I’m in a room at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. My agenda is to do some work on a novel that I began here on a previous visit. One of the things I’ve allowed myself to do is to read at night after dinner. There’s a television in one of the public rooms, but I have no idea—and I don’t want to have an idea—if
it’s been turned on. Mercifully, the Wi-Fi is too slow to accommodate streaming. I’m one of those people who can be easily seduced by television. But as brainy, as good-for-you, as some of my choices are, they’re still images on a screen, and not words on a page. There are a few books in every working space here. I assume that a few of them are written by previous occupants. Hidden on the shelf between last year’s Poets and Writers and a July, 2013, New Yorker was a fairly unlikely book: I Feel Bad About My Neck (and other thoughts on being a woman), by Nora Ephron. So I read it. I can read Middlemarch later. I know she wrote When Harry Met Sally. And Sleepless in Seattle, (which she also directed). Especially in this environment, I’m supposed to be too highbrow for her. But she’s a good writer. I guess I should say she was a good writer. She died in 2012—what I’m mandated to say is after a six year battle with cancer—six years after being diagnosed with cancer. Of course, I don’t identify with any of the specifically female things she talks about. I don’t particularly feel bad about my neck. I feel bad about other things. I’m not crazy about my arms. Any problems I’ve had with facial hair—and I’ve had some—are quite different than hers . I’ve also read her I Remember Nothing, written when she knew she was dying, and which includes a list of things she will miss (her husband and children) and things she won’t (email). The striking insight I found in I Feel Bad About My Neck is in the essay “Consider The Alternative.” She writes, “…I don’t know why so much nonsense about age is written…I am dancing around the D word, but I don’t mean to be coy. When you cross into your sixties, your odds of dying—or of merely getting horribly sick on the way to dying—spike. Death is a sniper.” There is, of course, a quite extensive body of books of those chronicling their sometimes terminal illness. These are not always cheery. There’s Old Age: A Beginner's Guide by Michael Kinsley about his own Parkinson’s, Dying: A Memoir, by Cory Taylor who had melanoma-related brain cancer which she dealt with unflinchingly, and Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir, by Paul Monette. Then there is the larger group of “dying” but coming back stories, the ones in which those who are “dying” leave their body and come into the light. These are remarkable, and very easy to take, because they offer proof of an afterlife. When those who have “died” come back, they come back from somewhere, and that somewhere is waiting for all of us. One of these is Heaven and Back: A Doctor's Extraordinary Account of Her Death, Heaven, Angels, and Life Again: A True Story, by Mary Neal. There’s also Heaven is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back, by Todd Burpo and Lynn Vincent, and Beyond Sight: The True Story of a Near-Death Experience, by Marion Rome. Even someone who, as the New York Times said, “declared war on the denial of death in America,” Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, still promulgated metaphors that, although they undoubtedly provided comfort to many, had the effect of making death acceptable (if not desirable). She was the originator of the since famous five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. In the forward to Kübler-Ross’ On Life After Death, Caroline Myss says that “dying is only moving from one house into a more beautiful one.” Kübler-Ross, even though her intention is clearly to say that knowledge of one’s death can be a spur to living life (the same thing that Brad Pitt’s character says in Fight Club), nonetheless says that “Death is as much a part of human existence, of human growth and development, as being born.” The surprising thing is that most books about aging and death have nothing bad to say about either. Aging is either:
A cursory search of Amazon reveals the following titles about aging: The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully, by Joan Chilttister, Aging as a Spiritual Practice: A Contemplative Guide to Growing Older and Wiser, by Lewis Richmond, and The Grace in Aging: Awaken as You Grow Older, by Kathleen Dowling Singh. The March, 2017, issue of Redbook includes the article “Look Great at Any Age,” which seems to promise that age is unrelated to appearance. Let’s suppose that we grant one of the claims above, which is that age brings wisdom. It certainly is true that experience often brings with it the ability to better understand events in the light of similar events that happened before. But it is also true that age brings with it the gradual (or abrupt) decline in physical abilities, including often skills as essential as walking, the fairly common onset of cognitive impairment, the greater and greater chance of a disease, the judgment of society that one has become irrelevant, and, of course, a daily journey closer to death itself. The knowledge of our own mortality seems to be uniquely human, although who knows? Animals certainly make every effort to avoid physical harm, which implies awareness of the consequences of such harm. Mammals especially seem to be in great distress when they are in a situation in which death is near (for instance, when they are being eaten). But they don’t seem to spend much time worrying about it. The Onion, a satirical website, had an article in which they claimed that: Scientists Successfully Teach Gorilla It Will Die Someday Tulane University researchers say Quigley is now able to experience the crippling fear of impending death previously only accessible to humans. The unfortunate thing is that humans can, indeed, access that fear, although they try hard not to. The prevailing view in the zeitgeist that age can be transcended, that it inevitably brings gifts that more than compensate for its costs, brings solace only to those not going through it. Of course someone not experiencing the insults of aging would prefer not to look at what actually happens: it’s too uncomfortable. The central idea in The Denial of Death, the 1973 book that won the 1974 Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction for its author, Ernest Becker, is that a person’s personality, and indeed, all of civilization, is organized to avoid contemplation of human mortality. This is the book that Diane Keaton gives to Woody Allen when they are breaking up in Annie Hall, saying that all the books about death are his. (It’s also on Bill Clinton’s list of twenty favorite books.) The book is also considered to be, at its heart, an apology for Christianity So the reason that, as Nora Ephron says, “so much nonsense is written” about aging, is, in a way, proof of the validity of Ernest Becker’s thesis. We have to put a good face on aging: —it brings us closer to the unmentionable Death, about which no word can be spoken. As Becker says in The Denial of Death, “What does it mean to be a self-conscious animal? The idea is ludicrous, if it is not monstrous. It means to know that one is food for worms. This is the terror: to have emerged from nothing, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression and with all this yet to die.” Perhaps the best way I’ve heard to face this essential truth is from a friend who died not so long ago at eighty: “We can acknowledge the fact of aging, but that doesn’t mean we have to hurry it along.” END
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 | Colin Ian Jeffery is an established English poet and novelist with a world-wide reputation. His books can be purchased from all good bookshops and Amazon. He is the younger of two sons, Anton his brother, two years older, father and mother, Frank and Betty Jeffery. When Colin was seven, a choirboy, he became entranced by poetry after hearing the twenty-third psalm read in church. The beauty of the words struck his soul like lightning and his Muse began to sing. He found poetry read on the BBC radio Home Service and listened in awe and delight to such poets as Dylan Thomas, John Betjeman, and Ted Hughes. |
What is poetry?
Colin Ian Jeffery is an established English poet and novelist with world-wide reputation, his books can be purchased from all good bookshops and Amazon.
* * *
I believe poetry to be the highest of mankind’s literary achievements, timeless, appealing down the ages, revealing imagery of a poet’s struggles and experiences, stresses, joys, passions, navigating life with determination and purpose. Poetry is word paintings, full of colours, bright and dark, creating from a few words images that inspire the imagination and enhance memories.
Poets use their experiences and emotions, often raw and painful, to share and inspire visions, good and bad, relationship with family, friends and most important with lovers. I myself compose best while in spiritual pain --- poems that are forged white hot, hammered out upon an anvil of anguish, exploring what it means to be a human being, and the adventures and excitement of being in love, suffering the distress of a broken heart, searching for meaning to the great mysteries of the Universe, and for God hiding in his everywhere.
Poetry should have a beat like the steady beat of a drum --- the poet painting a word picture seen within the mind that provides so much more than the words on a page. The Chinese say a picture is worth a million words. This is also true with a poem, which should be a springboard into the poet’s soul and inspire the reader to an array of emotions and experiences of life.
What would life be like without poetry? For me, it would be like having the sun in my universe perpetually eclipsed with darkness never yielding to a bright dawn of promise where the soul can soar free and be mountain high like eagles upon the wing.
The poet’s Muse composes within the secret landscape of the heart, and is as important to living as the beat of the heart and every breath that is taken. Poetry is the language of the soul, daily bread, sweet and joyful, sometimes sorrowful when the poet must out-pace purple storms while chased by thunder clouds and lightning bolts of unhappiness and grief.
In childhood
A voice called to me
And I hear it calling still.
Some fellow poets thoughts on what is poetry?
“Poetry is the medicine of the world. It soothes and ennobles the soul.”
Associate professor Feng Yan, China.
“The best words in the best order.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
“The record of the best and happiest moments of the best and happiest minds."
Percy Bysshe Shelley
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that it is poetry."
Emily Dickinson
“A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfilment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words.”
Robert Frost
“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.”
William Wordsworth
“Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.”
Dylan Thomas
“Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life.”
Matthew Arnold
“Poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.”
Stephen Spender
* * *
I believe poetry to be the highest of mankind’s literary achievements, timeless, appealing down the ages, revealing imagery of a poet’s struggles and experiences, stresses, joys, passions, navigating life with determination and purpose. Poetry is word paintings, full of colours, bright and dark, creating from a few words images that inspire the imagination and enhance memories.
Poets use their experiences and emotions, often raw and painful, to share and inspire visions, good and bad, relationship with family, friends and most important with lovers. I myself compose best while in spiritual pain --- poems that are forged white hot, hammered out upon an anvil of anguish, exploring what it means to be a human being, and the adventures and excitement of being in love, suffering the distress of a broken heart, searching for meaning to the great mysteries of the Universe, and for God hiding in his everywhere.
Poetry should have a beat like the steady beat of a drum --- the poet painting a word picture seen within the mind that provides so much more than the words on a page. The Chinese say a picture is worth a million words. This is also true with a poem, which should be a springboard into the poet’s soul and inspire the reader to an array of emotions and experiences of life.
What would life be like without poetry? For me, it would be like having the sun in my universe perpetually eclipsed with darkness never yielding to a bright dawn of promise where the soul can soar free and be mountain high like eagles upon the wing.
The poet’s Muse composes within the secret landscape of the heart, and is as important to living as the beat of the heart and every breath that is taken. Poetry is the language of the soul, daily bread, sweet and joyful, sometimes sorrowful when the poet must out-pace purple storms while chased by thunder clouds and lightning bolts of unhappiness and grief.
In childhood
A voice called to me
And I hear it calling still.
Some fellow poets thoughts on what is poetry?
“Poetry is the medicine of the world. It soothes and ennobles the soul.”
Associate professor Feng Yan, China.
“The best words in the best order.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
“The record of the best and happiest moments of the best and happiest minds."
Percy Bysshe Shelley
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that it is poetry."
Emily Dickinson
“A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfilment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words.”
Robert Frost
“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.”
William Wordsworth
“Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.”
Dylan Thomas
“Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life.”
Matthew Arnold
“Poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.”
Stephen Spender
 | Interviewer Usha Nagasamy has been writing on and off since her school days and has not been able to fully indulge her craving to write /translate until this venture. She resides for the past two decades in the Greater London area She is a Further Education College Lecturer and has done a lot of interpreting and translating as a freelancer for the local Tamil community. It has been her pleasure to be a small part of the Jayanthi Sankar's plethora of creative writing by translating a selected part of her short stories and the experience is an attestation of the success and richness of the stories, she says. |
 | Jayanthi Sankar has been in several international literary festivals, including the APWT 2018 at Gold coast. She loves reading fiction as much as experimenting with writing fiction. Her previous novel, Misplaced Heads, was on the Eyelands Book Awards 2020 final list in Greece. It made its mark – as an outstanding postmodern historical fiction of the decade. Her highly acclaimed work 'Dangling Gandhi' was the winner in fiction: short story in 2020 International Book Award American book fest. The Literary Titan award was another international award it also bagged apart from shortlists and nominations. She lives in Singapore. |
An ever-evolving, late bloomer novelist
Interview
Title: Misplaced Heads
Author: Jayanthi Sankar
Genre: (Literary/historical) fiction/Novel
Published by: zero degree publishers
Year of publication: 2020
ISBN: 978-93-90053-03-02
Pages: 489
Author: Jayanthi Sankar
Genre: (Literary/historical) fiction/Novel
Published by: zero degree publishers
Year of publication: 2020
ISBN: 978-93-90053-03-02
Pages: 489
(Usha Nagasamy in conversation with JAYANTHI SANKAR, the author of Misplaced Heads)
Usha Nagasamy: The central theme of the temple dancer's lot in life through various eras is captivating. What made you choose this field to base your novel on?
Jayanthi Sankar: Mridula, a classical dancer friend, and her keen interest over the years in getting her life adapted into a novel led me to think of researching deeper into what I had already known like anyone of us would. And to do that, I had to put away another theme I was sitting on for a decade.
During one of my earlier visits to India, referred by a friend, I had the opportunity to talk to a septuagenarian in Viralimalai, near Trichy. He took me to another house where one of his relatives lived. Nearly bedridden, she was older than him. A few more from the community had gathered there. I had gone there specifically to talk to one senior Mathukkannammaal, but she was out of the station. Unfortunately, I could not go there again as planned. I came to know of her from an article I'd read. I was happy that I managed to talk to them. They described to me from their memories the rituals and duties their parents and ancestors held a century back. Listening to them made me feel like I was transported back in time. Although my research reading gave me a lot more substance, those two to three hours would always stay engraved in my heart.
