Читать книгу Old Man on a Bike - Simon Gandolfi - Страница 10

An idyllic beach, Thursday 25 May

Be patient. This chapter concerns a small Mexican village on the Pacific coast, a community in which the villagers take turns collecting garbage, being police officer or whatever requires doing. The community is under threat.

I heard of the village from a delightful young Irish traveller in Oaxaca, Eoin Hennessy. Eoin was flying home from Mexico City after exploring much of South and Central America. Eoin was the first person with whom I had talked in English since boarding the bus in Dallas. He suffered my verbal diarrhoea patiently, learnt of my interest in students and told me of a Korean American teaching at a school in a village on the Pacific coast: surely a curious and unique combination? The village is 145 kilometres north. I should head south to Guatemala but the temptation to investigate is too strong.

What a morning! A heavy rain fell in the night and you can taste a sharp fresh cleanliness to the air. An excellent highway unwinds through hills speckled with the white blossom of frangipani trees and trees that resembles wild figs. There are sudden patches of deep-rose creeper and startling blue. Vultures and buzzards hang overhead on dawn patrol for whatever has been squashed by the night’s traffic. Between the hills, I catch glimpses of the sea and miles of deserted beach. I rested yesterday. My bum has un-numbed. This is biking at its best.

A short stretch of newly laid concrete track leads off the coastal highway. The concrete ends at the crest of a ridge. I ride cautiously downhill on powdery dirt to the village. I park at a home on the square opposite an obviously official building and enquire of a man seated in one of those bought-on-sale white plastic chairs whether the building is the school. He asks why and I relate my search for a Korean American teacher.

‘Sit a little,’ he invites and introduces himself as Eduardo. The Korean (no villager refers to him as ‘the American’, not even ‘the Korean American’) doesn’t teach at the school. He gives private lessons. He lives in a house nearer the beach. At this early hour he will be watching the surf through binoculars.

Eduardo will lead me to the Korean’s home. In a short while Eduardo will collect the village garbage in the black Ford pickup that he has driven home from El Norte. Collecting the garbage is the time for Eduardo to show me the house that the Korean occupies. Meanwhile I must give an account of myself and why I wish to meet with the Korean.

Children surround us, a small tribe, the elders perhaps listening while the young giggle and shove each other. Eduardo is in no hurry. I must adjust to the slow tempo of his investigation.

I recount my journey and that I am a writer, an Ingles.

‘Inglaterra? Is that close to El Norte?’

‘Not close,’ I say. ‘In Europe. In the north of Europe.’

Perhaps satisfied, Eduardo relates a little of his own life, of the three years in Taos where he worked as a roofer for a gringo, a good employer who insured his workers, even the ilegales – fortunate, as Eduardo injured two fingers while on a roof.

In turn, I speak of my father-in-law, a fine, dearly beloved Irishman. He came to England in search of work as a labourer and his arm was trapped in a cement mixer while he worked alone on the roof of a tall apartment building.

My father-in-law and two of his brothers came to England on the false promise of well-paid work. Eduardo paid a smuggler 1500 dollars to lead him across the frontier. Later Eduardo saved the same amount to have his wife brought across. A daughter was born in El Norte and has papers.

Eduardo intended returning to Taos in June. He is a good worker. His gringo employer keeps a job open for him. Now there are new laws in the north, and greater difficulties and dangers in crossing the frontier. Eduardo is unsure whether crossing is possible.

The economy of his family depends on his going. These are anxious times.

‘Do many villagers go to the north?’

‘Many,’ Eduardo says. ‘To Taos, alone, more than one hundred.’

‘Do they return?’

My question is stupid. Naturally people return. This is their village. Although now, those that are away will be afraid to return home. The new conditions will force them to stay in the north to be sure of sending money home. How could families survive without money? Here in the village there is no work.

Then, almost casually, Eduardo mentions the torneo.

In June an international surfing tournament will be held on the village beach. Outsiders are organisers of the tournament. The tournament will be shown on television and reported with photographs in magazines and newspapers. The village will be famous. Many people will visit.

