I again recall my acquaintance Jerry sitting next to me under the canopy of stars saying, ‘You know what, I think I have come here to die’. But his words did not reach me then. They are still travelling, and the farther they go the lonelier they become. Indeed, words like these can travel for a very long time.
16Although it’s perfectly true that I have in the past lifted material from my book Dionysos to substantiate some of my more recent works, notably Homo Maximus, and now again do so by here reintroducing gently edited versions of ‘Hotel Pacifico’ and ‘Boca del Cielo’ from the above mentioned opus, I do so with a good conscience. That book is a storehouse of fertile ideas, and these travel reflections — albeit the imprint of a slightly younger myself still at loggerheads with his tenacious romanticism — are nonetheless thematically and stylistically affiliated with the present text. Since the Dionysos book, released in a very small edition, is furthermore long since out of print, I’m actually welcoming the opportunity to have them reproduced here, happily verifying that they seem captivating enough to enjoy a better fate than to be forgotten without a trace. Last but not least there is also an esoteric reason for all this: in order for the god Dionysos to be resurrected to eternal life he had, (according to the myth) to be dismembered by the Titans. Now let’s assume I’m one of the Titans and Dionysos is Dionysos. What’s this book then? Hmm… a resurrection?
Boca del Cielo
Before leaving Playa Azul I was intent on witnessing a full Moon in some spectacular setting further down the Pacific coast. About a week later I found myself winning closer to my goal. In Boca del Cielo — which one reaches by taxi from the town of Tonalá off Carretera Federal 200 — Sierra Madre de Chiapas comes writhing almost all the way down to the sea. Its pointed crocodile’s head doesn’t quite reach to the water’s edge, but stops just short of the broad lagoon which separates beach from mainland. The beach itself is a strip of unspoiled Eden set between two hostile entities: the relentless glittering ocean on the one side and the rugged and no-less-relentless mountains on the other. The shores of the lagoon are fringed with palm trees, the hills rising toward the plateau of Chiapas covered by jungle-growth.
Lodgings here are of the most primitive kind, and unless you are content to lie in the sand in the company of stray dogs, or on a veranda besieged by swarms of mosquitoes, restricted to a hammock suspended between the sand and a corrugated tin roof. But there was no room for discussion here, for only the very western tip of the beach, where the stretch of water connecting lagoon and ocean is located, accommodates a few scattered sheds and houses. Others may be hidden in the jungle where the beach broadens toward the east, but as I began walking in that direction I soon found myself the seemingly only occupant of a deserted beach.
The sun sank down towards the sea: a giant drop of ruby-red glass along a stretch of shallow water finally engaging with the land. The pelicans spread their wings for a final reconnaissance flight along the line of the breaking waves before returning to the shelter of their lagoon. The purple of evening rose up to the zenith in the shape of a fan, and from deep down in the east a dark-blue curtain was drawn toward the same point. Minute by minute it covered the sky, until the purple had become a thin line of ruby and gold on the rim of an enormous deep, deep-blue glass chalice.
Returning to my point of departure I went into the modest little bar where fishermen were knocking back one beer after another. I sat down and invited them to drink whisky with me while we awaited the full Moon. We waited a good hour longer than I had expected, but as the great and good make a point of never arriving early at a party, I wasn’t surprised that the lady took her time. And when finally she peeped over the mountain top, even those fishermen could not hold in check a sigh of admiration. Arrayed in perfect amber, in which fossilised leaves and insects could be seen, as perfect as if they were still living, she made her entry on the back of the giant crocodile, throwing her silvery cape ahead of her into the lagoon, and shyly arranging a few glittering diamonds in her hair, while her shawl, in mother of pearl, reflected the depth and colour of her dress. The higher she rose up the palace steps, the more brightly glittered the scales of the crocodile at the foot of the staircase below her. His eyes turned yellow, his smile all the more ingenuous as he shed shimmering tears the size of coconuts into the lagoon.