Usha Nagasamy: How has the almost matriarchal powerful feminine been reduced in dignity and moral standards? How has India's history made this shift?
Jayanthi Sankar: The conquests before the colonial era or even before that, during the regional conflicts and wars of medieval and premedieval times, the exotic system of temple women, and the temple centric community have had their ups and downs. But those were more to do with the wealth and physical aspects of their lives.
It was the British who believed that only their religion, their theories, their doctrines, their male dominance constituted the supreme civilized system of the world made the big change to the community by injecting their ways of thinking into the brains of the natives. It happened over time slowly, systematically and gradually and by the time the people of the land realized it, it was already too late. And as you've put it right, Indian History as a whole changed, and the people and the systems acquiesced as if they believed only that was natural or they had no other choice.
Usha Nagasamy: A lovely story from Indian mythology of the severed heads getting misplaced which has lent the concept to the captivating title. Could you elaborate a bit more on how this misplacement refers to other lives of characters in the novel too?
Jayanthi Sankar: I did get, as I normally do when I work on a wider canvas, several flashes of thoughts when I'm half asleep, or when I'm completely relaxed. And such moments have helped me in many ways, especially to look into the psychological sides and the inner worlds of my characters, mostly starkly different from what I am as a person. When the novel unfolded intensely, during one such alpha state of my sleep, along with a flash of the mythological story, the title flashed in me. After a couple of days of mulling over it, I felt the metaphor it rendered perfectly suits my novel. I felt my fiction could not have had a better title and therefore I stopped reconsidering a few others I had listed out.
The moment I put on walking shoes I would start talking -sometimes a little loudly, mostly arguing with the protagonist. It was before the covid19, and so I wore no mask on my face, and people would notice me talking away, alone, without any gadgets. Feeling their queer looks and stares I would smile and move on. I got used to those, soon, just as the others got used to my whiperings.
I realised my constant interactions with my characters during my long walks have helped me understand their thought processes. The role-play, and the changing of roles have also helped me unfold the novel. I lived mostly the life of the protagonist the whole of 2019. I used to come out into the real world to be me, Jayanthi, but only seldom for a short period of time. It was both pain and pleasure and all the aches did translate into unexplainable joy when I could revisit a week later to read my completed first draft, critically.
Usha Nagasamy: On a bigger canvas... Do you think women of India now seen as submissive and compliant have always been so? If not what has caused this change?
Jayanthi Sankar: Women of India, from what I have known, started losing their individuality when the British came in. I may sound biased but it is ideed a fact. From then on, it has mostly been one leg on that side and the other on this side. Later on, the thought processes leaned more towards western patterns, and the empowering needs through education during post-independence while in the later part of the last century, westernization happened naturally in both physical and intellectual sense. The association of the temple and religion with the temple women felt weird back then for the colonial minds. And that continues to remain the primary reason for many other restrictions formed in the society.
Some Indian women, as exceptions, who continued to hold on to their individualities and free-thinking, have always existed all the time.
Times are changing now, and loud voices are heard clearly. I feel, with globalization and widely used social media, Indian women are slowly moving towards the formation of an individuality of their own.
Usha Nagasamy: Do you think the colonial influence has had a far-reaching impact socially on not just the female but also the male collective psyche in India?
Jayanthi Sankar: Of course, the way the typical contemporary Indian male brain thinks today is entirely based on the residues of what was injected back then.
Not only have the ancient temple women contributed to art and culture but they were also the pillars of temple administration, naturally. They were literate and some of them have influenced rulers and kings in the political scenes. Many have been philanthropists, social influencers, and also policy changers. Until the Brits corrupted their minds, the native men were naturally accepting of the social equality as the norm. I understand that the temple women enjoyed the freedom of speech, freedom to choose partners, also the freedom to express, so much that the colonial rulers felt the women were dominating the men and that shocked them for they came from a stubborn Patriarchy.
In my opinion, this is one of the typical examples of how much of everlasting contamination have been possible by the British and their colonizing. They colonized the minds through their colonizing of the lands
Usha Nagasamy: You have attempted to hold the mirror up to show what various eras have been in a woman's world. Great job. But do you see any possible resolution resulting from the post-independence times and shifting social paradigms?
Jayanthi Sankar: The system about which I chose to write was that of women, and therefore the female characters and the woman-centric thought processes fell in their places naturally. The novel bloomed to be more feminine than I’d expected because the contemporary threads too happened to have more women characters.
Shifting of social paradigms could only happen when women empowered themselves through education and financial strength and that happened only after two generations past Indian Independence and after that the shift was more towards western thoughts and lifestyles.
In my understanding, there were many effects both expected and unexpected, in the society during and after the abolition of the system of devadasis when it happened two decades before Independence. It crushed the basic rights of the community of women and their livelihood because the majority of these women and their associates depended on the temple duties and rights to wages in kind and cash, and also rights to properties. That’s how it had always been for them, for more than a millennium and therefore they felt pathetically stranded. It was not at all easy for most of them to assimilate into the mainstream population.
While we talk of the ill effects of abolition, we can't deny the good results of another important abolition – that of the practice of Sati, a century before that. Though spearheaded by the Indian leader, Rajaram Mohan Roy, the colonial rulers did make the law and that did result in redeeming women, which happens to be an extremely important law. This is the best example of some of the few positive changes the colonial rulers brought about.
Usha Nagasamy: Do you advocate any particular line of thought that could be promoted to assist the blossoming of a social revolution?
Jayanthi Sankar: Honestly, that's too idealistic, I’m afraid. I do agree that as much as we constantly desire for transformations, we can't completely wipe away the colonization of our brains, of our thinking, of our ability to distinguish the right from the wrong, over two centuries, more than seven to eight generations. We all carry them in our genes. Another eight generations might be required for the grooves are really effaced. We can't go back to the same place but maybe begin on an entirely new identity.
And writers and thinkers, as much as we believe, are certainly capable of bringing positive changes in the thought processes but it can only be cumulative and never be linear or singular. It might take ages for any such big change we can wish for.
Frankly speaking, I think such a change should only be natural and spontaneous over time. I’ve always felt 'revolution' so much synonymous to 'sudden' or 'dramatic' and I’m not sure if people like me would even like such changes that might leave everlasting side effects just as the abolition did.
Usha Nagasamy: You touch upon many issues to deal with a woman's sanctum santorum, the huge spectrum of emotions of a woman that stem from biological, physiological, psychological, emotional, and a uniquely feminine mindset. You span topics from body consciousness, self-worth, self-deprecation, menstrual challenges, skilled intelligence coexisting with emotional insecurity, etc. How did these topics impact you in your personal experiences and received or encountered incidents from other women in your life?
Jayanthi Sankar: Undoubtedly, from all of the women, from all walks of life, from fighters to rebels, from thinkers to trendsetters, that I’ve always known, proudly. Gratefl to them all.
Fiction is, after all, a reflection of life which is a collection of experiences. A fiction writer continues to write for long only if she can be observant enough. She could not possibly write only from her direct experiences because I believe single life would never be enough to experience a tiny fraction of how much the human mind desires to and this happens to act as the catalyst for my creativity, I’ve observed.
And yes, Misplaced Heads also made me do something that I didn't plan. It made me write more on the inner worlds of my main characters - the psychological, physiological, emotional, depressive states of mind.
Usha Nagasamy: You touch on very deep topics such as social conditioning and societal norms and expectations. You have managed to steer clear of infusing your views in the words of your characters. I think that is masterfully executed. How has your long journey as a writer shaped you to arrive at this goal post effortlessly?
Jayanthi Sankar: It might seem effortless also to me if I were to watch a writer from outside but my journey has always had many memories both sweet and bitter, motivating and teaching constantly. The creative passion remains unwavering regardless of any of those highs or lows and that has always pushed me forward.
I was so much of an introvert until I was twenty. A late bloomer that I know myself to be, I grew up as a person, spiritually and otherwise as I grew as a reader, later as a writer. They were so much intertwined that they continue to be the cause and effect on each other.
The topics touched in the novel mostly came to the surface when I thought and analyzed like my characters. Normally, I become the character I create, thinking, and talking like it would, or should and I vanish. Those who know me, know that I’m the kind who would only subtly suggest with care and step back, never check or follow up on. That kind gentle detachment comes more from the respect I have for the other's wisdom, and to leave enough room for the person to think because I trust the intellect in her/him. Similarly, I think highly of my readers' abilities.
Usha Nagasamy: You have approached the non-linear way of storytelling with audacious simplicity. That is a refreshingly unique style. Could you shed some of your deep insights into this aspect of your captivating storytelling?
Jayanthi Sankar: I staunchly believe, a novel should never be- I give, you consume. It should be more of equal participation of the creator and the reader. I need to make my reader perceive my created world with the same awareness that I have of it - with all the unpredictables and all. Lack of that awareness might perhaps prevent a reader from even entering the world.
The same reader in a different state of mind, in a different circumstance, might be surprised by the ease at which he enters the same world.
On many ocassions, my readers read beyond what I had intended and that mostly strengthens my fiction, bringing joy to me.
Sadly though, experimental fiction is quite often mistaken for 'clueless' fiction. However, serious writers like me love to create a world that shows a lot more in layers than it tells explicitly. That is where the storytelling brings in me better scope to create a memorable reading experience. I have always love the feel of avoiding the common artificial hooks to pull my readers in or to hold them with a grip of some common predictable formulae. Even if it might mean throwing away some of my ideas, or to restructure them later on, I like going towards the unconventional ways of storytelling for I love to move towards originality and freshness I always desire to bring in my fiction.
Title: Misplaced Heads
Author: Jayanthi Sankar
Genre: (Literary/historical) fiction/Novel
Usha Nagasamy: The central theme of the temple dancer's lot in life through various eras is captivating. What made you choose this field to base your novel on?
Jayanthi Sankar: Mridula, a classical dancer friend, and her keen interest over the years in getting her life adapted into a novel led me to think of researching deeper into what I had already known like anyone of us would. And to do that, I had to put away another theme I was sitting on for a decade.
During one of my earlier visits to India, referred by a friend, I had the opportunity to talk to a septuagenarian in Viralimalai, near Trichy. He took me to another house where one of his relatives lived. Nearly bedridden, she was older than him. A few more from the community had gathered there. I had gone there specifically to talk to one senior Mathukkannammaal, but she was out of the station. Unfortunately, I could not go there again as planned. I came to know of her from an article I'd read. I was happy that I managed to talk to them. They described to me from their memories the rituals and duties their parents and ancestors held a century back. Listening to them made me feel like I was transported back in time. Although my research reading gave me a lot more substance, those two to three hours would always stay engraved in my heart.
Usha Nagasamy: How has the almost matriarchal powerful feminine been reduced in dignity and moral standards? How has India's history made this shift?
Jayanthi Sankar: The conquests before the colonial era or even before that, during the regional conflicts and wars of medieval and premedieval times, the exotic system of temple women, and the temple centric community have had their ups and downs. But those were more to do with the wealth and physical aspects of their lives.
It was the British who believed that only their religion, their theories, their doctrines, their male dominance constituted the supreme civilized system of the world made the big change to the community by injecting their ways of thinking into the brains of the natives. It happened over time slowly, systematically and gradually and by the time the people of the land realized it, it was already too late. And as you've put it right, Indian History as a whole changed, and the people and the systems acquiesced as if they believed only that was natural or they had no other choice.
Usha Nagasamy: A lovely story from Indian mythology of the severed heads getting misplaced which has lent the concept to the captivating title. Could you elaborate a bit more on how this misplacement refers to other lives of characters in the novel too?
Jayanthi Sankar: I did get, as I normally do when I work on a wider canvas, several flashes of thoughts when I'm half asleep, or when I'm completely relaxed. And such moments have helped me in many ways, especially to look into the psychological sides and the inner worlds of my characters, mostly starkly different from what I am as a person. When the novel unfolded intensely, during one such alpha state of my sleep, along with a flash of the mythological story, the title flashed in me. After a couple of days of mulling over it, I felt the metaphor it rendered perfectly suits my novel. I felt my fiction could not have had a better title and therefore I stopped reconsidering a few others I had listed out.
The moment I put on walking shoes I would start talking -sometimes a little loudly, mostly arguing with the protagonist. It was before the covid19, and so I wore no mask on my face, and people would notice me talking away, alone, without any gadgets. Feeling their queer looks and stares I would smile and move on. I got used to those, soon, just as the others got used to my whiperings.
I realised my constant interactions with my characters during my long walks have helped me understand their thought processes. The role-play, and the changing of roles have also helped me unfold the novel. I lived mostly the life of the protagonist the whole of 2019. I used to come out into the real world to be me, Jayanthi, but only seldom for a short period of time. It was both pain and pleasure and all the aches did translate into unexplainable joy when I could revisit a week later to read my completed first draft, critically.
Usha Nagasamy: On a bigger canvas... Do you think women of India now seen as submissive and compliant have always been so? If not what has caused this change?