‘More money will come,’ I suggest.

Eduardo agrees, although he seems uncertain, hesitant.

‘The value of property will rise.’

‘Yes,’ Eduardo says. ‘Yes, many people will wish to buy lots.’

I tell him of the early days in Ibiza, the fifties, and that all the young men were friends. We, the few foreigners, together with the Ibicencos, partied together. We went to the beach together, went fishing. Twenty years later my first wife, Cate, and I returned to Ibiza and dined at the Olive Tree in San Antonio. The owner was one of those young men.

‘How is Paco Tuels?’ we asked. ‘How is Juan Jesus? And Antonio of the Ferry?’

The restaurateur’s replies were non-committal. Later, when the rush had cleared, he sat at our table and we drank brandy together and he told us, sadly: ‘In the days you remember, we were all friends. Now we are business competitors.’

I follow Eduardo through the village and wait while he loads garbage from other families. Many of the homes are in that curious and very Mexican condition of waiting for more funds to be extended or finished or painted. It is a small village, at most a hundred houses, and easily swallowed – a small mouthful to a rich, powerful investor with the right political links. This was the story of Ibiza.

The road to the beach is gated. The village commune charges visitors an admission of ten pesos. Eduardo enquires for the Korean. The surf is good. He went to the beach an hour or more ago.

Eduardo stops my hunt for change. For me, entry to the beach is free. Thus I am placed under an obligation of friendship to the village. This seems to me to be quite deliberate. I am, of course, a writer, and possess a writer’s imagination.

The dirt track to the beach has been graded. A rich irrigated vegetable garden – huerto – of papaya and citrus lies below the track to the left. The huerto ends in a lagoon that fills at high tide and is flooded with fresh water when there is heavy rain. The track leads to a sand parking lot shaded by a few small trees. A concrete hut houses clean lavatories and showers – his and hers. A big palm-thatched hut, a palapa, shades a bar and kitchen and a score of standard white plastic tables and chairs. A few hammocks swing in the shade of an adjoining palapa. A steep hill hooks round the right end of a gently curving mile of perfect sand. The hill jabs a point of massive boulders into the sea. Waves break at the point. The surf is vertical and forms a perfect barrel again and again and again … and again.

The palapas belong to the community. Two young women tend the bar. One is remarkably pretty. An older woman is the cook. She should be described as the chef. The snapper she grills for me is perfect, skin crisp, flesh moist, a touch of garlic. But I get ahead of my story …

I ride into the parking lot and spot the Korean crossing from the palapa towards a 4x4. He is unmistakable. He possesses the perfect body of a movie Kung Fu warrior. He wears a towel draped over his head as if he were a monk striving to concentrate on his breviary or merely exclude the distractions of the outside world. The villagers call him ‘the Korean’. I prefer ‘the Monk’ – although I doubt that he is celibate.

I said, ‘I think I’ve come to see you.’

Even monks can be surprised.

I explain my mission – that a young Irishman had told me of him and that he teaches English at the village high school: that I have already learnt that this is incorrect, that he gives private lessons.

Much is happening in the village and the Monk is suspicious of my sudden appearance. He asks where I learnt of Eoin’s mistake and how I knew where to find him. I reply that Eduardo of the garbage informed me and add that this is a small village and that most villagers must know the Monk’s movements – certainly those who are interested.

The Monk admits this truth. However, he remains suspicious and excuses himself. He has students in the afternoon and must prepare.

‘Perhaps later,’ I suggest.

Yes, perhaps later – although he is unenthusiastic.

I order a beer in the palapa and watch the surfers out at the point. Later, I notice the Monk in conversation with a tall young blonde woman under the second palapa that shades the hammocks. The towel is up, protecting the Monk’s privacy.

