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About The North Coast times-eagle. (Wheeler, Oregon) 1971-2007 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 1, 1997)
PAGE 6 XMAS IN MEXICO BY WALT CURTIS Life is a dream. -CALDERON de la BARCA WALT CURTIS, HAG OF THE BULL (1988) After the death of my father in September of 1977, I decided to make a pilgrimage to the mummies of Guanajuato and to visit Raul. He had told me about the family farm called La Abundancia, located near the railway station of Bamoa, a village about 700 miles south of the border. Raul had sent me a letter, informing me of his safe arrival, but he had no idea I would visit him. My dad had wasted away from cancer quite painfully and heroically. I had been closely involved wth his dying. It was messy, depressing, and quite exhausting. It didn't seem quite fair! I wanted to make sense of it and stretch my ovn life, its dimensions, outwardly. Also, my friendship with Raul was one of the sweetest and most tender things I had going for me. I really loved him and wanted to see him in his village in Mexico. His love sustained me through a very trying time. His love gave me the courage to make the journey essentially alone. I caught the train in Mexicali. There are two railway lines vtfiich parallel each other. The rails are fixed, permanent. The train might derail, but a head-on collision is unlikely. You can walk around. The conductor sells beer and soda pop. Also v/ien the train stops at a station, local citizens come aboard, vending fresh fruit, dried shrimp, cooked chicken and rice. The windows open in 2nd-class. Don't go 1st-class! The air conditioning is stifling; it doesn't work You are shut away from the ordinary people and entombed with bourgeois types. Fares are cheap by Amtrack standards. Steve, a friend from L.A., and myself arrived in Campa mento Wilson, a small company town near the tracks. 10:30 at night There is no hotel, no taxi, no telephone. It's too late to bother Raul or his family. A kindly lady and her son after much discussion allow us to sleep on the floor of an abandoned house. “Would we want to sleep at the jail?“ they asked us helpfully. "No thanks," we said. In the mysterious dark, we bed down listening to pigs grunting, roosters crowing In the morning, we take a taxi directly to Raul's family home. With a surprised look on his face, he greets us, shakes hands, and introduces us to his family. They give us total hospi tality. When a Mexican invites you into his home saying "Mi casa es su casa," he really means it. Soon I will feel like a member of the family ! play with Javier the grandson.Strumming a nonexist- ant guitar, the boy wants to be a singer, a clow and entertainer. He can't say my name Walt, so he calls me "Juan" and then “Guante“. It's a strangely Freudian epithet meaning "glove" which fits me perfectly. Only recently, after several years absence, Raul has returned from the United States. He is trying to adjust to his own culture. He tells me, in several months, he will leave for Mexicali and the border. He isn't free here in Bamoa. For the time being, he can help his family on the farm. Or work at the packing house at Campamento Wilson. I notice the raw, rowdy, tiny company town isn't even on the map. All it contains is a movie house with roof open to the sky and a cantina. It's difficult even to smoke dope Salvador, Raul's older brother, will take me there near the railroad tracks. 'You can buy a girl cheap," he tells me. "Do you want to do that?" "Maybe, sometime," I lie. Here at home, Raul is under the curious scrutiny of loving family and friends. Does he need an outsider, twice his age, dropping by? Requiring further explanations. While his mother and sister fix breakfast, she asks me to explain why Raul hasn't written her for two wriole years. 'That's the way young people are," I tell her. She shakes her head in mock despair. I wanted to confide. "He's an enigma to me, also." After breakfast, Raul takes Steve and me to the river to show us his grass plants, small and hidden. We use news paper or tablet paper in order to roll joints, because the govern ment doesn't allow cigarette papers to be sold. The Sinaloa River runs through the flat countryside. On its gravely bottom, the trucks and local bus cross, driving through the shallow water. The square spire of the red and wriite cathedral sticks up above the plain. "It's more than 425 years old," Raul's friends, the local cowboys, tell me as we drink brandy and smoke dope. "Pancho Villa rode here We still fight the government — over marijuana," they boast.I listen to Raul and his friends carry ing on under the hot sun. It's like a dream. Can I really be here? La vida es un sueño, I think to myself. These Mexican hillbillies drink, sing songs and lean against each other. They question me about life "on the other side, "en los Estado Unidos. “Somos amigos.” one named Ramon says. I don't believe him! He does not like gringos As he dances on the sand, sings loud and makes fuck motions with his body — he's trying to impress me. "Every day there is a wedding in the village or campo, he brags. Buzzards circle in the blue sky The dry clear air Dusty earth. The local cemetery. Irrigation ditches. Flowers decorating the graves are wrapped in plastic I ask Raul, “Where is my tomb? I wont one painted with red, with red roses." He and his friends laugh "Don't worry, you'll have a pretty one " Can I really be at Raul's home in Mexico? The small but functional hacienda is almost perfectly shaped White-washed house, flowers in front, dusty yard, corral, well with a bucket, outhouse and shower house, and a wash shed — all fit neatly. A single palm tree stands up proudly like a banner. The chickens roost in a tree. A pig is tied to a post. Rabbits are penned and hop loose. Life is everywhere underfoot. A golden rooster struts like Raul. The family awakes at dawn. The father and mother yell at Raul and his brother to get up and milk the cows. Chico, Raul's brother, a real charro, will take the cattle a kilometer or two to pasture by the river. It is impossible for a guest to sleep in the morning. I might as well fold up my cot and get up with