Jayanthi Sankar: Women of India, from what I have known, started losing their individuality when the British came in. I may sound biased but it is ideed a fact. From then on, it has mostly been one leg on that side and the other on this side. Later on, the thought processes leaned more towards western patterns, and the empowering needs through education during post-independence while in the later part of the last century, westernization happened naturally in both physical and intellectual sense. The association of the temple and religion with the temple women felt weird back then for the colonial minds. And that continues to remain the primary reason for many other restrictions formed in the society.
Some Indian women, as exceptions, who continued to hold on to their individualities and free-thinking, have always existed all the time.
Times are changing now, and loud voices are heard clearly. I feel, with globalization and widely used social media, Indian women are slowly moving towards the formation of an individuality of their own.
Usha Nagasamy: Do you think the colonial influence has had a far-reaching impact socially on not just the female but also the male collective psyche in India?
Jayanthi Sankar: Of course, the way the typical contemporary Indian male brain thinks today is entirely based on the residues of what was injected back then.
Not only have the ancient temple women contributed to art and culture but they were also the pillars of temple administration, naturally. They were literate and some of them have influenced rulers and kings in the political scenes. Many have been philanthropists, social influencers, and also policy changers. Until the Brits corrupted their minds, the native men were naturally accepting of the social equality as the norm. I understand that the temple women enjoyed the freedom of speech, freedom to choose partners, also the freedom to express, so much that the colonial rulers felt the women were dominating the men and that shocked them for they came from a stubborn Patriarchy.
In my opinion, this is one of the typical examples of how much of everlasting contamination have been possible by the British and their colonizing. They colonized the minds through their colonizing of the lands
Usha Nagasamy: You have attempted to hold the mirror up to show what various eras have been in a woman's world. Great job. But do you see any possible resolution resulting from the post-independence times and shifting social paradigms?
Jayanthi Sankar: The system about which I chose to write was that of women, and therefore the female characters and the woman-centric thought processes fell in their places naturally. The novel bloomed to be more feminine than I’d expected because the contemporary threads too happened to have more women characters.
Shifting of social paradigms could only happen when women empowered themselves through education and financial strength and that happened only after two generations past Indian Independence and after that the shift was more towards western thoughts and lifestyles.
In my understanding, there were many effects both expected and unexpected, in the society during and after the abolition of the system of devadasis when it happened two decades before Independence. It crushed the basic rights of the community of women and their livelihood because the majority of these women and their associates depended on the temple duties and rights to wages in kind and cash, and also rights to properties. That’s how it had always been for them, for more than a millennium and therefore they felt pathetically stranded. It was not at all easy for most of them to assimilate into the mainstream population.
While we talk of the ill effects of abolition, we can't deny the good results of another important abolition – that of the practice of Sati, a century before that. Though spearheaded by the Indian leader, Rajaram Mohan Roy, the colonial rulers did make the law and that did result in redeeming women, which happens to be an extremely important law. This is the best example of some of the few positive changes the colonial rulers brought about.
Usha Nagasamy: Do you advocate any particular line of thought that could be promoted to assist the blossoming of a social revolution?
Jayanthi Sankar: Honestly, that's too idealistic, I’m afraid. I do agree that as much as we constantly desire for transformations, we can't completely wipe away the colonization of our brains, of our thinking, of our ability to distinguish the right from the wrong, over two centuries, more than seven to eight generations. We all carry them in our genes. Another eight generations might be required for the grooves are really effaced. We can't go back to the same place but maybe begin on an entirely new identity.
And writers and thinkers, as much as we believe, are certainly capable of bringing positive changes in the thought processes but it can only be cumulative and never be linear or singular. It might take ages for any such big change we can wish for.
Frankly speaking, I think such a change should only be natural and spontaneous over time. I’ve always felt 'revolution' so much synonymous to 'sudden' or 'dramatic' and I’m not sure if people like me would even like such changes that might leave everlasting side effects just as the abolition did.
Usha Nagasamy: You touch upon many issues to deal with a woman's sanctum santorum, the huge spectrum of emotions of a woman that stem from biological, physiological, psychological, emotional, and a uniquely feminine mindset. You span topics from body consciousness, self-worth, self-deprecation, menstrual challenges, skilled intelligence coexisting with emotional insecurity, etc. How did these topics impact you in your personal experiences and received or encountered incidents from other women in your life?
Jayanthi Sankar: Undoubtedly, from all of the women, from all walks of life, from fighters to rebels, from thinkers to trendsetters, that I’ve always known, proudly. Gratefl to them all.
Fiction is, after all, a reflection of life which is a collection of experiences. A fiction writer continues to write for long only if she can be observant enough. She could not possibly write only from her direct experiences because I believe single life would never be enough to experience a tiny fraction of how much the human mind desires to and this happens to act as the catalyst for my creativity, I’ve observed.
And yes, Misplaced Heads also made me do something that I didn't plan. It made me write more on the inner worlds of my main characters - the psychological, physiological, emotional, depressive states of mind.
Usha Nagasamy: You touch on very deep topics such as social conditioning and societal norms and expectations. You have managed to steer clear of infusing your views in the words of your characters. I think that is masterfully executed. How has your long journey as a writer shaped you to arrive at this goal post effortlessly?
Jayanthi Sankar: It might seem effortless also to me if I were to watch a writer from outside but my journey has always had many memories both sweet and bitter, motivating and teaching constantly. The creative passion remains unwavering regardless of any of those highs or lows and that has always pushed me forward.
I was so much of an introvert until I was twenty. A late bloomer that I know myself to be, I grew up as a person, spiritually and otherwise as I grew as a reader, later as a writer. They were so much intertwined that they continue to be the cause and effect on each other.
The topics touched in the novel mostly came to the surface when I thought and analyzed like my characters. Normally, I become the character I create, thinking, and talking like it would, or should and I vanish. Those who know me, know that I’m the kind who would only subtly suggest with care and step back, never check or follow up on. That kind gentle detachment comes more from the respect I have for the other's wisdom, and to leave enough room for the person to think because I trust the intellect in her/him. Similarly, I think highly of my readers' abilities.
Usha Nagasamy: You have approached the non-linear way of storytelling with audacious simplicity. That is a refreshingly unique style. Could you shed some of your deep insights into this aspect of your captivating storytelling?
Jayanthi Sankar: I staunchly believe, a novel should never be- I give, you consume. It should be more of equal participation of the creator and the reader. I need to make my reader perceive my created world with the same awareness that I have of it - with all the unpredictables and all. Lack of that awareness might perhaps prevent a reader from even entering the world.
The same reader in a different state of mind, in a different circumstance, might be surprised by the ease at which he enters the same world.
On many ocassions, my readers read beyond what I had intended and that mostly strengthens my fiction, bringing joy to me.
Sadly though, experimental fiction is quite often mistaken for 'clueless' fiction. However, serious writers like me love to create a world that shows a lot more in layers than it tells explicitly. That is where the storytelling brings in me better scope to create a memorable reading experience. I have always love the feel of avoiding the common artificial hooks to pull my readers in or to hold them with a grip of some common predictable formulae. Even if it might mean throwing away some of my ideas, or to restructure them later on, I like going towards the unconventional ways of storytelling for I love to move towards originality and freshness I always desire to bring in my fiction.
Title: Misplaced Heads
Author: Jayanthi Sankar
Genre: (Literary/historical) fiction/Novel
San Francisco writer Penny Skillman often writes about the marginalized citizens among us. Her fiction, essays and poems have appeared in diverse publications, among them the San Francisco Chronicle and Examiner, AVA, and California Poetry Quarterly. Her novella, The Cats' Journal, was a Small Press Review Book-of-the-Month and was excerpted for a Berkeley KPFA radio show reading, as was a section of her novella, What Happened to Easter. She's completing a travel memoir about Spain and Florida.
On Editing
Once after I’d put together a rough draft, an outline really, of a planned travel manuscript, I asked a very good friend who’d worked as a professional editor to read it. She did. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read any single bit of this,” she said. Embarrassed at having jumped the gun putting a raw forty-page draft out, I replied “Well, that’s a beginning.” The humiliated writing self puts up a defense instinctively, maybe because, what else is there to a writer’s life if nothing, not even a draft plan, can be make to work?. With much more experience I came to value totally frank criticism. Such experiences offer growth as a writer, if you stick with it you learn to see each piece of your own work more objectively, to put it “out there,” to not get emotionally attached to it, at least not until a work is done or published in any case..
I’ve also lost a friendship or two through being too harsh reading someone else’s work. It taught me to find out first what precisely the writer wanted out of any editorial read. And I’ve even been forgiven now and again. So I’ve wondered about the relationship between consultation reads of writing and the writers. Recently I came across a copy of Walter Isaacson’s Benjamin Franklin: An American Life. In it is a story that I think displays Ben Franklin’s pragmatic genius. It took place at the 1776 Continental Congress, the gang of activist thinkers who voted for American Independence from Britain.
Thomas Jefferson was 33 then, and he was considered an eloquent writer by his peers, so he was enlisted to write up a Declaration of Independence. The Continental Congress formed itself into a committee to read and consider his draft. First Ben Franklin did a light edit of it. Then the committee had at it, and large sections were removed. They cut by more than half the draft’s final five paragraphs. Jefferson, who’d worked so hard on it, was, understandably, distraught. Later on, he told of his experience there.
“ I was sitting by Dr. Franklin,” Jefferson related, “who perceived that I was not insensible to these mutilations.” Franklin, a much older man, sought to console Jefferson, and, while taking Jefferson’s attention from his dismay told Jefferson a story of his own experience when as a young printer he put together a shop sign for a friend who was starting out in the hat making business. Franklin said of the hat maker’s sign, “He composed it in these words, ‘John Thompson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,’ with a figure of a hat subjoined. But he (Franklin) thought he would submit it to his friends for their amendments. The first he showed it to thought the word ‘Hatter’ tautologous, because followed by the words ‘makes hats,’ which showed he was a hatter. It was struck out. The next observed that the word ‘makes’ might as well be omitted, because his customers would not care who made the hats. He struck it out. A third said he thought the words ‘for ready money’ were useless, as it was not the custom of the place to sell on credit. Everyone who purchased expected to pay. They were parted with; and the inscription now stood, ‘John Thompson sells hats.’ ‘Sells hats!’ says his next friend, ‘Why, nobody will expect you to give them away. What then is the use of that word?’ It was stricken out and ‘hats’ followed, the rather as there was one painted on the board. So his inscription was reduced ultimately to ‘John Thompson,’ with the figure of a hat subjoined.”
I can imagine that all newspaper editors are required to read this story as prerequisite for their jobs – and it shows how Ben Franklin was a steady-on personality in the midst of contentious and high-pressure affairs. I always liked the way he edited his own characteristics and behaviors, making lists, looking to improve himself with perseverance and discipline. Everyone can take something from Franklin’s lists of self-improvement goals, yet he was never rigidly self-severe, although he was often then and now criticized for his pragmatic approach. His effacing humor makes him the Founding Father I like to love because he took joy in his life and work, he was a social creature while dedicated to production. That’s exactly the way I’d like to live vis a vis my own writing, if possible.
I’ve also lost a friendship or two through being too harsh reading someone else’s work. It taught me to find out first what precisely the writer wanted out of any editorial read. And I’ve even been forgiven now and again. So I’ve wondered about the relationship between consultation reads of writing and the writers. Recently I came across a copy of Walter Isaacson’s Benjamin Franklin: An American Life. In it is a story that I think displays Ben Franklin’s pragmatic genius. It took place at the 1776 Continental Congress, the gang of activist thinkers who voted for American Independence from Britain.
Thomas Jefferson was 33 then, and he was considered an eloquent writer by his peers, so he was enlisted to write up a Declaration of Independence. The Continental Congress formed itself into a committee to read and consider his draft. First Ben Franklin did a light edit of it. Then the committee had at it, and large sections were removed. They cut by more than half the draft’s final five paragraphs. Jefferson, who’d worked so hard on it, was, understandably, distraught. Later on, he told of his experience there.
“ I was sitting by Dr. Franklin,” Jefferson related, “who perceived that I was not insensible to these mutilations.” Franklin, a much older man, sought to console Jefferson, and, while taking Jefferson’s attention from his dismay told Jefferson a story of his own experience when as a young printer he put together a shop sign for a friend who was starting out in the hat making business. Franklin said of the hat maker’s sign, “He composed it in these words, ‘John Thompson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,’ with a figure of a hat subjoined. But he (Franklin) thought he would submit it to his friends for their amendments. The first he showed it to thought the word ‘Hatter’ tautologous, because followed by the words ‘makes hats,’ which showed he was a hatter. It was struck out. The next observed that the word ‘makes’ might as well be omitted, because his customers would not care who made the hats. He struck it out. A third said he thought the words ‘for ready money’ were useless, as it was not the custom of the place to sell on credit. Everyone who purchased expected to pay. They were parted with; and the inscription now stood, ‘John Thompson sells hats.’ ‘Sells hats!’ says his next friend, ‘Why, nobody will expect you to give them away. What then is the use of that word?’ It was stricken out and ‘hats’ followed, the rather as there was one painted on the board. So his inscription was reduced ultimately to ‘John Thompson,’ with the figure of a hat subjoined.”