A loud confident voice heralds the arrival of four men and a young, tall, good-looking woman, perhaps a gringa. The voice is a big burly man overaccustomed to dining people on a corporate expense account: black hair streaked with silver, clipped moustache, fleshy sensual ears. Confident of his power, he wears shorts and a T-shirt; the other three men are uncomfortably warm in slacks. One wears a long-sleeved shirt and round-lens spectacles and carries a briefcase. The gofer, I calculate, as he crosses to the bar to order. I catch his attention. We find that we share Cuba as an experience, he having studied tourism in Havana for two years. Now he is an official at the Department of Tourism.

‘The torneo,’ I presume – as if fluent in village happenings.

‘Yes, the torneo.’

Mister Big represents the money, the sponsors. He lays plans and papers on a table and does all the talking. I am at the far end of a double table and am unable to overhear. Frustrated, I order the grilled snapper at the bar and then return to the end of my table closest to the money group and can hear much of Mister Big’s discourse. The plans for the torneo show where marquees must be sited, new palapas, judges’ stands.

The gofer is a non-contributor – at most he holds a watching brief. Of the remaining two men, one is quiet and yet clearly necessary and in need of persuasion. Later I discover that he is the president of the community. The other man is also of the community. I will call him Mister Keen. He wears a shirt with no sleeves and a baseball cap and, in eagerness, leans across the table to hungrily inhale the big city power emanating from Mister Big. The woman interjects the occasional remark and orders watermelon from the bar. (Is she with Mister Big? Related to the sponsors? Or a TV company?)

Listening, I wonder what Mister Big really wants. Unbelievable that those behind him would fund, out of the goodness of their hearts, an international surf torneo on an unknown beach that possesses no infrastructure. I look down the perfect beach with the perfect surf and imagine the apartment blocks and the hotels and the swanky surf club at which the villagers will be servants. It strikes me as intolerably sad. Yet this is the perfect moment for the money men to make their move. The villagers fear a future in which passage to the north is closed. How many will reject alternative blandishments? How many can afford to resist?

I imagine that Mister Keen is already mounting the yes campaign.

And the president of the community? He seems bewildered, and as much by the physical force of Mister Big as by Mister Big’s fluent exercise of the language of persuasion.

The discussion ends. Mister Big rolls his plans and passes my table. He is professional in his attention to detail and has noticed my conversation with the gofer. Could I be influential in even the smallest way?

Am I being cruel, vindictive? Am I demeaning a decent man, a man who is naturally friendly (although friendliness is also his stock-in-trade)?

He delights with the open warmth and charm of his greeting.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask with equal warmth.

‘Difficult, although we’re giving them everything they ask for,’ he says – then dismisses the weight of difficulties with a lift of those powerful shoulders. ‘I’ve had easier tasks in the capital on major projects.’

‘In the capital you know who to pay,’ I say.

‘Precisely.’

My understanding is proof that we are on the same side – whatever the side is. He is employed by a company of lobbyists, men who know the right people, the movers and shakers who can make things happen. He writes his address and his email in my notebook. We shake hands and I watch him lead his group back to his outsized 4x4. He has a powerful walk and meets the world square on. Be crushed or move out of the way. And I muse sadly that the teeth are already here, the teeth of the mouth that will devour a community.

The staff of the palapa have observed Mister Big stop at my table and our conversation. Now they watch me, perhaps waiting. I worry that I am arrogant in judging the best interests of a community of which I know so little. What is now a simple surfer’s paradise is possibly a purgatory of penury for the villagers. And yet …

I order a fresh beer and sit at the table closest to the bar with my back to the sea and address the women. The torneo – what do they think?

They answer with small shrugs of uncertainty.

‘We will see,’ the pretty one says, and the others nod. Yes, they will see.

Yet it seems to me obvious that they have no concept of what they might see. I recall for them my first visit to Flores, a small town on a lake near the wondrous Maya site of Tikal in Guatemala. Thirty or more years ago the women of the town met at a different house each night to arrange the flowers and decorate the church. A mere ten years later, television had reached the town. I found only three women arranging the flowers. The rest were at home watching TV. The companionship of those evenings had been killed. The rich sense of community was dead. Nothing remained that would tempt their children to return.

