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| February 9, 2007 Alaskan in Exile by Neil Zawicki, insurgent49 I’m taking the week off to do some yard work and to update my annotations on the collected works of Enzo Ferrari, who by the way was a prolific pulp novelist before turning to sports car manufacturing. In the meantime, I thought I would post a little excerpt from my biographical novel, The Dead Guy Road Trip Church. I’m including it because Kevin Morford wrote about the men with guns in Latin America, and as you will see, this excerpt begins with just such a thing. Enjoy. There has never been a better-developed system of social control than in modern Mexico. Ensenada, in particular, is a port city that has been converted into a full-blown “all bets are off” gringo party wonderland. The city is designed for pure debauchery. Sailors come into town and whoop it up like fat, mad pans with too much time and money. Off-road racers swarm the streets twice a year with high-end trucks and buggies. Prostitution is legal, and drugs are in endless supply. The white folk think of it as paradise. Anything goes. No rules. This is partially true. But the Mexican government is in fine form with its policy of deploying platoons of combat troops and half-lit, trigger-happy federales in force on the streets and in the hills. The effect is complete balance. All the drunk, ripped, loud, half-naked subjects of the northern empire stroll about on their best behavior under the careful eye of armed troops. The message is simple: party up, but keep it in the hotels. If a bold faced tourist wants to start a scene, or even only get a little violent with his own group, you can bet he’ll wind up with a bayonet through his neck. It’s a lot like marshal law, only everyone, including the cops, are loaded. It was late at night when they arrived, and the Baja 500 was set to start at dawn, just four hours away. Only 50 yards from the port called “Baja Naval,” the race vehicles were lined up at the starting line. They stretched out for several hundred yards, like a sinister war train, painted brightly for effect. They were silent now, but with the sunrise, the air would be jolted by hundreds of revving engines, and low flying choppers. For now, the trio had to get off the street. The shortest distance was Anthony’s, the local nightspot. Here they could blend in, and wait for the event activities. The lortab was still gripping Luke’s veins, and the effect, coupled with the trip, had put him in a state of unrivaled separation. Anthony’s is a big box of a building with a 20-foot King Kong gorilla jutting out over the door. The inside is packed wall to wall with sweaty salsa dancers, chubby truck drivers, race fans, high-end prostitutes and their well-dressed brokers. Latin men rush up to greet you and escort you to your seat, which is always shared by someone else. When they sat down, the band was blasting away with a Spanish version of “Whip it” by Devo. On the dance floor was a Korean couple, dancing like a stiff white couple. A lanky, 60 year old cowboy in a red shirt was scooting around with his 30-year-old wife, and two hookers were spinning like tops in tight mini dresses. They had traveled into the inner workings of the beast. They were safe here. It was when Fanjio jumped up and hit the dance floor that they met their tablemate. He thrust a Pacifico and a tequila chaser at each of them and shouted, “Have a drink, and then you can help me get these women topless.” Luke was completely removed from the simple things like sound and language; they still registered, he just had no drive to process them. So much so that all he could do was nod. But our new friend said something that made Luke sit up a little straighter. “I thought you were in California,” he said. “And what brought you here? Miss the Crazy Horse?” The voice pierced the smoke that hung in the bar. It was a cannon blast, jolting him back into alert reality. By some odd sideways coincidence, they had managed to end up at Anthony’s in Ensenada, at a table with Boo Wiles. “Well, Boo, it’s about time you show up,” Melco shouted, kicking Boo’s chair. “Yeah, I figured you’d get into trouble and scoot down to Mexico sooner or later,” Boo replied, sitting up and grinning, as he always does when engaged in a solid round of sarcasm. “Actually, this is perfect,” he continued. “Now we can all go see Delcan.” This is what brought Luke into to fold. What did he mean, “go see Delcan?” before he could ask, Anton Rash rushed up to the table, his head colored from the dance floor lights: “Hey, I just saw Juan Manuel Fanjio!” he said excitedly. “Juan Manuel Fanjio’s in here!” As quickly as he said this, and before any of us could react, the band exploded with the most obnoxious version of “Stuck On You” by Lionel Ritchie, producing a dramatic shift in the mood of Antony’s. The crowd on the dance floor parted like a curtain, revealing the lone figure of five-time formula one driving champion Juan Manuel Fanjio. He stood there, leaning to one side, as the band continued. The singer sang the lyrics, “Stuck on you…got this feelin’ down deep in my soul that I just can’t lose….” Couples paired up and danced, as Fanjio