After the formal introductions of her guests, staged behind soft curtains, the Moon moved into the great ballroom, where the orchestra began to play. Along the white chalk of her limitless beach stood dark palm trees in military formation. From the far end of the great glittering room, Lord Orion caught sight of her and hurried to her, to kiss her hand and claim the favour of the first dance. The Moon made a discreet sign to her two attendants, Jupiter and Mars, who stood aside as she was led out onto the ocean floor by the noble huntsman, who proved to be a most accomplished dancer, unashamedly requisitioning the floor for himself and his chosen lady. At the far end of the great room glistened the jealous eye of Venus, enveloped in the last rosy hues of the western skies. She, much against her will, had been assigned the role of Cinderella on this occasion, and would have to leave before midnight a stage which in the past had been the scene of so many of her conquests. Venus was vexed, but there was nothing to be done, and, swollen with fury, she mounted the lofty stairway at the end of the ballroom, and was gone.
I must assume that Lord Orion kept company with the Moon for most of the evening, as I myself took refuge from the mosquitoes and the continuous din of a drunken Mexican singer, by climbing into a hammock in a tin-roofed bamboo shed. But I did not get very much sleep. The doleful Mexican was singing far too loudly, and as soon as the first faint light of the false dawn touched the eastern curtain, I stood up and began walking around aimlessly, waiting for the sun to rise. Children whom I hadn’t noticed before were soon up too, and the mother of the family, cheerlessly attending to their needs, handed me a cup of coffee. I accepted it gratefully, and took the opportunity to walk out onto the beach again. Knowing that the sun had to rise somewhere in the east, I set off in that direction while the Moon, pale and tired after the ball, prepared to leave by way of the same staircase Venus had climbed long before.
Suddenly, the King Sun was there again, gradually effacing the trace of his Queen, spreading the cards he had been keeping at the gaming table while the others were dancing (aces and trumps only) one by one on the sand. The crocodile discreetly backed up against the mountain ridge, and the sea birds rose into the air, eager to fill their bellies.
There was one last moment of grace and perfect balance between the monarchs of day and night. Before the Moon, dimmed and weary, turned to retire to her chambers, she gave her husband a long poignant glance across the length of that interminable beach. ‘Don’t ask me the question to which you already know the answer’, she seemed to tell him. In his generosity and discretion, he did no more than to watch her pale into insubstantiality, and retire to bed behind the first cumulus clouds to appear on the western horizon.
I felt compelled to walk towards the sun, whose turn it was now to gain power by the minute. The air became pleasantly warm. I sank to the ground, and must have slept awhile. I woke up feeling hot and dizzy, as if my previous unconscious state had been closer to annihilation than to sleep. The sea glittered magically, turquoise and all shades of blue, and I threw myself thankfully into it. After that sudden resurrection I was no longer inclined to dress myself again, so, in splendid isolation, among wildlife and exotic trees, with the one open yellow eye of the crocodile of Sierra Madre upon me, I strode down the beach as God and other countless good things (ambrosia and nectar!) had made me.
In passing I emptied my waste straight into the ocean and even made an ecstatic offering to mother Earth from my reproductive organ, which, by the way, had started to assume a strange oceanic aspect. The testicles no longer wore their familiar aspect, but looked more like some kind of sea urchin: a leathery, firm pouch armed wit
h countless sharp protective barbs. This alien creature, to which a no less curious looking snail was attached, had apparently made its nest right in my crotch!
Its thorny carapace had rubbed against the inside of my thighs, which became somewhat irritated and inflamed. There was no way, however, that I was going to take notice of a minor inconvenience when I was about to merge, body and soul, not with a sea-urchin alone, but with the whole of nature. In fact, the presence of the urchin was probably no more than the first sign that I had begun to turn into an animal myself, some semi-aquatic mammal, and host of other species!