The older woman, the chef, is the first to nod. I ask where I can sleep and the women direct me to a row of small wood-walled palapas by the entry gate. The owner was the first of the village to reach Taos. In Taos, he was legal and had his own business. He has returned for good. What does he think of the torneo?

‘We will see.’

I unload the bike, shower, change into shorts and return to the beach. The Monk is reading at the centre table beneath the palapa. The towel protects him.

Brave, I approach. I ask whether he is free. Might I sit with him? So we begin what quickly becomes a friendship to be treasured.

The Monk went to the US when he was eleven years old. He recounts his schooling in the US: of scholarships to private school in California, Berkeley and grad school at Harvard. He interspersed his later studies with spells in the world of banking. He was respectable. He did the right thing. He wore the right suit and the right shoes and the right tie. And sometimes he surfed.

Harvard Business School undid him. He was studying finance with grad students from similar money-management backgrounds. He discovered something missing in them. They had no fixed beliefs. Their judgement of right and wrong depended on the situation. These were the future leaders of corporate America. The Monk envisaged an endless parade of Enrons, of small investors bankrupted or robbed of their pensions. At first he was merely uncomfortable in their company. Perhaps he became nervous of infection. Perhaps he became nervous of his father’s judgement (his father is a famously crusading and respected newspaper editor back in Korea, a poet, a writer of important books). So the Monk loaded his surfboards on his truck and drove south and discovered a beach with the perfect wave.

Only later, and little by little, did he discover a community that was self-protecting and to which each member contributed. Teaching English is the Monk’s contribution. He teaches both children and adults. This seemed to him sufficient contribution until the torneo surfaced. He finds it remarkable that I understand the threat and that we share a near-apocalyptic vision. He suspects that I am an investigative journalist. He hopes that I am an investigative journalist.

I confess to being merely a mediocre novelist.

But I will write of this?

Certainly.

Will I write that Mister Big and his backers are paying the community 450 dollars for the use of the beach – that the community is to volunteer an unpaid workforce of 200 men to complement the 300 that Mister Big will import?

That the community has accepted so small a fee confirms the menace.

Mister Big must be licking his lips at such innocence.

For the moment, no land can be sold to an outsider without the community’s agreement. That could change. For the right people, political pressure is easily acquired – such is Mexico’s history. A major tourist development must be to the nation’s benefit (the developers’ benefit being synonymous with that of the nation).

The Monk’s nightmare is not the destruction of his perfect beach. It is that these people with little experience or understanding of the outside world, people who have welcomed him warmly, will lose the very special dignity that accompanies their independence; that they will be dispossessed and become servants in their own homes.

Already Mister Keen is working on their fears and tempting them with profit. Others have approached the Monk for advice. The Monk was a banker. He understands the worth of holding a torneo. So he advised them and was summoned by the representative of those with power and warned that, in interfering, he endangered himself.

Threatening the Monk is an error. He is his father’s son. He marshals his forces.

We share a simple dinner in the evening on the terrace of the local store. Light is by Coleman lantern. We drink cold Corona beer and listen to the quiet anger of the storekeeper: 450 dollars – so many children in the community and no health centre. A health centre should be the first of their demands.

The Monk and I are careful not to peer into the surrounding darkness. We sense the presence of other villagers listening, men and women hidden by the night.

I pay the vast sum of three dollars for six beers and a plate of meat-stuffed tacos.

And I ignore, with good humour, the belittling of my Honda by a chemically recalibrated surf addict mislaid by California who has joined us. The surf addict insists that 200 kilometres is the furthest I could ride the Honda in a day and that so small a bike is incapable of crossing the Altiplano.

The surfer has lived between Mexico and Central America for years and has been enlightened by the herbs and mushrooms of the region. He states as fact that corpses of seven-foot-tall aliens have been discovered in stone sarcophagi unearthed from the burial chambers beneath Central America’s pyramids. A friend of his witnessed the opening of a sarcophagus.