stood there with an eerie blue light on him. The image served to remind us that we were most certainly not out of the woods yet. Anton continued: “Man, look at him! He’s so smashed he doesn’t even know where he is! I wonder why he’s here.” In that instance, Fanjio threw his left hand into the air, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Luke looked over at Boo looked at him and then at Melco, and then back at Luke. For some reason, he felt compelled to reveal all the details of the events that led to this shaky table at Anthony’s. Being still in the grasp of the Lortab, he was convinced Boo Knew Fanjio was with them. This was, of course, ludicrous. Nonetheless, he continued, “ It’s simple, really. There was a fight at the bar in Avalon and Fanjio started it because he was drunk and pretty soon the whole place was throwing chairs and bashing in heads and we rowed out to the boats before the cops got there and the next morning we found out that Fanjio was passed out down below and we knew we couldn’t let anyone know we had him because they’d never believe us and then the fear took hold and we decided to skip country and make it down to Mexico where it might make more sense for Fanjio to be, and anyway he’d lose his sponsorship and we really didn’t kidnap him and it all just got so out of hand that-” Before he could finish, Boo pulled the post card out of his pocket. The one from Delcan. Luke stood bolt up and shouted, ”Oh yeah! Delcan! What are you talking about?” Melco fell over in his chair and began to laugh in that loud, raucous laugh that he does whenever he is presented with the blunt absurdity of any situation. This was certainly it. “ You brought Juan Manuel Fanjio down here with you?” Boo asked, leaning into the table. “That’s right,” Melco replied, out of breath from laughter. "Does he know where he is?” Anton asked, looking out at the dance floor. “Not literally,” Luke said, picking up the post card. “What’s all this Delcan stuff?” “He’s down in Erendira,” Boo said. “He bought a hostel down there.” Now the great nebula was forming. Had he taken the time to read the post card, Luke would have been prepared. That goofy maniac had somehow managed to pull the money together and buy a hostel on the coast. It was only fitting that he didn’t learn of it until now-less than an hour from Erendira. “Let’s go dig him,” Anton said loosely. “He’s got a whole scene down there.” “And the Baja runs right past it,” Boo offered. There was, of course, the question of Fanjio. Was he safe? Was the mission complete? Had we done the right thing? There wasn’t much time to consider the ethical proprieties of the situation, considering the sun had come up, the race was underway, and Fanjio was in the corner, being shaken by a pair of policia. He was barely coherent as they pawed at him, and made a gesture that said, “wait right here” as they went outside. They were coming back, and who knows what he had told them. Eventually he loped up to our table, where Melco was asleep, snoring on Anton’s shoulder. “Mr. Fanjio,” Boo said with a smile, extending his hand. “How’re ya feelin’?” There was a strange calm in Fanjio’s eyes. He was smiling. “I think I know what it is,” he announced, waving his finger. “I think you’re afraid I’ll tell them what happened.” “Tell who what happened?” Luke asked, attempting a shrewd coyness. “You shouldn’t try that shrewd coyness, Lukey,” he said. “And anyway, the policia have gone to find my brother. You can go now, I’ll be ok. But you better go now, because they want to know who brought me here.” “That’s true,” Boo said. “We are gringo’s. If they learned anything, they’d hit us hard with every gringo clause they’ve got. They might even make some up. We should go on and find Delcan.” We passed the policia on the way out, as they were coming back in. Outside was a bleach bright world of post-race start chaos. While squinting from the sun, they negotiated the littered streets, passed race fans, through groups of Federales, across piles of checkered flag streamers and Tecate banners. Boo was parked across the street, in a dirt field. The air was silent now-all the buggies and trophy trucks were by now speeding through the countryside. They all piled into the truck without incident, saying nothing as Boo started the engine. Soon they were rolling over bumpy roads. From inside the camper shell, they could not see where they were, laying still as the truck made vicious turns and jumped over huge potholes. When the truck stopped, Luke sat up in time for the camper hatch to open. Boo stood out side, chewing on something. Then he thrust a bag at us. “Taco?” he said casually. Six a.m. and they were enjoying tacos. Real ones, for that matter. From here, the road trip went largely un-noticed. Luke and Shank both were out cold, catching up on much needed sleep. But when Luke did wake up and look out the side window, curious Mexican scenes would roll passed. At one instance, while they were moving through the hill country, he looked up in time to see a woman standing next to a wooden shack surrounded by rusting machine parts. She was particularly sultry, with her long black hair that was just a little windblown, and her brown