I can imagine that all newspaper editors are required to read this story as prerequisite for their jobs – and it shows how Ben Franklin was a steady-on personality in the midst of contentious and high-pressure affairs. I always liked the way he edited his own characteristics and behaviors, making lists, looking to improve himself with perseverance and discipline. Everyone can take something from Franklin’s lists of self-improvement goals, yet he was never rigidly self-severe, although he was often then and now criticized for his pragmatic approach. His effacing humor makes him the Founding Father I like to love because he took joy in his life and work, he was a social creature while dedicated to production. That’s exactly the way I’d like to live vis a vis my own writing, if possible.
Jarmila K Sullivan was born in Czechoslovakia. She became a refugee when the Soviet Union invaded her homeland. She lived in England, Hong Kong and Monte Carlo before settling in New York City, where she is a writer. Her short stories have been published in bioSories, Tint Journal, Nixes Mate Review, Ariel Chart among others. Her story Encounter With The Future is currently nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
ENCOUNTER WITH THE FUTURE
In a shabby one-room school, a scrawny little boy walked slowly toward the teacher’s desk, hoping to delay the inevitable punishment. The teacher stood in front of his desk and in his right hand held a long, thin piece of wood, which made a swish in the air just before it hit its target. He was tapping it softly on his left palm, as if to test its agility. He eyed the boy and said in a cruel, cold voice:
“You are getting two extra whips for walking slow.”
The boy shivered and sped up. As he was taught, he offered his hand, fingers gathered together like a rose bud, exposing the soft, unprotected tip of his fingers to the cruelty of a wooden whip. He was not sure whether it was harder to withstand the pain or to suppress the tears. Letting the tears appear in front of the teacher meant further punishment.
The teacher was dressed in the latest “hussar “ fashion. His trousers were tucked in his boots, which were polished to perfection. His hair, glistening with pomade, looked very dark against the white color that peaked out of his tight jacket. The jacket was held even tighter at the waist with a wide belt, a belt he was not shy to use. Many children had the scars to attest to it. His mustache was twisted upwards at the ends and the boy could see his lips curled in an ugly smile.
“This will help you walk faster,” the teacher hit the boy two times.
“This will help you remember that you are Hungarian and to speak Hungarian instead of local gibberish.” He raised the whip and hit hard three times.
The boy managed to control his tears, but when he sat on the hard wooden bench, he could feel that his pants were wet.
The year was 1910, the place was a little village called Myjava, which belonged to the Hungarian part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The punishment for speaking Slovak was swift and certain. The little boy’s name was Jan and he did learn to speak Hungarian, but when Slovakia became part of the newly formed Czechoslovakia in 1918, he vowed never to speak it again.
***
Sixty years later, Jan sat on another hard wooden bench. The place was Victoria Station in London. Fear, less ominous but equally imminent, was descending on his bent, tired shoulders.
He had traveled from Czechoslovakia to see his daughter who lived in London. Excited to see her, Jan was one of the first to get off the train. A crowd gathered behind the gate as people waited for their loved ones to appear. A few times, Jan thought that he spotted his daughter but it turned out to be someone else’s child. He watched as the people started to thin out.
He found a bench not too far from where his train had arrived, in case his daughter came a bit late. He sat down and checked his pockets again to see if he could find the paper with his daughter’s address, which his wife told him to “guard with his life.” He gave up figuring out where and how he may have lost it. It was gone.
The big clock in the middle of the station said 7:00 pm, and the crowd from his train was gone. He had to face the possibility that his daughter did not receive the last letter with his arrival time. He knew that, if she had, she would have come.
Jan watched as people hurried toward their destinations. He did not speak English so the voices in the train station were just noise to him. As he pondered what to do, he noticed a tall young man walking towards him. Next to him walked a person who looked like an older version of the teacher that had made him wet his pants. His fingers tingled in memory. He was mesmerized by a vision of so long ago.
As he watched the young man walking next to his “old nemesis” Jan felt very alone and could not help feeling a bit of envy at their reunion. When they got close to his bench, out of the hum of the station, he clearly recognized the words, “are you thirsty papa?” spoken in Hungarian. Jan jumped off his bench and interrupted father and son.
“Please can you help me? My daughter and I missed each other and I don’t know how to find a train to get to her.” He had not spoken Hungarian in decades and was surprised how much he still remembered. The young man stopped, looked at his father and told him to sit on the bench where the stranger had sat just moments before.
“Don’t move papa” the young man said to his father, “I don’t want to lose you.”
Then he turned to the stranger and asked. “Where does your daughter live?”
“Ipswich,” said Jan, thinking there was no point telling the stranger the whole story about the lost address.
The young man frowned. “That is a long way from London. Are you sure she is not here?”
“I don’t know, but I do know how to get to her in Ipswich,” Jan said with a tired look.
“All right.” The young man realized that the man before him had probably endured the same long train journey across Europe that his own father had made.
“Do you have money for the train to Ipswich?” He asked kindly.
“Yes.” Jan reached into his breast pocket and gave the young man a white envelope with English money.
When they reached the ticket window, the young man counted the money and realized that the stranger was short by a few shillings. He bought Jan the ticket, making up the difference with his own money. Then he put Jan on the train, which stood not far from where he had left his own father. Jan thanked the young man in his best Hungarian and they shook hands.
It was the first time he had willingly shaken hands with a Hungarian, let alone with genuine gratitude. Jan was still waving to the young man from the window of the train when the older man joined his son on the platform. Jan watched them walking away when, suddenly, the older man turned around and hurried toward Jan’s window. Jan could hear his heart pound in what he knew to be an irrational fear but he continued to stand up. The older man handed him a small travel bag through the window.
“My son said you have a long way to go,” he said, as he handed Jan a small parcel. “Take this. My wife always packs too much.”
“Thank you very much,” said Jan. He watched father and son talking and gesticulating as people who have not seen each other for a long time tend to do. He understood. How ironic, he thought, that the language that was literally “beat into him” would help him so many years later.
He let the tears roll freely on his wrinkled cheeks. He closed his eyes as if to bar the painful image of the past out of his memory. He took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dried his eyes.
“Today I got food,” he said aloud and opened the bag that the Hungarian had handed him just moments before. “Ah, a salami sandwich, green paprika and small bottle of red wine.” He smiled and bit into the sandwich with gusto.
As the train pulled out of the Victoria train station, night fell on London but Jan felt lightness in his heart, beyond the satisfaction of his stomach.
***
The young woman stood by the gate marked “Trains from Dover.” She was straining her eyes to see her father. Her lips were still smiling as she was getting ready to greet her father, but her eyes started to fill with tears and her heart beat loud in fear. “Is he going to be the last off the train?” She mumbled more in hope than annoyance. The last passenger had passed her and the train pulled out of the station.
Suddenly, a terrible idea crossed her mind. “What if my father fell asleep and the train goes…where???” She ran to the information booth but was reassured by two separate employees that the conductor walks through the train more than once before the train is allowed to leave the station. They told her to speak to the station’s police.
“There is no passenger list miss,” said the police officer.
“Can you call the border and see if my father arrived in England?” She pleaded, her voice laden with sobs.
“No miss, there are hundreds of people working at the border. How can I know whom to call? No, there is no central list.”
The senior policeman, a former bobby, felt sorry for the distraught young woman.
“Are you sure you have the right date miss?” He asked kindly. “ Do you have your father’s letter with you?”
No, she did not, but the idea that she had made a mistake and that it was the wrong day for her father’s arrival gave her hope. Sitting on the tube on the way home, it was this hope that kept her from descending into panic.
***
Decades passed before I was able to smile at the memory. My father came to London so that he could be there for my twenty first birthday. Today was my father’s birthday. He would have been 105 years old. I moved across the pond to New York City long ago and I still missed him. My cell phone rang. It was my daughter. We were planning our mother-daughter lunch, so she called to make sure that I had the right place and time. I put the phone close to my heart and held it tight.
After a frantic night, my father and I did connect the next morning. He may have lost my London address, but he was able to find the house where I used to live in Ipswich. He was there with me on that fatal day in August 23, 1968, when Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. Not surprisingly the place stayed edged in my father’s memory. Brian, who still lived in the house and with whom I kept in touch, drove my father to London. I thanked my friend profusely, but was sad that I could not thank the two kind men who helped my father at the railway station.
“Every time you help a stranger,” my father reassured me, “you will thank them.”
I let that guide my life.
What had happened? At the time, trains coming from the “Continent” arrived at a separate part of the train station. At the border, all passengers had to disembark and go through border control and customs inspection, carrying their suitcases. My father went to get a drink of water and found himself at the domestic side of the train station at Dover, where he had crossed into England. It did not occur to him that it would matter which train he took as long as the sign said it was going to London’s Victoria station. By the time the policeman and I checked the domestic side “just in case,” it was 8:00 pm and my father was on his way to Ipswich.
For my father the episode had a far-reaching consequence. The kindness of complete strangers undermined my father’s resentment and erased the old pain he had carried with him from youth. His decision to leave the painful history in the past both healed and liberated him. “Sometimes memory is our enemy.” He said to me. “It can teach people not to trust each other. Even worse, seek revenge.”
I often wondered, if there were a scale to show how much evil we have learned to avoid from history, as opposed to how much anger and distrust and revenge we carry forward from it, which way would the scale tip?
***
I was the first to arrive for the lunch with my daughter. I asked for a table next to the window. One of the best things about New York City, I felt, was people watching. There was a story inside each person who walks by. It made me feel as if I were in a library full of books in progress.
I could see my daughter walking toward the restaurant. Tall, athletic, she walked with a confidence of a young woman who knew who she was, what she wanted, and was willing to work to achieve it.
“Hello mum, I have something to tell you.” That’s my daughter. She gets to the point. “I met a boy, a while ago actually, and I really like him”. I waited because I knew her well enough to know that she was not finished. “I think he might be a keeper.”
“Well,” I said non-committal, “I look forward to meeting him.”
“You will like him,” she said with certainty, “his father is Hungarian. I know that you will have a lot in common.”
For a brief moment I thought about getting back the money I paid for her education but I smiled instead and said, “You are right, we were neighbors in Europe.”
No history. My father would be pleased.
Initially published in bioStories
“You are getting two extra whips for walking slow.”
The boy shivered and sped up. As he was taught, he offered his hand, fingers gathered together like a rose bud, exposing the soft, unprotected tip of his fingers to the cruelty of a wooden whip. He was not sure whether it was harder to withstand the pain or to suppress the tears. Letting the tears appear in front of the teacher meant further punishment.
The teacher was dressed in the latest “hussar “ fashion. His trousers were tucked in his boots, which were polished to perfection. His hair, glistening with pomade, looked very dark against the white color that peaked out of his tight jacket. The jacket was held even tighter at the waist with a wide belt, a belt he was not shy to use. Many children had the scars to attest to it. His mustache was twisted upwards at the ends and the boy could see his lips curled in an ugly smile.
“This will help you walk faster,” the teacher hit the boy two times.
“This will help you remember that you are Hungarian and to speak Hungarian instead of local gibberish.” He raised the whip and hit hard three times.
The boy managed to control his tears, but when he sat on the hard wooden bench, he could feel that his pants were wet.
The year was 1910, the place was a little village called Myjava, which belonged to the Hungarian part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The punishment for speaking Slovak was swift and certain. The little boy’s name was Jan and he did learn to speak Hungarian, but when Slovakia became part of the newly formed Czechoslovakia in 1918, he vowed never to speak it again.
***
Sixty years later, Jan sat on another hard wooden bench. The place was Victoria Station in London. Fear, less ominous but equally imminent, was descending on his bent, tired shoulders.
He had traveled from Czechoslovakia to see his daughter who lived in London. Excited to see her, Jan was one of the first to get off the train. A crowd gathered behind the gate as people waited for their loved ones to appear. A few times, Jan thought that he spotted his daughter but it turned out to be someone else’s child. He watched as the people started to thin out.
He found a bench not too far from where his train had arrived, in case his daughter came a bit late. He sat down and checked his pockets again to see if he could find the paper with his daughter’s address, which his wife told him to “guard with his life.” He gave up figuring out where and how he may have lost it. It was gone.
The big clock in the middle of the station said 7:00 pm, and the crowd from his train was gone. He had to face the possibility that his daughter did not receive the last letter with his arrival time. He knew that, if she had, she would have come.
Jan watched as people hurried toward their destinations. He did not speak English so the voices in the train station were just noise to him. As he pondered what to do, he noticed a tall young man walking towards him. Next to him walked a person who looked like an older version of the teacher that had made him wet his pants. His fingers tingled in memory. He was mesmerized by a vision of so long ago.
As he watched the young man walking next to his “old nemesis” Jan felt very alone and could not help feeling a bit of envy at their reunion. When they got close to his bench, out of the hum of the station, he clearly recognized the words, “are you thirsty papa?” spoken in Hungarian. Jan jumped off his bench and interrupted father and son.
“Please can you help me? My daughter and I missed each other and I don’t know how to find a train to get to her.” He had not spoken Hungarian in decades and was surprised how much he still remembered. The young man stopped, looked at his father and told him to sit on the bench where the stranger had sat just moments before.
“Don’t move papa” the young man said to his father, “I don’t want to lose you.”
Then he turned to the stranger and asked. “Where does your daughter live?”
“Ipswich,” said Jan, thinking there was no point telling the stranger the whole story about the lost address.
