a trace and the glass as well. But they wanted money, and the hunt for money in Galéras, because there is only so much to be had, is unabashed and crude to the bone.

  It was a relief to me that the parts turned out to be inexpensive, so that I could finally get these guys off my back. But it did confirm my longstanding, and well founded), suspicion that renting any kind of mechanical equipment in Third World countries can be quite wonderful as long as absolutely nothing happens to them. When misfortune strikes, however, things can get really nasty, not the least because of the irrationality and overt corruption of the legal system presiding over any issue involving financial liability. So even though it’s quite true that the only thing you risk by drinking and speeding in a Third World country is to kill somebody, including yourself, things might get really out of hand if you do run someone over, and even stay to assess the damage.

  I remember that my friends in La Côte d’Ivoire, many years ago when I was regularly playing and partying there, used to tell me, before they lent me a car, not ever to stop my car alongside the road if I thought I had hit upon something. Although it may be a genuine accident, chances were, especially in rural areas, that the dead child found in the ditch hadn’t been killed by you, but had been placed there, already a corpse, by family members as a means of extorting money by threats from tourists, unable to foresee and effectively counteract such elaborate scam. Also, once you’ve stopped, you’re on their turf, and they might find ways to coerce you into cooperation, if nothing worse.

  Speaking of so-called Third World countries (as opposed to Second and First), I have made some observations over the years that I would like to present as a list of informal, yet salient, criteria of ‘Third Worldliness’. The list in itself is symbolic rather than exhaustive, and although there are a lot of charming absurdities that only apply to one or a few so-called developing countries, I have decided to stick to generalities, that is: traits that everywhere would indicate typical ‘Third World’ conditions. Although my selection of distinguishing features is subjective, perhaps even idiosyncratic, it’s my hope that the reader who has travelled in this type of developing environments will recognise these definitions with a sardonic grin of satisfaction.

  You are in a Third World country if:

  If everything in and of the state is basically and profoundly corrupt (which naturally prompts the question if there is any political state in the world that is not corrupt and thus Third World?).

  If nothing really works but there is always ‘a way’.

  If you have to pay the authorities when entering or leaving the country. If you have to do both you’re actually in a Fourth World country!

  If the price of taxis are either totally negotiable or strictly determined by government regulations — amounting to the same.

  If there’s always a taxi and a willing driver to be found.

  If there are no ways of proving whether you’ve been drinking and/or speeding behind the wheel.

  If the government doesn’t care whether you’ve been drinking and/or speeding.

  If road patrols routinely consist of heavily armed military.

  If general traffic rules and regulations are mainly interpreted by the public as recommendations that one does best not to follow, and the only rule that applies for real is the ‘one way street’, although one has to know this beforehand since there will nowhere be a sign to warn you against driving towards oncoming traffic.

  If the paint on the bathroom walls have been allowed to stain the shower tiles as well. In this particular respect, Italy, Spain and France would easily qualify as ‘Third World countries’. The Greeks and the peoples of the Balkan countries, on the other hand, don’t do this. I guess they admire the Germans and have to some degree been influenced by them.

  If painting the doors also on the inside is considered an unnecessary expense.

  If rebars are still sticking up through the concrete in building constructions generally considered ‘finished’.

  If electric fixtures look like a nest of vipers and in effect is just as dangerous to touch (here again Italy, Spain and France are earnest candidates).

  If you have to get up from bed to turn the light off in the room.

  If the Internet only sometimes works, or works badly, and there is absolutely no explanation as to why, let alone a possibility to have the connection re-established, the bottom line invariably being: ‘Use the Internet while you can!’

  If the shower only sometimes works properly.

  If the shower has only cold or only hot water (this actually sometimes happen!).

  If it’s very difficult to turn the shower on and/or off.

  If the trickle from the shower is feebler than your own stream.

  If the torrent of cold water from the 2 inch wide shower pipe rather makes you believe you’re standing in the midst of
the Niagara Falls.

  If there are frequent water cuts for no apparent reason and without previous warning (such interruptions can in fact go on for weeks).

  If the water closet gets stuck because of cotton ball thrown in it (you’d be very happy to see waste alone disappear when flushed, since it’s never to be taken for granted that it will).

  If there are frequent power cuts unprovoked by natural disaster, and rather provoked by political leaders not making sure that the country’s energy bills are paid on time.

  If the ATM machine doesn’t accept your credit card, informing you that the problem lies with your bank.

  If the ATM machine credits your card without giving you the money (see account on page 72).

  If making a credit card transaction (for example buying an airline ticket) online is nearly always refused and you never will receive an explanation as to why.

  If VISA, Mastercard or American Express are not accepted as means of payment in major food and department stores (as is the case in Germany).

  If it takes the car rental company two weeks to waive the security deposit on your bank account and meanwhile sold your credit information to a third party.

  If tipping is appreciated by taxis, in hotels, restaurants and bars, but not really expected.

  If people smile and are nice to you for no reason.

  If everybody around you calls you ‘my friend’ (‘my brother’, qualifies as well).

  If inequality between human beings is taken for granted.

  If equality between human beings is taken for granted but largely remains a concept waiting for a content.