skin. She wasn’t thin, but it didn’t matter. She had on a dirty t-shirt and a blue plaid skirt. That image took him back to sleep until they were forced to stop at a Federale check point. It consisted of a folding table, laden with assault rifles, and around six fully armed combat troops who were checking the credentials of each vehicle. There were ten or so in line, all affiliated with the race. Fifteen feet ahead of the check point sat a lone trooper-all of sixteen-behind a sandbag wall. He had a rope attached to a spike chain, no doubt with orders to yank and blow the tires of anyone who tried to make a bolt for the highway. Melco jumped out into the dusty air. The only sound was the crunch of shoes on gravel and the low muttering of the Federale commander as he inspected and questioned each vehicle. “It’s a dragnet,” Melco whispered. “They’re looking for kidnappers.” The road had taken its toll on Shank-he had slipped into a paranoid funk. He began pacing. “They’re looking for us,” he continued. “We’ll never get by, wait!” He crouched and listened in the direction of the lead vehicle. “Did you hear that? He just said Fanjo! Did you hear?” Just then, Boo and Anton appeared from the cab. “There’s a side road over there,” Boo said. “We’ll go that way and try to get around this.” We climbed in and turned left, down a long, sloping dirt road, which ended at a modest farm. They all got out, and stood there, among loose dogs and chickens, a woman standing at her screen door. It was as if we were supposed to be there, like this woman is visited daily by packs of puzzled gringos. Luke looked up and asked her, in some of his worst street Spanish, if she knew where the highway was. “Nosotros necesitos el camino. Donde?” he said to her, trying not to rouse suspicion. From their vantage point, we could see the Federales and the line of trucks, and there was certainly no other way out. She smiled and pointed generally south east, and let loose with a string of eloquent language, from which he could only make out the words, “away” and “race.” They thanked her and started back down the road, toward the roadblock. By now the traffic had picked up, but Shank was no less tense than before. The lead man poked his head into the truck. He filled the window with his stubbled jaw and olive drab Castro-style cap. Two bored-faced soldiers stood behind him, one with a cigarette. “A Donde Van?” he asked quietly, Rifling through the truck with his eyes. “Erendira,” Boo replied. There was a long silence. “Quanto diaz?” he asked. “Three or four,” Boo responded. “Muy bien,” he said finally, waving us through. As we started to move, he called out again: “Gringo!” he said, slapping the side of the truck. We stopped. He held up a “Baja 500” poster. It was clear. He wanted a shwag as a toll. They’d need to lay a race item on him, something from the 500. Boo had nothing but a few Jaunt magazine stickers, but that was enough. It was clear now that no one was looking for kidnappers out here, and anyway none of them were so nervous as Melco. But the next town would hold a new direction for Shank, and an edgy situation for the rest. Neil Zawicki, exiled Alaskan, is Editor at Large for Insurgent49, a former reporter for the Alaska Star, and winner of the Alaska Press Club's 'Best Columnist' award. He is now living out the rest of his days in an undisclosed location in Oregon. He can be contacted at hondo23@gmail.com 'Alaskan In Exile' appears on insurgent49.com every Friday. |
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February 2, 2007 January 26, 2007 January 19, 2007 January 12, 2007 January 5, 2007 December 29, 2006 December 22, 2006 December 15, 2006 December 8, 2006 December 1, 2006 November 24, 2006 November 17, 2006 November 10, 2006 November 3, 2006 October 27, 2006 October 20, 2006 October 13, 2006 October 6, 2006 September 29, 2006 September 22, 2006 September 15, 2006 September 8, 2006 September 1, 2006 August 25, 2006 August 18, 2006 August 11, 2006 August 4, 2006 July 28, 2006 July 21, 2006 July 14, 2006 June 30, 2006 June 23, 2006 June 16, 2006 June 9, 2006 June 2, 2006 May 26, 2006 May 12, 2006 May 5, 2006 April 28, 2006 April 21, 2006 April 14, 2006 April 7, 2006 March 31, 2006 March 24, 2006 March 17, 2005 March 3, 2006 February 24, 2006 February 17, 2006 February 10, 2006 February 3, 2006 January 27, 2006 January 20, 2006 January 13, 2006 January 6, 2006 December 30, 2005 December 23, 2005 December 16, 2005 December 10, 2005 December 2, 2005 November 25, 2005 November 18, 2005 November 11, 2005 November 4, 2005 October 28, 2005 October 21, 2005 October 14, 2005 October 7, 2005 September 30, 2005 September 23, 2005 September 16, 2005 September 9, 2005 September 2, 2005 August 26, 2005 August 19, 2005 August 12, 2005 August 5, 2005 July 29, 2005 July 22, 2005 July 15, 2005 July 8, 2005 July 1, 2005 June 24, 2005 June 17, 2005 June 10, 2005 June 3, 2005 May 27, 2005 May 20, 2005 May 13, 2005 May 6, 2005 April 29, 2005 April 21, 2005 April 14, 2005 April 7, 2005 April 1, 2005 - also by this
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Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
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