The young man frowned. “That is a long way from London. Are you sure she is not here?”
“I don’t know, but I do know how to get to her in Ipswich,” Jan said with a tired look.
“All right.” The young man realized that the man before him had probably endured the same long train journey across Europe that his own father had made.
“Do you have money for the train to Ipswich?” He asked kindly.
“Yes.” Jan reached into his breast pocket and gave the young man a white envelope with English money.
When they reached the ticket window, the young man counted the money and realized that the stranger was short by a few shillings. He bought Jan the ticket, making up the difference with his own money. Then he put Jan on the train, which stood not far from where he had left his own father. Jan thanked the young man in his best Hungarian and they shook hands.
It was the first time he had willingly shaken hands with a Hungarian, let alone with genuine gratitude. Jan was still waving to the young man from the window of the train when the older man joined his son on the platform. Jan watched them walking away when, suddenly, the older man turned around and hurried toward Jan’s window. Jan could hear his heart pound in what he knew to be an irrational fear but he continued to stand up. The older man handed him a small travel bag through the window.
“My son said you have a long way to go,” he said, as he handed Jan a small parcel. “Take this. My wife always packs too much.”
“Thank you very much,” said Jan. He watched father and son talking and gesticulating as people who have not seen each other for a long time tend to do. He understood. How ironic, he thought, that the language that was literally “beat into him” would help him so many years later.
He let the tears roll freely on his wrinkled cheeks. He closed his eyes as if to bar the painful image of the past out of his memory. He took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dried his eyes.
“Today I got food,” he said aloud and opened the bag that the Hungarian had handed him just moments before. “Ah, a salami sandwich, green paprika and small bottle of red wine.” He smiled and bit into the sandwich with gusto.
As the train pulled out of the Victoria train station, night fell on London but Jan felt lightness in his heart, beyond the satisfaction of his stomach.
***
The young woman stood by the gate marked “Trains from Dover.” She was straining her eyes to see her father. Her lips were still smiling as she was getting ready to greet her father, but her eyes started to fill with tears and her heart beat loud in fear. “Is he going to be the last off the train?” She mumbled more in hope than annoyance. The last passenger had passed her and the train pulled out of the station.
Suddenly, a terrible idea crossed her mind. “What if my father fell asleep and the train goes…where???” She ran to the information booth but was reassured by two separate employees that the conductor walks through the train more than once before the train is allowed to leave the station. They told her to speak to the station’s police.
“There is no passenger list miss,” said the police officer.
“Can you call the border and see if my father arrived in England?” She pleaded, her voice laden with sobs.
“No miss, there are hundreds of people working at the border. How can I know whom to call? No, there is no central list.”
The senior policeman, a former bobby, felt sorry for the distraught young woman.
“Are you sure you have the right date miss?” He asked kindly. “ Do you have your father’s letter with you?”
No, she did not, but the idea that she had made a mistake and that it was the wrong day for her father’s arrival gave her hope. Sitting on the tube on the way home, it was this hope that kept her from descending into panic.
***
Decades passed before I was able to smile at the memory. My father came to London so that he could be there for my twenty first birthday. Today was my father’s birthday. He would have been 105 years old. I moved across the pond to New York City long ago and I still missed him. My cell phone rang. It was my daughter. We were planning our mother-daughter lunch, so she called to make sure that I had the right place and time. I put the phone close to my heart and held it tight.
After a frantic night, my father and I did connect the next morning. He may have lost my London address, but he was able to find the house where I used to live in Ipswich. He was there with me on that fatal day in August 23, 1968, when Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. Not surprisingly the place stayed edged in my father’s memory. Brian, who still lived in the house and with whom I kept in touch, drove my father to London. I thanked my friend profusely, but was sad that I could not thank the two kind men who helped my father at the railway station.
“Every time you help a stranger,” my father reassured me, “you will thank them.”
I let that guide my life.
What had happened? At the time, trains coming from the “Continent” arrived at a separate part of the train station. At the border, all passengers had to disembark and go through border control and customs inspection, carrying their suitcases. My father went to get a drink of water and found himself at the domestic side of the train station at Dover, where he had crossed into England. It did not occur to him that it would matter which train he took as long as the sign said it was going to London’s Victoria station. By the time the policeman and I checked the domestic side “just in case,” it was 8:00 pm and my father was on his way to Ipswich.
For my father the episode had a far-reaching consequence. The kindness of complete strangers undermined my father’s resentment and erased the old pain he had carried with him from youth. His decision to leave the painful history in the past both healed and liberated him. “Sometimes memory is our enemy.” He said to me. “It can teach people not to trust each other. Even worse, seek revenge.”
I often wondered, if there were a scale to show how much evil we have learned to avoid from history, as opposed to how much anger and distrust and revenge we carry forward from it, which way would the scale tip?
***
I was the first to arrive for the lunch with my daughter. I asked for a table next to the window. One of the best things about New York City, I felt, was people watching. There was a story inside each person who walks by. It made me feel as if I were in a library full of books in progress.
I could see my daughter walking toward the restaurant. Tall, athletic, she walked with a confidence of a young woman who knew who she was, what she wanted, and was willing to work to achieve it.
“Hello mum, I have something to tell you.” That’s my daughter. She gets to the point. “I met a boy, a while ago actually, and I really like him”. I waited because I knew her well enough to know that she was not finished. “I think he might be a keeper.”
“Well,” I said non-committal, “I look forward to meeting him.”
“You will like him,” she said with certainty, “his father is Hungarian. I know that you will have a lot in common.”
For a brief moment I thought about getting back the money I paid for her education but I smiled instead and said, “You are right, we were neighbors in Europe.”
No history. My father would be pleased.
Initially published in bioStories
Sara Kil lives in Orange County, CA. She is part of the Fashioned Magazine and West Angeles Church Blog. She has her blog, kilsara.blogspot.com. Check out her other writings on fashionedmagazine.blogspot.com. You can find her work in Scarlet Leaf Review, Blue Guitar & Blue Guitar Jr. magazine, and featured in Voyage LA magazine. Contact her at kilsarablog@gmail.com
ART AND LIFE WITH SOPHIA HYUN
Artist Statement:
Sophia is an abstract artist based in the US. And Hyun’s artworks are inspired by nature, music, travel, and meditation. In her years of experience as a designer, she developed an affinity for color and composition. Sophia’s technique involves a harmonious blending of forms and layers with in-the-movement intuitive expression and the integration of a variety of materials. Each painting represents an exploration of the contents of her heart and soul. Sophia hopes that each viewer will discover his or her own personal interpretation of her artwork. Visit http://www.sophiahyunart.com or @sophiahyunart on Instagram.
Artist Interview Questions
What’s your background?
Fashion Business and Design, Architecture and Interior Design, and hold a B.A. from UCLA.
What does your artwork represent?
My artwork represents the journey of spiritual experiences learned in the words of grace, hope, love, faith, and forgiveness.
What does your art mean to you?
It’s a constant search and discoveries of the existence and happenings in life. It is a self-portrait of myself.
What inspires you?
The words in the Bible, meditation, nature, music, and travel inspires me.
Who are your biggest artistic influences?
In the world of Art: Mark Rothko, Picasso, Georgia O’Keefee, Joan Miró, Gerhard Richter, Jackson Pollack, Piet Mondrian, Bridget Riley, Wassily Kandinsky, Artemisia Gentileschi, Rembrandt, and Demien Hirst.
What advice would you give to your younger self?
“It’s okay to make mistakes.” “Forgive yourself.” “We must rely on the Lord’s strength more, not our own.”
What is your favorite color?
It’s hard to say since I love all colors.
What are your hobbies?
I like getting out to nature. I love hiking and taking walks by the beach.
Which museum(s) do you enjoy?
In LA, I like the Getty Museum, The Broad, Norton Simon Museum, and LACMA.
What gives you the most joy?
To have discovered my purpose in life using gifts and talents that God gave me. I am thankful that I can connect with people through my art and share my faith. My creativity for painting has given me a new fulfilling purpose in life.
How does your faith impact your artwork?
My faith ignites my work. It opens my mind to explore the multifaceted nature of the human spiritual experience. My abstract artworks allow me to experience a state of hyperawareness and connection with the words.
What is your favorite Bible verse?
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:31 New International Version (NIV)
Sophia is an abstract artist based in the US. And Hyun’s artworks are inspired by nature, music, travel, and meditation. In her years of experience as a designer, she developed an affinity for color and composition. Sophia’s technique involves a harmonious blending of forms and layers with in-the-movement intuitive expression and the integration of a variety of materials. Each painting represents an exploration of the contents of her heart and soul. Sophia hopes that each viewer will discover his or her own personal interpretation of her artwork. Visit http://www.sophiahyunart.com or @sophiahyunart on Instagram.
Artist Interview Questions
What’s your background?
Fashion Business and Design, Architecture and Interior Design, and hold a B.A. from UCLA.
What does your artwork represent?
My artwork represents the journey of spiritual experiences learned in the words of grace, hope, love, faith, and forgiveness.
What does your art mean to you?
It’s a constant search and discoveries of the existence and happenings in life. It is a self-portrait of myself.
What inspires you?
The words in the Bible, meditation, nature, music, and travel inspires me.
Who are your biggest artistic influences?
In the world of Art: Mark Rothko, Picasso, Georgia O’Keefee, Joan Miró, Gerhard Richter, Jackson Pollack, Piet Mondrian, Bridget Riley, Wassily Kandinsky, Artemisia Gentileschi, Rembrandt, and Demien Hirst.
What advice would you give to your younger self?
“It’s okay to make mistakes.” “Forgive yourself.” “We must rely on the Lord’s strength more, not our own.”
What is your favorite color?
It’s hard to say since I love all colors.
What are your hobbies?
I like getting out to nature. I love hiking and taking walks by the beach.
Which museum(s) do you enjoy?
In LA, I like the Getty Museum, The Broad, Norton Simon Museum, and LACMA.
What gives you the most joy?
To have discovered my purpose in life using gifts and talents that God gave me. I am thankful that I can connect with people through my art and share my faith. My creativity for painting has given me a new fulfilling purpose in life.
How does your faith impact your artwork?
My faith ignites my work. It opens my mind to explore the multifaceted nature of the human spiritual experience. My abstract artworks allow me to experience a state of hyperawareness and connection with the words.
What is your favorite Bible verse?
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:31 New International Version (NIV)
Sophia Hyun’s Artwork
Wondrous Awakening ll
Wondrous Day
Amazing Grace
Untitled
Wondrous Hope
Wondrous Faith
It’s a Wonderful World
Freedom
Sophia’s work has been featured in the following publications.
Visit http://www.sophiahyunart.com or @sophiahyunart on Instagram.
Artwork Granted with Permission from Sophia Hyun
Artwork Granted with Permission from Sophia Hyun
 | Ryan Osswald is a musician and guitarist living in the Green Mountains of Vermont. He drinks black coffee and enjoys the feeling of his voice cracking under the moon. Ryan spent time traveling and working in the Western United States and Latin America and is very grateful to be back home in the amazing creative community that is Vermont. |
WERO OAZAQUENO
News of a swell in Chacahua had come to the streets, and the line ups of La Punta. Jesus, or ‘Chilla’ confirmed.
“Hey white boy,” he said with a smile. “Que onda?” or ‘what’s up?’ in Mexican slang.
“Big wave coming, here and Chacahua,” he said in his broken English. “But better there for you, cause you learning. Good…long wave.” He made the shape of a wave curling with his hands as if he were holding a magic ball.
“You can ride one wave, all the way, long ride, is good.” He made a half whistle sound and then gave a little shaka.
“Hey white boy,” he said with a smile. “Que onda?” or ‘what’s up?’ in Mexican slang.
“Big wave coming, here and Chacahua,” he said in his broken English. “But better there for you, cause you learning. Good…long wave.” He made the shape of a wave curling with his hands as if he were holding a magic ball.
“You can ride one wave, all the way, long ride, is good.” He made a half whistle sound and then gave a little shaka.
Jesus bringing me lunch
We stuffed our boards into the front seat of a taxi and then piled into the back seat, sitting shoulder to shoulder for the hour plus ride north to Chacahua. I heard them talking about going the night before in the water. I knew Ari from the coffee shop attached to the hostel called Akumal down the street and asked him if I could tag along. We decided to taxi all the way there rather than take a bus and then hop out and wait for a cheaper ‘collectivo’ or communal taxi, which was a pick-up truck that had tarp covered benches in the back. It also had a wooden platform above the cabin where you’d often see little kids crawl up and share a ride with their mothers produce. The ride would cost around $30-$40 USD split three ways but compared to the hassle of multiple transfers and lugging our stuff around in the blazing Oaxacan sun it was worth it.
Ari was from Israel and spoke little Spanish so, after falling asleep on my shoulder I asked Giacobo, or ‘Giaco’ if I could practice some Spanish with him. We shared stories of our travels. He told me about pistachio ice cream in Sicily and the pasta of Tuscany.
“You-can’t-put-a-pineapple-on-the-pizza!” He said as if it were one long loping Italian word. We talked about Colombia, where we had both travelled.
“The mountains!” He praised with raised eyebrows, almost wondering if I had felt the same things or seen the same things.