the rest of them. I feel guilty just watching Warm milk is to be sold to the neighbor. A chicken will be caught and killed. The pig fed. The horse needs to be saddled and the cattle led out on the road. Mama, a large contented loud-voiced woman, fixes break fast and makes tortillas. Rosa, Raul's sister, helps her. Raul gets out the machete to cut poles to mend fences. The father, El Jefe, mounts his bicycle and peddles energetically up the road after he has conferred with his none- too-eager sons about wriat work needs to be done. The old man startled me. I don't think he knew how much I was in love with his son. He kept a pistol under his pillow, and often got up in the night to see if there was a coyote to shoot. One night wrien he drank too much he shouted in his sleep, Chinga su madre!" I love his son. This boy with his dry, perplexed, taciturn, almost-a-frown on his face ways. Raul doesn't need me! Here in Bamoa he has mota and friends. Probably he is worried that some hint of scandal might emerge. I ask him if he has a girl friend. “Dos, tres," he replies. Two, three. I tell him his village is beautiful. “En poco," he says A little bit. It's like pulling teeth out of a jackass to get him to reveal his innermost thoughts. Why should he? I don't speak Spanish fluently. Often Raul goes about his business secretly, leaving me alone with his family. Soon my friend Steve must leave on the train north, from Leon Fonseca. He promised his wife he would be back by Christmas. My Spanish not quite working. It wll take a few days to bridge the language gap. Am I being abandoned? Am I a coward? No. I wll follow through on my spiritual quest. I will spend five of the most bittersweet days of my life in this Mexi can village. Everyone asks Raul and the mysterious gringo GRANTS PASS, ORE. :for Steve & Tami Harp of light, tinsel of soul dew of breath, kiss of rusty metal, I will be there on Christmas day when the runaway teenager comes home to Okieville. With a broken wing, soiled blue jeans, drug habit. Mom in the manger will cradle that boy, nurture his punked-out rebellious heart. They'll go see Jesus together with the angels in the woodpile Rambo pit bull guards the household thru the night of American lies. junked cars, wrecked genes, the terror and longing of dysfunctional family. Amen, bro & sis! Chicken soup and a maternal hug heals all! I have a present for Dad: .38 slug in the head -WALT CURTIS questions: "What's he doing here?" "Do you like Mexico?" I answer: "It's better here than in Los Estado Unidos You are lucky to live here." Raul introduces me to Sergio, his best friend from school days. For diversion and supplies we decide to go to Guasave, 15 miles away. It's a city of 30,000 with banks, department stores and supermarkets. We'll hitch a ride in the back of a pickup. Raul calls it getting a "rid-ay". Joking with me, the boys say they are my "soldiers" who'll protect me from the bad guys. The country is full of life, humanity. Bare-assed babies, dogs, donkeys, too many kids, cattle, horses, dust. They come from the clay and they go back to the clay. Beautiful boys and young girls wth smiles, joking country folk. Building houses out of clay and straw, their skin is the color of earth and sun. Full of ruts and washouts, the road follows the winding Sinaloa River. Crosses next to the road mark automobile deaths. In my folly I thought they buried the victims beside the road. How stupid! Soldiers, half-asleep, young and dumb looking, in khaki with automatic weapons, waited at the dusty crossroads. Near the main highway. Waiting for something violent and crazy to hap pen. Then they would open fire. When we arrive in Guasave, I go straight to the bank to cash my travelers checks. I want to buy gifts for Feliz Navidad — give Raul some money. Get a bottle of El Presidente brandy for his dad and brother. Up north, Mexicans drink brandy, not so much tequila. Raul and Sergio take me to their favorite restau rant, Mariposa. We sample shrimp, camerones and drink Tecate beer. In the red can with lime and salt.The queer owner likes me and asks Raul questions. Bald-headed, with a slight lisp, he calls himself a "seniorito“. All of the customers laugh at him. He jokes back, in total control. We take the local bus back to Bamoa. Raul calls it La Burra, the female donkey because it's so slow. When we see the red and white tower of the cathedral we're close to home. On Saturday morning, Raul tells me it's his turn to take the cattle to pasture and stay all day.He'll see me in the evening, Christmas eve. But his two brothers Salvador and Chico want me to return to Guasave and buy drinks! The older one, Salvador, is a real lush. And somewhat shy Chico, the cowboy with brown hair and beautiful eyes, drinks a lot also. He is intrigued with me, but doesn't talk much. Salvador days, "Chico is a pure animal. Borracho. " He treats his horse, named "Ice Cream Cone", harsh ly, whipping it from side to side. The horse reluctantly dances. We go back to Mariposa, "sea soup" whose letters could be rearranged to form Mariposa, or butterfly. The Spanish word for homosexual. The owner of the restaurant is glad to see me. Salvador tries to set me up for a Xmas party.With a straight face the man asks me if I'd like to stay overnight."No," I politely reply. "I will be with the family.” Still, he draws me a map of howto get to his house. He's very persistent. Like a sticky fly. We leave and go to another favorite watering hole of Salvador's — La Escondida. The Hidden. Down a back street of Guasave, it's a gay type place, too. The young men who serve the drinks are blatantly queens. The big burly cowboys and Sal vador come to drink and watch them. Salvador says the place is "muy famoso.“He asks me if I'm interested. Is he testing me? He sure likes these kind of places! We eat a wonderful goat meat snack, boiled and spicy — drink Tecate after Tecate. We get "bombed”, observing the young gay bartenders performing for and serving their customers. BUCK’S BOOK BARN ★ USED BOOKS & RECORDS * 738-4246 1023 BROADWAY • SEASIDE The Local Artist 360 9th Street Astoria, OR 97103 (503) 325-2883 Natalie Gustafson OWNER ART SUPPLIES • STUDENT GALLERY