While the sun continued to climb it grew hotter still. Ahead of me, at the water’s edge, stood a white crane, his slender body and legs motionless in the water. I approached him slowly and came so close that I could see his eyelid blink from time to time. But when I got too near he hoisted himself into the air and flew off in the direction of the sun, settling himself, still at the water’s edge, a little further up the beach. I amused myself by running after him and making him repeat the manoeuver, but though I ran as fast as I could I never quite caught up with him, and after a while he got tired of the game, made a wide turn over the sand dunes and disappeared. I was gradually coming to my senses when, through the white haze of midday, I saw something odd at the far end of the beach. It looked like a tree from this distance, but this was unlikely to be the case, as trees don’t grow that close to the water. Curious, I moved nearer to it.
As its shape became more distinct, it looked more and more like a human being standing erect and immobile on the beach. This was uncanny: where had he come from? Slowing down, I nonetheless continued to move forward, though somewhat apprehensively, until to my relief, I could see that it wasn’t after all a person. A few minutes more, and I saw that it was an upright hollow tree trunk, the same height as myself and shaped curiously like a human body. There was a hole in the top where a man might place his head, and two smaller holes at the sides, through which he could push his arms. It was too tempting not to try it, so I stuck my face in the oval and my arms through the two smaller holes. Standing inside the hollow trunk in this position I raised my arms until they crossed over my wooden chest. I was about to utter a prayer to the sun in this sacerdotal position, when the whole trunk, as if hit by a bolt of lightning, simply fell to pieces, leaving no more than a few dark wooden fragments scattered on the sand around me.
In that very same instant I heard it again — the laughter. It ruptured the silence as if someone had ripped heaven into two parts. And then the light went out. For a fraction of a second the light drained out of the Pacific, the Sierra Madre and the sky. It all happened in the blink of an eye, only I know for sure that I did not blink. The moment passed, and it was as if nothing had happened, except that the trunk had disintegrated around my body, and I was as cold as one seized by a tropical fever. After that both the laughter and the instant of total darkness were gone.
The sea still glittered, the fishing birds hovered and swooped over it while the sun climbed to its zenith. Strangely enough I had neither the time nor the energy to give the incident much more thought. I had left the tavern early in the morning without eating, and without bringing water with me. I really hadn’t planned to stay away so long; it simply happened as I have said. But now it was high time to head back to base. I put on my shorts and the shirt I had worn like a turban on my head, and walked westward again. Two hours later I met the friendly Mexican who had given me shelter for the night. He had begun to worry about my prolonged absence, and set out to find me. He didn’t say as much, but there was no other reason for him to walk the length of a beach he knew to be deserted except for crazy tourists and the odd louche native element. He, more than anybody, knew that there was always some risk in walking the beach alone, no matter what the time of day. At least, that’s what I think he had in mind, or if not that, that I had drowned through venturing too far from the shore. It was good to see his face break into a broad smile as we met, not far from the bar.
I drank two litres of water but ate nothing. I wasn’t hungry, or didn’t know I was. The fishermen had been drinking beer all morning, and were thoroughly drunk. One of them asked me to come over and inspect their catch. There was a very ordinary open boat with an outboard motor; on its bottom boards lay five sharks, each of them longer than I am tall, three hammer sharks and two grey sharks, their magnificent teeth covered in blood.
It didn’t occur to me to fetch my camera. Instead, when I had summoned the energy, I asked one of them to ferry me over to the opposite shore. I bade them all farewell, especially my host and his gloomy wife, who probably understood only too well my wish to take a hotel room for the night.
When the fisherman had taken me across the river, I gave him what coins I had, and sat down under a bougainvillea tree to wait for the local taxi. At last it came. I threw my things into the trunk and got into the car. The driver and I spoke of many things during the journey to the village by the lighthouse, but still, throughout our conversation, I overheard an inner female voice intoning the haunting melody to Hotel California. Only the text was slightly different:
Welcome to Hotel del Pacifico.
Such a lonely place, such a lonely face.
Nobody else stays in your room.