“Ahhhhh, yes!” I agreed.
“Oh, man that place is incredible.”
“The women?” I invited
“Too good man”
The land of magical realism. The place where you see things you can’t explain. The place where I saw a white fox while riding my bike up the steep hills past El Salado through the low hanging jungle fog near ‘El Catedral’, former “prison” of Pablo Escobar on the outskirts of Envigado. I don’t know if they even exist there, but it felt like an apparition.
I reflected on the time I was sitting at a restaurant down the street from our apartment with my friend and roommate who hailed from Pereira, a city of 700,000 people, the largest in the coffee growing region and about 5 hours south of Medellin. An old man was asking for money to play songs on his harmonica. I sighed and complained to my friend saying how this was getting old. Someone always trying to sell you something. Especially cocaine if you were white. He explained to me how many farmers and families, had been forced from their homes to escape the violence related to drug-trafficking and political unrest to look for work in places like Medellin and other cities in Colombia. (Since the mid 80’s, and as of 2014, an estimated 6 million people have been displaced from their homes in Colombia. The second highest in the world just behind Syria. Basically, refugees inside their own country.) I remembered that moment, feeling ashamed for being upset with this old man. A sweet old man just wandering the streets. I realized instantly how good I had it. I looked at him again, I looked in his eyes and realized he may have seen and experienced things so horrible I could never imagine. I saw his struggle to keep hope, and our common human bond, as he marched off into the night.
The sleeping beauty of Israel awoke drooling on my shoulder with a groggy look and a soft swoop of a yawn. We reached the little boat town of El Zapotalito on the eastern edge of the lagoon. It was the launching point for most visitors who would then charter some type of boat to get to Galera, or as it was commonly referred to, Chacahua. They cracked a beer, and I drank some water. Giaco wanted weed and gave our boat taxi driver $100 MXP ($5USD), after which he promptly disappeared on a dirt bike. I had a feeling he was gone for good. The plan was to have his 12-year-old side kick and second mate take us by boat to a house on the lagoon. He wasn’t there so, for some reason we went back to where we started from via boat to look for him. We saw an older looking gentleman who seemed friendly and explained the situation to him. He laughed and said,
“No es confiable.” He is not trustworthy.
The little kid was scurrying around village looking for our man. He seemed genuine and sincere, like he really wanted to find him for us. It felt like I was watching an old silent comedy reel. This little kid going to and from anyone that would listen to him. It all seemed so perfectly orchestrated. How many people had they ripped off before? I really didn’t think the kid was in on it, and I honestly felt bad for him. Meanwhile, we tried to explain to the old man that we didn’t care about the money and just wanted to be on our way. He offered us a ride in his boat, and we loaded up.
Ari was from Israel and spoke little Spanish so, after falling asleep on my shoulder I asked Giacobo, or ‘Giaco’ if I could practice some Spanish with him. We shared stories of our travels. He told me about pistachio ice cream in Sicily and the pasta of Tuscany.
“You-can’t-put-a-pineapple-on-the-pizza!” He said as if it were one long loping Italian word. We talked about Colombia, where we had both travelled.
“The mountains!” He praised with raised eyebrows, almost wondering if I had felt the same things or seen the same things.
“Ahhhhh, yes!” I agreed.
“Oh, man that place is incredible.”
“The women?” I invited
“Too good man”
The land of magical realism. The place where you see things you can’t explain. The place where I saw a white fox while riding my bike up the steep hills past El Salado through the low hanging jungle fog near ‘El Catedral’, former “prison” of Pablo Escobar on the outskirts of Envigado. I don’t know if they even exist there, but it felt like an apparition.
I reflected on the time I was sitting at a restaurant down the street from our apartment with my friend and roommate who hailed from Pereira, a city of 700,000 people, the largest in the coffee growing region and about 5 hours south of Medellin. An old man was asking for money to play songs on his harmonica. I sighed and complained to my friend saying how this was getting old. Someone always trying to sell you something. Especially cocaine if you were white. He explained to me how many farmers and families, had been forced from their homes to escape the violence related to drug-trafficking and political unrest to look for work in places like Medellin and other cities in Colombia. (Since the mid 80’s, and as of 2014, an estimated 6 million people have been displaced from their homes in Colombia. The second highest in the world just behind Syria. Basically, refugees inside their own country.) I remembered that moment, feeling ashamed for being upset with this old man. A sweet old man just wandering the streets. I realized instantly how good I had it. I looked at him again, I looked in his eyes and realized he may have seen and experienced things so horrible I could never imagine. I saw his struggle to keep hope, and our common human bond, as he marched off into the night.
The sleeping beauty of Israel awoke drooling on my shoulder with a groggy look and a soft swoop of a yawn. We reached the little boat town of El Zapotalito on the eastern edge of the lagoon. It was the launching point for most visitors who would then charter some type of boat to get to Galera, or as it was commonly referred to, Chacahua. They cracked a beer, and I drank some water. Giaco wanted weed and gave our boat taxi driver $100 MXP ($5USD), after which he promptly disappeared on a dirt bike. I had a feeling he was gone for good. The plan was to have his 12-year-old side kick and second mate take us by boat to a house on the lagoon. He wasn’t there so, for some reason we went back to where we started from via boat to look for him. We saw an older looking gentleman who seemed friendly and explained the situation to him. He laughed and said,
“No es confiable.” He is not trustworthy.
The little kid was scurrying around village looking for our man. He seemed genuine and sincere, like he really wanted to find him for us. It felt like I was watching an old silent comedy reel. This little kid going to and from anyone that would listen to him. It all seemed so perfectly orchestrated. How many people had they ripped off before? I really didn’t think the kid was in on it, and I honestly felt bad for him. Meanwhile, we tried to explain to the old man that we didn’t care about the money and just wanted to be on our way. He offered us a ride in his boat, and we loaded up.
Surf safari
We finally hit the water in the peak afternoon. The breeze from the lagoon was a heavenly contrast to our search for the dirt weed bandit in the dusty lot. As we slid into the mangroves the sound of the motor dropped. The colors came into focus and the shade of the trees blossomed around us as we made our way through the tight passage that connected the two main bodies of water. I absorbed the hushed blues and greens of the underbrush as the leaves combed my hair. The occasional stork or heron silently fluttering away. We were passing through an ancient fishing portal en-route to our secluded strip of beach.
Chacahua is a popular place to escape for foreigners and Mexicans alike. Most of the camping is free provided you agree to eat at the restaurant that hosts the camping area. If you want a cabana they are relatively cheap as well.
Surf Safari
After we got checked in, we walked out to the end of the jetty and watched some long boarders getting the last waves of the day. On our walk out we made friends with the dirtiest little white collie you’ve ever seen. He had little dread locks from all the sand and salt water, so we nick named him ‘Dog Marley’. We decided there was enough time to try and pack a few waves so, we walked back with our new buddy and paddled out.
There were about ten people out besides the three of us. I recognized a group from La Punta escaping the crowds for a few days like ourselves. There was another group of three surfing near us- two women and one guy. The guy had reddish hair and looked Australian or Irish. The girls were tan and very fit. One of them had fun, infectious energy, while the other seemed darker, more mysterious yet shy at the same time.
After a slow dinner on the beach we saw them idling in front of the mezcaleria. I knew the guys wanted to chat with the girls, so I said, ‘hello’ to break the ice. Max, to my surprise, was from Mallorca and had dark red hair and a beard. His dad was from South Africa hence the light complexion. Dinorah, full of energy on land and in the water, whether it was her on a wave or someone she knew, made you feel welcomed. She was alive and made you feel alive too. Made you feel glad you were in Mexico. She and Max had met working on a charter boat catering to high end clientele in different parts of the world. He was staying in Zipolite where she helped run a pizza joint called Mestizzo. Maya worked across the street from Mestizzo in a hotel and restaurant called Posada. She was half Mexican, half Italian on her fathers’ side. Her mother Marisol, who helped run the restaurant/hotel had joined them for the trip as well. We bought a round of mezcal to sip on and joined them at the tables and chairs strewn in the sand. Max showed me where the swell was on his phone using a weather radar app. He explained to me that the pressure wasn’t quite low enough but that we’d have to keep an eye on it over the next couple days. After a while we were all getting on quite nice. Giaco, being from Milan was chatting with Maya in Italian, and they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. Ari was laughing and having a good time with Dinorah and Marisol. He was telling them that he was going to cook them Shakshuka.
“I’m gonna make you Shakshuka like you’ve never had before,” he said in his funny sounding English that was endearing and made you laugh at the same time. Over dinners we would all argue over which country had the best tomatoes, or apples, or food in general. It became a sport.
“In Israel, we have watermelons that don’t even have seeds, they are so good man,” he explained. Giaco and I looked at each other slightly confused as it dawned on us that we also had those in our respective countries.
“Yeah, we have those too.” I said.
After a slight pause, he replied
“That is because we sold you the technology.”
We were dying. Man, Ari cracked us up.
Later, as I was chatting with Marisol, reggae music was spilling out of cheap speakers into the warm air. She told me a bit about Maya’s father and their travels to and from Italy. She told me about the restaurant and how business was going. I told her I was a bike tour guide and was spending a couple months on the coast, starting with a week in Mexico City. Some salsa music came on and I took her hand and asked her if she wanted to dance. I was still getting the hang of it, but it was fun to practice when I could. Her skin was a beautiful dark rosewood. She was attractive and intelligent. I could relate to her a little more than the others and after a month of being surrounded by mostly surfers it was a relief to talk with someone who had a refined sense of humor. I thought she must have been in her late 40’s early 50’s but I wasn’t sure.
After a joint got passed around my Spanish improved a bit. After it got passed around a second time, not so much. It was harder to find the words let alone sentences. I switched back to English.
“I can’t speak in Spanish anymore.” I confessed and handed her the spliff.
“Ahhh, don’t worry, you did great.” She assured me. “You just need more of this.” We laughed. I told her I wouldn’t be able to speak in any language if I had any more.
We made plans to surf together in the morning with the group. There was a left just west of us on the opposite side of the headland. We said our goodnights and shuffled back to our cabana laughing, talking shit, dragging our feet in the sand, and looking out over the water up at the stars lining the Milky Way. The waves gently lapping to our right. We were in collective awe of our temporary home.
In the morning we were giddy for some waves. After a quick coffee from our hosts kitchen, Giaco and I headed down the beach to reconvene with our crusty-eyed companions to scope out what was happening over the hill. Max was standing stoically.
“The girls are still sleeping,” he told us in his flat South African accent, “but they’re gonna meet up with us in a bit.”
We paddled across the mouth of the lagoon in the soft grey-blue light of the morning sky. Are there crocodiles in here? I thought to myself. There was a crocodile sanctuary close by, but we were safe. We climbed the trail to the top of the lookout just south of ‘el faro’ or, the lighthouse. The dirt and rocks transitioned to sand as we made our way down. Lizards scanned our intentions with their ancient eyes, peaking from behind weathered posts, and little wooden shacks that looked like hide outs from the last century lined the trail.
The wave was a fast, peeling left with a steep drop. There were two other guys out. I recognized one of them from back in Puerto.
“La Punta,” I said with a head nod.
“¿Si, Buena onda no?” ‘Buena onda’ is like good vibes. Similar to when people said, ‘que onda?’ it meant ‘what’s up’ or ‘what’s the vibe?’ An expression left over from the 60’s and 70’s. I assumed he was talking about La Punta the neighborhood, but he could have just as easily been talking about the waves.
Chacahua is a popular place to escape for foreigners and Mexicans alike. Most of the camping is free provided you agree to eat at the restaurant that hosts the camping area. If you want a cabana they are relatively cheap as well.
Surf Safari
After we got checked in, we walked out to the end of the jetty and watched some long boarders getting the last waves of the day. On our walk out we made friends with the dirtiest little white collie you’ve ever seen. He had little dread locks from all the sand and salt water, so we nick named him ‘Dog Marley’. We decided there was enough time to try and pack a few waves so, we walked back with our new buddy and paddled out.
There were about ten people out besides the three of us. I recognized a group from La Punta escaping the crowds for a few days like ourselves. There was another group of three surfing near us- two women and one guy. The guy had reddish hair and looked Australian or Irish. The girls were tan and very fit. One of them had fun, infectious energy, while the other seemed darker, more mysterious yet shy at the same time.
After a slow dinner on the beach we saw them idling in front of the mezcaleria. I knew the guys wanted to chat with the girls, so I said, ‘hello’ to break the ice. Max, to my surprise, was from Mallorca and had dark red hair and a beard. His dad was from South Africa hence the light complexion. Dinorah, full of energy on land and in the water, whether it was her on a wave or someone she knew, made you feel welcomed. She was alive and made you feel alive too. Made you feel glad you were in Mexico. She and Max had met working on a charter boat catering to high end clientele in different parts of the world. He was staying in Zipolite where she helped run a pizza joint called Mestizzo. Maya worked across the street from Mestizzo in a hotel and restaurant called Posada. She was half Mexican, half Italian on her fathers’ side. Her mother Marisol, who helped run the restaurant/hotel had joined them for the trip as well. We bought a round of mezcal to sip on and joined them at the tables and chairs strewn in the sand. Max showed me where the swell was on his phone using a weather radar app. He explained to me that the pressure wasn’t quite low enough but that we’d have to keep an eye on it over the next couple days. After a while we were all getting on quite nice. Giaco, being from Milan was chatting with Maya in Italian, and they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. Ari was laughing and having a good time with Dinorah and Marisol. He was telling them that he was going to cook them Shakshuka.
