A man darts onto the trail, scrambling through the heavy vines and bushes that hold up the cliff. He shifts his weight with the grace of a white buffalo. He carries a load of fresh wood on his back, a day’s work though its early morning. A silver machete is strapped to the bundle; a broad brimmed, felt hat rides low to keep the heat in and the sun off his face. The weight of three days food and warmth digging into my shoulders seems to lift.
Strange plants peer down from their perches in the great trees they’re slowly killing, red cactus-like creatures with menace towards the world. Occasionally, it seems, the trees purge themselves of these parasites and discarded carcasses liter the path. Flowers everywhere: giant yellow daisies, purple mourning glories, orange curls, pink petals that cover a cupped palm and float across red mud and river pebbles. Butterflies frolic much faster than my mind can move at this steady gait. But not many other insects. It is a strangely quiet cloud forest.
In the early 1900s, Santa Maria erupted, spewing out about five and a half kilometers of magma and killing over 5,000 people. The volcano had been dormant for 500 years and the local people never knew the signs of seismic activity. The king at the time did not want the world to know of this disaster. So he denied it and refused aid, while his people suffered greatly. A great epidemic of malaria broke out in the aftermath, and the world finally heard. Toxins to kill the mosquitoes were poured into the jungles, the villages, the streams and rivers. Life has returned and recovered, but we see no ants for the first two days.
Maize grows tall and strong—higher than the adobe houses. Beans and squash intertwine to cover the land between town and jungle. Children lead herds of black sheep across dusty roads to green knolls rolling in the grass, squinting, echoing hola, hola, hola to passerbys.
Mist swallows the mountains one by one before the departing sun. The last solemn shapes of tree covered crests disappear with the valley. A wave of isolation sets into the small ghost town. No flowing water can be heard. The few people walk with heads down. Broken ceramic bowls. Closed comedors. We are cut off from the world and I shudder. Descanzo en paz.
A blood curdling scream rips through the darkness beyond our glow of dying embers. The children have just run out of the house where we’re staying the night, threading arms through sleeves as they run. We look at each other in the pale light, afraid to investigate, more afraid not to, and slip out the gate. A great beast is being carried upside down through the street: a man holds his front legs, another his rear and his tail. He thrashes wildly as they heave him into the flatbed of the truck where two other enormous pigs are waiting'
Mine’s bigger, says little Alvarado. Want to see?
We look down. Yes. He leads us back into the compound and grabs a flashlight. We creep up to the back gate and look over it. Alvarado looks between the two top planks and shines his light through at bushes a few feet away.
He’s over there.
Oh. I’m sure he’s really big.
Si, muy grande. I will show you in the morning.
But we will be gone.
There is no sun rise. Just a gradual becoming of light. It first infuses the clouds, bringing gestures of volcanic mountain ranges, then the water, tracing the currents softly. Slow spreading across the sky to dim the stars and breathe form into inlets and coves. Not rose like its counterparts but cream—leche con café—see the warmth before feeling comes to the world. Stirring of birds. Sensual realization and confusion, of sounds and touch; water begins to boil as raindrops on a bundled body. Glowing wetness blanket wrapped.
No comments:
Post a Comment