It’s there for you, it’s there for you.
Once checked in you’ll never wanna leave.
Once checked in you’ll be here forever.
While moving in to another modest hotel room along the Pacific coast — with its incrusted ceiling ventilator, trickling cool water shower, two sheets (one to lay on and the other for cover) a pillow, a towel and two small pieces of soap — it dawned on me, as it has always dawned on me facing the Pacific, that this is where all roads, not just the ones leading here, end. It’s the vastness of the universe itself presented in terrestrial terms: waves of unimaginable amplitude permeating the expanses of space, breaking over the peaks of Earth as the Pacific crashes onto the Ring of Fire .
Taking to the heights
On a continent characterised both by man-made pyramids and natural ones, notably volcanoes, the adventurous tourist can’t really stay away from the challenge to hike some of the latter. I’m in no way an alpinist and have never wanted to be one. But since childhood one of my great passions has been to contemplate nature, not the least its panoramic vistas. To this end I sometimes embark upon more or less strenuous mountain excursions, all in the modest hope of being able to conceive in my mind, and in the course of a single day, the poetry of the universe.
One such event was my walk over the lava field to the volcano Paricutín, located about 20 kilometres to the north of the city Uruapán in the Mexican state of Michoacán. I had spent a tranquil day sightseeing Uruapán. It’s a sympathetic enough town with a pleasant climate, though I must confess I liked the state capital Morelia, its central square and cathedral, even better, and was now ready to move on. A short bus ride brought me from Uruapán to Angahuán, an indigenous community offering no more than basic tourist amenities. On the contrary it has the indisputable advantage of being the human settlement closest to the actual volcano. The population here leads a traditional existence, meaning for example that families will tend to sit on the floor in their humble abodes and use horses as taxis. Because of its elevation — roughly 2,300 metres above sea level — nights get quite chilly. There was only one tourist facility in the village and a pretty rustic one at that. I declined to sleep alone in the enormous dormitory that seemed designed for a legion of Boy Scouts. The only option left under the circumstances was a ten person room with a fireplace so small I had to sit right next to it to get any warmth at all. Since the beds were part of the permanent fixtures I eventually had to cuddle up under a mountain of coarse blankets and nonetheless freeze sufficiently through the night to gratefully hail the sun when it finally rose.
As agreed previous evening the manager of the hostel sent a young boy to g
uide me through the woods to the beginning of the lava field. That guidance was quite useful as there are hardly any beaten tracks between the village and the volcano. But the boy of course knew the way and after about forty-five minutes walk he pointed towards something that I took to be some darker patches in between the trees. Coming closer I realised the darkness in between the trunks was a ten to fifteen metre high wall of solidified lava. We had reached the outer edge of the once moving lava stream. Here the boy, having done his duty, was happy to leave me. I paid him and he waved me off only to soon disappear in among the trees. I was now on my own.
Paricutín is not one of those volcanoes that have been fuming slowly and majestically for the last couple of million years, every now and then throwing a tantrum. It was literally born in February 1943 when its first alarming eruptions forced locals to realise they were longer no safe. Over the coming weeks and months the Earth continued to spew out lava and pyroclastic clouds with the consequence that the village of Paricutín, (now entirely buried in lava) and its neighbour community San Juan Parangaricutíro had to be evacuated. Luckily this could be done without casualties. However, everything that couldn’t be moved was lost forever. Over the coming weeks and months the cone of the volcano grew at a staggering speed. Within a single year it had almost grown vertically to its final size, towering at a respectable four-hundred metre above the surrounding terrain. Then, in 1952, its seismic activity came to a sudden halt. Being what the seismologists call a scoria, or cinder cone, type of volcano it’s not expected to have another eruption ever and has consequently become something of a trekker’s wet dream. Because although the volcano is now considered inactive by geologists, there is still enough fume and vapour seeping through its cracks heating and colouring the ground in a vast spectrum.
Incidents of Travel in Latin America Page 35