Oaxaca ~ Part II
Ben spent the morning on a walkabout. He stopped from time to time to stand and watch people going about their daily lives. Passing countless concession stands in the open air street markets he would engage in conversations with various artisans and merchants. He also liked to observe construction sites. For a time in his life he’d been a builder and never tired of watching the collective efforts of tradesmen raising structures.
Around midday Gentry found himself at the Oaxaca Central Market. A high metal roof covered a vast assemblage of stalls, stands and booths where hundreds of vendors presented a treasury of offerings. Many offered fruits, vegetables, baked goods, meats, sweets, spices and cooked meals. Others displayed fabrics of all colors and design, weavings, clothing, sombreros, shoes, masks, audiotapes, videotapes, and small appliances. Still others sold things he couldn’t identify.
Ben was getting hungry. Making his way through the crush of shoppers he caught sight of a food stand operated by two older Mexican women. He felt drawn to them. The women were lean and handsome. They wore white blouses, dark pleated skirts and huaraches on their feet. Their blouses were adorned with large embroidered floral designs, which were specific to Oaxaca. Both women had long white hair, braided up like Frida Kahlo.
The ladies cooked a variety of tacos, taquitos, tostadas and quesadillas, which they served with salad, rice and beans. They offered coffee, cold lemonade and soft drinks. Six wooden stools were placed in front of the señora’s clean, tiled counter. Sitting down on one of the stools Ben ordered up a plate of food. All around him and as far as he could see were throngs of people, buying and selling at the stalls and stands. The air was heavy with smoke and dust and infused with fragrances and aromas. A rhapsody of jubilance filled his ears. ‘This is Mé-hico!’, he thought… ‘and I’m alive!’.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gentry noticed a young man walking towards him with a deliberate gate and a curious look on his face. As the man came closer, Ben saw a clear-eyed, clean-shaven, well-dressed fellow wearing quality boots. Walking up to the counter, looking right at Ben, the young man asked, “Are you American?”
“I am,” said Gentry. “My name’s Ben.”
“I’m Tate, Tate Billings. Can I join you?”
“Of course,” said Ben.
Tate pulled out the stool next to Ben and sat on it. One of the señoras immediately stepped over saying, “Si querido, que desea?”
“Dos taquitos y limonada, por favor,” said Tate.
“Tus regulares,” said the señora.
“Si gracias,” said Tate. He turned to Ben saying, “I eat lunch here every day. It’s the best food in Oaxaca and it won’t make you sick. Easy on the pesos too.”
“Have you been here long?”
“In Oaxaca?” said Tate. Ben nodded.
“Let’s see… five days now. I’m catching up.”
“Catching up?”
“To myself,” said Tate. “I was flaming out. Y’know, road-weary. I’ve been on the road for over a month now, coming up from South America.”
“Where in South America?”
“Ecuador. I was teaching English at The Academia Cotopaxi, a private school in Quito.”
“So you’re a teacher?”
“Not really. It was a chance thing. I was in Quito, trying to be a writer and running out of money.”
“Oh yah. That happens.”
“By chance I met a guy who had a friend and one thing led to another. I have a Masters in English, so it wasn’t a stretch to teach it. Soon enough I found myself with a shirt and tie in a classroom filled with bright-faced kids.”
“That must’ve been a challenge.”
“It wasn’t bad. I taught high school level, mostly to the children of Senators and Generals, children of privilege. Very upscale. Classes there are taught in English. The kids were well mannered, respectful, very teachable.”
“And now you’re going home.”
“More or less. I’m taking my time. I caught a flight from Quito to Panama City. Since then, I’ve been traveling overland.”
“You’re taking buses?”
“At first I traveled with another American from Panama through Costa Rica. He had a car. But he got sidetracked in La Fortuna, in Costa Rica that is. He ran into an old girlfriend, so then I was on my own.” Tate paused.
“And then?” said Ben.
“Buses. I’ve been taking buses.”
“So you came through Honduras.”
“Of course, you have to.”
“Did you go through a town called Copan Ruinas?”
“Oh hell yah. Big Mayan ruins there, y’know?”
“I know. In that town, did you see a place called The Hotel California?”
“That’s where I stayed.”
“Is it still run by a guy named Arnold?”
“Arnold Stone! What a character.”
“He’s an old friend of mine.”
“No!”
“Yeah.”
“Discúlpeme señores.” The señora placed plates of food in front of the two men. She set drinks down with the food.
“Gracias Maria,” said Tate. He immediately grabbed up a taquito and bit into it. “Sorry man, I’m starved.”
“Go for it,” said Ben.
Still chewing on his food, “So you know Arnold Stone.”
“We traveled together, many years ago.”
“Wait a minute. Are you the guy he crossed the Sahara with?”
“I suppose I am.”
“No shit!” said Tate. “You’re Benzo!”
“That’s what he called me.”
“Goddamn! You’re Benzo. Arnold talked a lot about you and the old beat up Volkswagen you guys had. He called it The Oven.”
With a chuckle, “It was a wreck. But it just kept running.”
“In the evenings Arnold liked to sit out in the courtyard having drinks with the guests. He traded stories with whoever was there. I was there for a week and it was a ritual I dearly enjoyed. He told many tales about the two of you and a third guy… Jack, was it?”
“Jack,” said Ben with a slight nod.
“Arnold went into some detail about your adventures in the Middle East and the Greek Islands.”
“Wow,” said Ben.
“Jesus,” said Tate. “Small world, huh?”
Ben smiled. “Yeah.”
One of the señoras set a bowl of salsa on the counter.
“What about your writing?” said Ben.
“I don’t know. It’s like, nothing I write seems to rise to the drama of my everyday life. Not these days. I think I need to take a break. I’m going back home to Austin.”
“Texas?”
“Yah, that’s where I’m from. I need to, y’know, hunker down for a while. Try to get some focus.”
“Good idea. Sometimes the best action is inaction.”
“I agree.” Tate thought for a moment. “I bet you could write a book. Y’know, about your times with Arnold. Or have you?”
“I’ve tried.”
The two men fell silent. Three campesinos passed behind Ben and Tate, carrying large bundles of fresh cut gladiolas. In the distance soft music of a Mariachi band scored the occasion.
The sun was setting when Gentry returned to the Hotel Destino. Sitting on the edge of the bed he stared vacantly out the window of his room. He was exhausted from his first day in Oaxaca. Still baffled by the dream he had that morning, he felt relieved at not being dead. But after five weeks on the road, the wear and tear of traveling was taking a toll. There was something in the nature of his journey he’d not anticipated. An odd sense of aloneness and the absence of all things familiar wore on him. Tate’s comment about ‘getting some New Mexico around him’ struck a chord with Ben.
He puzzled over his morning encounter at the Zocalo. Even though he just met her, Diane seemed familiar to him. He was sorry he got off to such a bad start with her and wondered if he’d ever see her again. The lunch with Tate and the news of Arnold certainly cheered him up. After all seeing his old friend again his boon companion from long ago, wasn’t that the reason he was on this journey?
In their youth he and Arnold shared a bond defined by hardship and adventure, the fullness of which was known only to the two of them. Three actually. There was Jack who joined up with them in Beirut in ’67. But Jack Taylor seemed to fall off the earth in the 1970s. The last anyone heard about Jack he was living deep in the wilderness of Alaska. Maybe Arnold would know something of Jack’s fate or whereabouts. Tired as he was Ben still felt an urge to keep going, to keep moving on. He didn’t like Oaxaca though he wasn’t sure why. And he knew there was no going back. “Back to what?” he thought. “The fire changed everything.”
To be continued…