“I’m gonna make you Shakshuka like you’ve never had before,” he said in his funny sounding English that was endearing and made you laugh at the same time. Over dinners we would all argue over which country had the best tomatoes, or apples, or food in general. It became a sport.
“In Israel, we have watermelons that don’t even have seeds, they are so good man,” he explained. Giaco and I looked at each other slightly confused as it dawned on us that we also had those in our respective countries.
“Yeah, we have those too.” I said.
After a slight pause, he replied
“That is because we sold you the technology.”
We were dying. Man, Ari cracked us up.
Later, as I was chatting with Marisol, reggae music was spilling out of cheap speakers into the warm air. She told me a bit about Maya’s father and their travels to and from Italy. She told me about the restaurant and how business was going. I told her I was a bike tour guide and was spending a couple months on the coast, starting with a week in Mexico City. Some salsa music came on and I took her hand and asked her if she wanted to dance. I was still getting the hang of it, but it was fun to practice when I could. Her skin was a beautiful dark rosewood. She was attractive and intelligent. I could relate to her a little more than the others and after a month of being surrounded by mostly surfers it was a relief to talk with someone who had a refined sense of humor. I thought she must have been in her late 40’s early 50’s but I wasn’t sure.
After a joint got passed around my Spanish improved a bit. After it got passed around a second time, not so much. It was harder to find the words let alone sentences. I switched back to English.
“I can’t speak in Spanish anymore.” I confessed and handed her the spliff.
“Ahhh, don’t worry, you did great.” She assured me. “You just need more of this.” We laughed. I told her I wouldn’t be able to speak in any language if I had any more.
We made plans to surf together in the morning with the group. There was a left just west of us on the opposite side of the headland. We said our goodnights and shuffled back to our cabana laughing, talking shit, dragging our feet in the sand, and looking out over the water up at the stars lining the Milky Way. The waves gently lapping to our right. We were in collective awe of our temporary home.
In the morning we were giddy for some waves. After a quick coffee from our hosts kitchen, Giaco and I headed down the beach to reconvene with our crusty-eyed companions to scope out what was happening over the hill. Max was standing stoically.
“The girls are still sleeping,” he told us in his flat South African accent, “but they’re gonna meet up with us in a bit.”
We paddled across the mouth of the lagoon in the soft grey-blue light of the morning sky. Are there crocodiles in here? I thought to myself. There was a crocodile sanctuary close by, but we were safe. We climbed the trail to the top of the lookout just south of ‘el faro’ or, the lighthouse. The dirt and rocks transitioned to sand as we made our way down. Lizards scanned our intentions with their ancient eyes, peaking from behind weathered posts, and little wooden shacks that looked like hide outs from the last century lined the trail.
The wave was a fast, peeling left with a steep drop. There were two other guys out. I recognized one of them from back in Puerto.
“La Punta,” I said with a head nod.
“¿Si, Buena onda no?” ‘Buena onda’ is like good vibes. Similar to when people said, ‘que onda?’ it meant ‘what’s up’ or ‘what’s the vibe?’ An expression left over from the 60’s and 70’s. I assumed he was talking about La Punta the neighborhood, but he could have just as easily been talking about the waves.
Manuel, La Punta
La Punta Zicatela or, La Punta as the locals and everyone referred to it was the town just south of Puerto Escondido. It was more laid back and down to earth than the center of Puerto Escondido. The surf culture and local working-class culture where intertwined here and in La Punta, it was especially visible. A five-minute walk in any direction could get you hand-made tortillas for a peso each. You could get wood cut for your next home improvement project at a little lumber yard up the street, or get your motorcycle fixed around the corner. At any hour of the day you could spot kids running with surfboards tucked underarm heading to the water while ancient trucks delivered produce to the markets. There was a guy who rode around with a cooler attached to his motorcycle selling freshly butchered meat out of the back. There was a surfboard or ‘ding’ repair guy on every little dirt road. One night I heard a large brass band tearing through ‘son’ or ‘banda’ music at a rodeo for hours on end without stop. Men wearing plaid, denim, and cowboy hats drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes. ‘Yeah man, we gonna ride some bulls… and drink some beers.’ One guy told me. There were families eating food and milling about. The band played for 6 hours straight until 1:00 am. Usually the nights were calm though, with most of the noise coming from dogs and roosters. Maybe a few friends drinking some beers together, playing pool or ping pong at a bar. Down closer to the beach you had the usual suspects of a surf town, hostels, parties, yoga studios, acai bowls, surf schools, etc.
Mother and Daughter, El Cafetal
I caught two nice lefts and had a nice wipeout or two. Giaco’s board was a little long for these waves but he was going for it with a smile on his face as usual. Max was a solid surfer and had grown up surfing in Mallorca. He was confident and unflinching. He caught a lot of waves. Dinorah and Maya showed up and brought some extra sparkle to the water. It’s nice to have women in the water surfing. It seems to relax things and make it more fun.
“Dale mami!” Dinorah yelled, as Maya dropped down the face of a wave.
You could tell they’d spent a lot of time in the water. They were strong surfers and had a laid-back attitude that only comes from living in a place like Zipolite. (The only place in Mexico with a nude beach.) The waves were starting to close out and one by one we filtered out. Giaco and I were last to wash up on shore. Back at the water crossing we met some Mexican tourists and a fisherman who had just got back with what looked like a large Snook or robalo, and he decided to stay and talk shop after they offered a beer. I was parched and hungry for Huevos Rancheros so, I politely declined and paddled across. As I parted I heard them talking about what fish were biting, the lines they used, and other things that men drinking beer at 10 in the morning talk about- official business.
After breakfast, and some long seaward gazing from the hammocks, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a large grey whale breach the water. I sprung from my seat without breaking eye contact with the ocean and stood next to Ari. It was a few hundred yards out but still massive in appearance, as if every movement were in slow motion. Even the spray of the water was in no hurry to return from its momentary displacement. I saw a second smaller whale, maybe a calf. It was mid-January, and they were headed back to the Sea of Cortez and would be gone by March or April. Without any waves at the main break, and not much else going on, this was the highlight of the afternoon. In a place like Chacahua, you had time to savor this type of thing. A place where time as a concept was put on hold until further notice.
After some pizza in plastic chairs we were back at the Mezcal bar the following evening. We had just finished a nice evening session just to get in the water. Bad surf is still good swimming. Surfing just after sunset along this strip of Pacific coast in the Americas is a treat to the eyes. The water turns a smooth obsidian and a translucent jade at the waves edge where the water is breaking and less thick. I’ve reached states of transcendental bliss and surfed until complete darkness on many occasions. “You no see…the wave…only…you feel.” Jesús would guide me. We were on the second-floor balcony sitting in some much need couches. Creature comforts. The guys were making plans to visit Zipolite. I was staring up at the stars, half listening, head fully cocked back. The smokiness of the mezcal filled my chest cavity, like an internal Rorschach. I saw a shooting star but kept it to myself. No one likes bad news. I bought a bottle of passion fruit infused mezcal for my brother, which we would later drink on the night before his wedding a year later in Portland, Maine.
We made our way back to La Punta the same way we had come, by foot, by boat and by taxi. A few days later Max had reached out and said he wanted to come see Puerto Escondido and surf the local break. I offered him a place to stay and he was there soon after dark. He mentioned a friend named Sergio, whom he had met at Maya’s birthday party in Zipolite. Sergio was living in Barra de La Cruz and said we could go visit him if we wanted. I told Max we could get a lift with my neighbor who was driving there the next day.
Apparently, my neighbor had told a few other people the same thing because there ended up being five of us in the bed of his pick-up truck. The truck bed was all legs and longboards. I struggled for a comfortable position, but there was no use. After three hours of twisting through the mountains and dodging oncoming traffic, the lower half of my body was half asleep, and my legs reluctantly began the painful waking up process. I could not wait to get out. We made our way down to the water and hit some mediocre surf. Afterwards, we got dropped off in “town” and waited for Sergio at a restaurant that was known for its pizza. Sergio was a very laid-back dude and spoke a sort of, mellow Californian surfer English. He had just gotten off work at his government job in Huatulco. He started telling us about the local spots and the area in general. His job was in Hautulco- there wasn’t much going on in Barra he said, you had to travel for work. We slowly got to know each other over beers. Nothing is forced or rushed in Mexico, for better or for worse. There was a big teenager belting it out in the corner singing Mexican rancheros, eyes half closed over softly strummed guitar with the beautiful drunken sorrow of an old man. We all cheered and hooted and hollered and ordered more margaritas. This was Mexico after all.
I could tell Sergio liked to have a good time. He had an endless repertoire of American movie and pop-culture references. He knew how to hold serve in a match and he liked to bust your balls. They started talking about going out and I said, “No thanks.”
“Yeah, we are gonna go to Hautulco, hit the strip clubs. You are coming with us.” He said and gave a slanted eyed smile to Max.
“No way, I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m game.” Max said
“No, come with us bro. Plus where you gonna go? You don’t know where I live. You have to come with us.” He smiled and winked at Max. I knew he was just fucking with me but after a long day in the sun I wasn’t sure. We loaded our boards in his white Jeep Cherokee and started driving, I hoped, towards his house.
“Don’t worry man, you can stay here.” He said. Thankfully, Max was game, and I was off the hook. He showed me to a room with two beds. “You can stay here. And there’s an air-conditioner.” Better words had not been spoken in a while. The air down here was hot. Always hot. Like, heat stroke hot if you went out in the middle of the day.
After they left, I showered off and went outside to check the place out. We were on the second floor and out of the front door was a patio and a yard. There were lights strewn around the perimeter. Two hammocks hung between dark wooden posts across the stone floor patio. A couch lined the wall of the house, and on the other side of the door two blue kayaks were leaning against the wall. I didn’t notice his German Sheppard, Reef, starting at me, probably wondering who the hell I was, until out of the corner of my eye I saw him slowly coming towards me. They say dogs can sense fear, but I have never sensed it so much from a dog. I felt it. Our eyes locked, ‘shit’ I thought to myself. He looked scared, worried. My skin started crawling once I knew he was going to come at me. I shivered with goosebumps as I grabbed the handle to the front door. He ran towards me barking loudly, “No!” I think I managed to yell at him.
Fuck! I screamed once inside. I was still shaking with adrenaline. Holy shit! I jumped in the air trying to escape my skin for a moment. I thought for sure he was going to bite me and maybe worse. I was seconds inside the door, and he was still barking. The sound was filling the house and reverberating through the metal roof straight into my head and between my ears.
“No! No! Bad boy!” I yelled mainly just to show him I was in charge and in control of the situation. He was just afraid and so was I. The whole thing had caught me off guard. One minute I was staring off into the sky listening to the sounds of chirping crickets in the faded yellow glow of the old hanging lights, and the next I was being stalked by a large dog that I didn’t know. I barely even remembered he was there. I was very relieved to be inside without having shed any skin. There was no cell service or internet in town so contacting Max or Sergio would’ve been impossible and any doctor, if there was one, was probably sleeping. After relaxing and another Corona, I laid down and drifted off into a deep sleep.
Sergio in Barra de La Cruz
After getting home at 4:00 am Sergio rallied back to life to go check out the surf. We spent a little time in the water working for the small rights on hand that day. There weren’t many people in the water. The surf school that was there the night before had left and besides a young girl surfing it was basically empty Barra de La Cruz, all to ourselves. It was an amazing place. Something I had seen in magazines, but it felt so different to be here. So peaceful. We came back a couple hours later and found Max lying in one of the hammocks. He had sunglasses on, and fuchsia lipstick smeared all over his mouth from the night before. I’m sure he felt like a hot mess, but he looked like a work of art. Something out of ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’, the surf edition. We made a fresh pot of French press coffee and joined Max outside. We were talking about where to go surfing later that evening. Sergio mentioned a place about 10 minutes away that might be working. I was sitting on the couch sipping my coffee and felt a ping of melancholy for my former self. I remembered a particularly dreary, rainy day at my last job. I was looking at magazines of people traveling the world and doing things they loved in all these amazing locations in such a happenstance fashion. I remember feeling like they didn’t realize what they had, like they’d always had it, and that if I were in their place, I’d appreciate it more. ‘How do people live like this?’ I thought. A year later I somehow manifested a job as a bike tour guide and a few years later here I was in a surfer’s paradise staying at a cushy Mexican bungalow. Something I had been dreaming and talking about for years. I laughed to myself, realizing all those people were just people like myself. On their way to and from somewhere else. People who had worked hard and made sacrifices to get where they were and were enjoying it. And that everyone’s life looks better to someone else from the outside.
“Dale mami!” Dinorah yelled, as Maya dropped down the face of a wave.