Later, in bed, I consider the senators and members of Congress in Washington – the decisions they make concerning the frontier that is not a frontier and of how little interest or understanding they have in the destructiveness of their decisions. Their one desire is to keep their snouts in the pork barrel. What value has a small community in Mexico? Let it die in the name of progress.

Pan-Americano, Friday 26 May

I am tempted to stay in this small village, to record the happenings. But I am committed to writing a different book, the book of my journey. This village is only a chapter. Let this be clear: I am totally unmoved at the mockery of my Honda and of my own stamina as a rider. The reader would be ridiculous in suspecting that I would be so adolescent (in my dotage) as to rise to the challenge of a hallucinating near-fifty (yes, all of that) surf addict. Never. Yet I find myself on the road at seven this morning and determined to reach Tapachula – 500 kilometres.

The coast road is glorious. Trees are in blossom and the Honda slices through fresh perfume. A freeway bypasses Salina del Cruz and Tehuantepec. I stop for breakfast at a roadside palapa. At the state border an official welcomes me to Chiapas.

‘To Argentina? Patagonia? Bravo!’ He shakes my hand and claps me on the back.

The Chiapas littoral is mile after mile of magnificent green paddocks. Cows and horses graze in the shade of trees that would dwarf the tallest oak in an English park. Cloud blankets the forested mountains that rise directly behind the ranches.

So my bum is numb – this is a countryman’s visual heaven.

I pause for cold water and a packet of nuts at a tiny roadside shack with two white tables and six chairs. A man in uniform is the only customer. The earth crumbles beneath the Honda’s stand and the bike tumbles sideways. The man in uniform attempts to save the bike and burns his palm on the exhaust. He holds ice in his hand and boasts of the beauty of Chiapas and enquires of my journey and what I will write of Mexico.

The owner of the shack and her daughter listen, as does an old white man with pale blue eyes and a grey bristle-beard who has shuffled across the highway from a five-hut village.

‘That Mexico is an immensely rich and beautiful country with many poor people,’ I answer.

My listeners murmur their assent. Despite my protests, the man in uniform and with the painfully burnt hand insists on paying for my water and the packet of nuts. Mexican generosity is inescapable. There is a moment in which I consider turning back to the village on the beach and writing the book of the Monk and Mister Big. Instead I ride on into the evening and Tapachula and am caught in a deluge as I attempt to decipher the guidebook’s directions to a hotel.

Who writes this stuff? One block from the central square? A square has four sides and is more than one block long and all streets are part of an incomprehensible one-way system.

A kind young man wearing jewellery suggests two hotels. He assures me that both are clean, cheap and comfortable. His directions are precise. I find without difficulty the Hotel Cavatina. Saintly staff hike the Honda over the high curb and wheel it to the far end of an entrance lobby that runs the full depth of the hotel. I take a room on the top floor, with a double bed, fan, bathroom and the best, biggest, thickest bath towel I have yet experienced.

I work an hour at a pleasant internet café peopled by a bunch of students with whom I chat before being directed to an old-fashioned café, dark wood panelling and wood-bladed ceiling fans. I drink cold beer and eat liver and onions with chilli and a flan.

Writers write. They also suffer painful cramps in their thighs at night if they are old and dumb and feel challenged and ride a small motorcycle 500 kilometres across Oaxaca and the Chiapas littoral in one day. The Honda was mocked, not the man. The Honda remains victorious.

And there are no seven-foot-tall aliens in Central America, in or out of sarcophagi.

Tapachula, Saturday 27 May

I breakfast outdoors on the central square. The electricity supply has been cut at the internet café that I used last night. I find an alternative that is more comfortable and run by equally pleasant people. Bringing my writing up to date takes ten hours, with only a break to fetch my laundry and eat a fruit salad. In the evening I people-watch on the central square, drink a beer and eat a steak. My last meal in Mexico.