You could tell they’d spent a lot of time in the water. They were strong surfers and had a laid-back attitude that only comes from living in a place like Zipolite. (The only place in Mexico with a nude beach.) The waves were starting to close out and one by one we filtered out. Giaco and I were last to wash up on shore. Back at the water crossing we met some Mexican tourists and a fisherman who had just got back with what looked like a large Snook or robalo, and he decided to stay and talk shop after they offered a beer. I was parched and hungry for Huevos Rancheros so, I politely declined and paddled across. As I parted I heard them talking about what fish were biting, the lines they used, and other things that men drinking beer at 10 in the morning talk about- official business.
After breakfast, and some long seaward gazing from the hammocks, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a large grey whale breach the water. I sprung from my seat without breaking eye contact with the ocean and stood next to Ari. It was a few hundred yards out but still massive in appearance, as if every movement were in slow motion. Even the spray of the water was in no hurry to return from its momentary displacement. I saw a second smaller whale, maybe a calf. It was mid-January, and they were headed back to the Sea of Cortez and would be gone by March or April. Without any waves at the main break, and not much else going on, this was the highlight of the afternoon. In a place like Chacahua, you had time to savor this type of thing. A place where time as a concept was put on hold until further notice.
After some pizza in plastic chairs we were back at the Mezcal bar the following evening. We had just finished a nice evening session just to get in the water. Bad surf is still good swimming. Surfing just after sunset along this strip of Pacific coast in the Americas is a treat to the eyes. The water turns a smooth obsidian and a translucent jade at the waves edge where the water is breaking and less thick. I’ve reached states of transcendental bliss and surfed until complete darkness on many occasions. “You no see…the wave…only…you feel.” Jesús would guide me. We were on the second-floor balcony sitting in some much need couches. Creature comforts. The guys were making plans to visit Zipolite. I was staring up at the stars, half listening, head fully cocked back. The smokiness of the mezcal filled my chest cavity, like an internal Rorschach. I saw a shooting star but kept it to myself. No one likes bad news. I bought a bottle of passion fruit infused mezcal for my brother, which we would later drink on the night before his wedding a year later in Portland, Maine.
We made our way back to La Punta the same way we had come, by foot, by boat and by taxi. A few days later Max had reached out and said he wanted to come see Puerto Escondido and surf the local break. I offered him a place to stay and he was there soon after dark. He mentioned a friend named Sergio, whom he had met at Maya’s birthday party in Zipolite. Sergio was living in Barra de La Cruz and said we could go visit him if we wanted. I told Max we could get a lift with my neighbor who was driving there the next day.
Apparently, my neighbor had told a few other people the same thing because there ended up being five of us in the bed of his pick-up truck. The truck bed was all legs and longboards. I struggled for a comfortable position, but there was no use. After three hours of twisting through the mountains and dodging oncoming traffic, the lower half of my body was half asleep, and my legs reluctantly began the painful waking up process. I could not wait to get out. We made our way down to the water and hit some mediocre surf. Afterwards, we got dropped off in “town” and waited for Sergio at a restaurant that was known for its pizza. Sergio was a very laid-back dude and spoke a sort of, mellow Californian surfer English. He had just gotten off work at his government job in Huatulco. He started telling us about the local spots and the area in general. His job was in Hautulco- there wasn’t much going on in Barra he said, you had to travel for work. We slowly got to know each other over beers. Nothing is forced or rushed in Mexico, for better or for worse. There was a big teenager belting it out in the corner singing Mexican rancheros, eyes half closed over softly strummed guitar with the beautiful drunken sorrow of an old man. We all cheered and hooted and hollered and ordered more margaritas. This was Mexico after all.
I could tell Sergio liked to have a good time. He had an endless repertoire of American movie and pop-culture references. He knew how to hold serve in a match and he liked to bust your balls. They started talking about going out and I said, “No thanks.”
“Yeah, we are gonna go to Hautulco, hit the strip clubs. You are coming with us.” He said and gave a slanted eyed smile to Max.
“No way, I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m game.” Max said
“No, come with us bro. Plus where you gonna go? You don’t know where I live. You have to come with us.” He smiled and winked at Max. I knew he was just fucking with me but after a long day in the sun I wasn’t sure. We loaded our boards in his white Jeep Cherokee and started driving, I hoped, towards his house.
“Don’t worry man, you can stay here.” He said. Thankfully, Max was game, and I was off the hook. He showed me to a room with two beds. “You can stay here. And there’s an air-conditioner.” Better words had not been spoken in a while. The air down here was hot. Always hot. Like, heat stroke hot if you went out in the middle of the day.
After they left, I showered off and went outside to check the place out. We were on the second floor and out of the front door was a patio and a yard. There were lights strewn around the perimeter. Two hammocks hung between dark wooden posts across the stone floor patio. A couch lined the wall of the house, and on the other side of the door two blue kayaks were leaning against the wall. I didn’t notice his German Sheppard, Reef, starting at me, probably wondering who the hell I was, until out of the corner of my eye I saw him slowly coming towards me. They say dogs can sense fear, but I have never sensed it so much from a dog. I felt it. Our eyes locked, ‘shit’ I thought to myself. He looked scared, worried. My skin started crawling once I knew he was going to come at me. I shivered with goosebumps as I grabbed the handle to the front door. He ran towards me barking loudly, “No!” I think I managed to yell at him.
Fuck! I screamed once inside. I was still shaking with adrenaline. Holy shit! I jumped in the air trying to escape my skin for a moment. I thought for sure he was going to bite me and maybe worse. I was seconds inside the door, and he was still barking. The sound was filling the house and reverberating through the metal roof straight into my head and between my ears.
“No! No! Bad boy!” I yelled mainly just to show him I was in charge and in control of the situation. He was just afraid and so was I. The whole thing had caught me off guard. One minute I was staring off into the sky listening to the sounds of chirping crickets in the faded yellow glow of the old hanging lights, and the next I was being stalked by a large dog that I didn’t know. I barely even remembered he was there. I was very relieved to be inside without having shed any skin. There was no cell service or internet in town so contacting Max or Sergio would’ve been impossible and any doctor, if there was one, was probably sleeping. After relaxing and another Corona, I laid down and drifted off into a deep sleep.
Sergio in Barra de La Cruz
After getting home at 4:00 am Sergio rallied back to life to go check out the surf. We spent a little time in the water working for the small rights on hand that day. There weren’t many people in the water. The surf school that was there the night before had left and besides a young girl surfing it was basically empty Barra de La Cruz, all to ourselves. It was an amazing place. Something I had seen in magazines, but it felt so different to be here. So peaceful. We came back a couple hours later and found Max lying in one of the hammocks. He had sunglasses on, and fuchsia lipstick smeared all over his mouth from the night before. I’m sure he felt like a hot mess, but he looked like a work of art. Something out of ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’, the surf edition. We made a fresh pot of French press coffee and joined Max outside. We were talking about where to go surfing later that evening. Sergio mentioned a place about 10 minutes away that might be working. I was sitting on the couch sipping my coffee and felt a ping of melancholy for my former self. I remembered a particularly dreary, rainy day at my last job. I was looking at magazines of people traveling the world and doing things they loved in all these amazing locations in such a happenstance fashion. I remember feeling like they didn’t realize what they had, like they’d always had it, and that if I were in their place, I’d appreciate it more. ‘How do people live like this?’ I thought. A year later I somehow manifested a job as a bike tour guide and a few years later here I was in a surfer’s paradise staying at a cushy Mexican bungalow. Something I had been dreaming and talking about for years. I laughed to myself, realizing all those people were just people like myself. On their way to and from somewhere else. People who had worked hard and made sacrifices to get where they were and were enjoying it. And that everyone’s life looks better to someone else from the outside.
Sergio in Barra de La Cruz
“Motherfucker.” Max said quietly but firmly- Max never raised his voice, at least in the time I spent with him. “He bit me.” He put his hand to his face to check for blood. He had a cut above his left eye. I had told them what had happened the night before and Max knew there was something a little off with the pooch but, he had his guard down and was just trying to pet Reef. He was in the hammock so, being at eye level must have triggered something with the dog. Sergio brought him inside.
“Inside Reef. No, bad doggie, what are you thinking?” He scolded.
He gave him a light whack on the nose and came back out.
“Damn, I’m sorry bro.”
“I need to see a doctor, so it doesn’t get infected.”
“Yeah, there’s one in town. We can go see if he’s around.”
We drove into town, but the doc was nowhere to be found and the little clinic was closed. They would have to drive the hour it took to get to Huatulco, the closest city to get Max stitched up. They dropped me off at the house, reversed back out of the narrow driveway, and were out of sight moments later. The sound of the engine fading, dust still lingering in the air. Upstairs I took in the beauty of the homes’ surroundings. The edge of the property abutted a little sanctuary of wildlife. I watched the birds in Lago Zaras from the back deck of the house. It felt good to be alone. I had met and made friends with some amazing people over the past month, but this was the perfect place for a moment of solitude. My room back in La Punta was a basic concrete structure. Two rooms upstairs, and two rooms on the bottom floor. With only a dinky little floor fan, and two front facing windows there was no ventilation. It was a sweatbox so, watching movies from a couch and having an air-conditioned room to escape to for naps was an extreme luxury.
Max came back with a bandage above his eye and the faded pink of last night’s lipstick. He had had a rough day to say the least and was laid up on the couch for a few hours. The two of them were passed out when I left for a walk.
I like to take walks when I travel for the brief interactions I have with people from other parts of the world. I like to hear their stories, whether explicitly told or just absorbed through their unique outpost in the world. The similarities: food, music, humor. The differences: narco related violence, pre-Hispanic or indigenous traditions and practices mixed with Spanish influence- architecture, landscape, and of course language and music. Barra de La Cruz was a sleepy little town. There were a few shops open during the day selling essential food items, but not much else. After poking around for a little bit, I took the long way home and headed north along the edge of town. I stopped into an ancient looking building that had the construction of an airplane hangar converted into a modern-day trading post. I loved places like this. Part grocery store, part farm supply store, part restaurant. Kind-of-a-bar kind-of-not. A social hub. The further back I went the dustier the shelves got. A sharp contrast to the bright, shiny cooler in front of the store full of Jarritos sodas and beer of the Mexican variety. Corona, Victoria, Carta Blanca, and Modelo. There were always a few guys in places like this, drinking beers, telling jokes, talking about the latest news, and passing time together. There were three men at a table and a one woman working. She was running the shop and directing the show. I received a small cameo in my search for hand-made tortillas. They didn’t have any, so I bought a Tamarindo soda to support the cast of this priceless cinema hidden from the rest of the world and continued on.
I was surprised to see a field of boys playing baseball in full uniforms, long socks, the whole deal. It must have been 95 degrees in the sun, but the pace of the game suited the town just fine. I climbed the stairs to the apartment, sweat pouring off my brow and made my way nervously past Reef who was in self-imposed doggy time out, cowering under the table next to the couch.
There were no waves at Barra, so we decided to head down the road to a spot called Mojón. We turned down a dirt road and crept slowly over the uneven terrain. It took a while to get down to the ocean as Sergio navigated all the holes and branches in our way. More than 10 minutes for the one mile. We parked next to an abandoned hotel. I peeked in through the windows at the beds and rooms and wondered what had happened. I had heard stories of land deals gone bad. Foreigners opening restaurants or business illegally or trying to buy property too close to the water, and for whatever reason things not working out. (In Mexico you can’t buy land within 50 km of the coast without lawyers, trusts, and lots of work). Two local kids were out on boogie boards. There were some nice waves coming through. Later we were joined by a family (two brothers, a dad, and a friend) from San Diego. Even though I surfed poorly it was one of the best times I had in Mexico. The feeling of seclusion simultaneously mixed with brotherhood and gratitude for being shown such a spot like this was incredible.
The golden hour was upon us. That hour when the stratosphere opens its doors. Dipping into darkness, we slowly became shadows gliding past each other. Surfing at dusk, where each passing moment you see less and less, but know more and more. The secrets of the universe hidden and revealed to you, just within reach, slightly out of sight, always shifting, the silent comedy. The sun was piercing through the cliff walls, bouncing off the rocks and casting shadows around us. An infinite spectrum of green chandeliers were being shattered across the water, colors were being invented, wounds were being healed, and time was just a word for the constant changing of all things. The waves have a way of hypnotizing you. Sitting atop your board as they pass under you, bobbing up and down slowly for hours on end, you can’t help but relax when you come out. Lying in bed to sleep, you still feel the undulating rhythm of the sea.
“Inside Reef. No, bad doggie, what are you thinking?” He scolded.
He gave him a light whack on the nose and came back out.
“Damn, I’m sorry bro.”
“I need to see a doctor, so it doesn’t get infected.”
“Yeah, there’s one in town. We can go see if he’s around.”
We drove into town, but the doc was nowhere to be found and the little clinic was closed. They would have to drive the hour it took to get to Huatulco, the closest city to get Max stitched up. They dropped me off at the house, reversed back out of the narrow driveway, and were out of sight moments later. The sound of the engine fading, dust still lingering in the air. Upstairs I took in the beauty of the homes’ surroundings. The edge of the property abutted a little sanctuary of wildlife. I watched the birds in Lago Zaras from the back deck of the house. It felt good to be alone. I had met and made friends with some amazing people over the past month, but this was the perfect place for a moment of solitude. My room back in La Punta was a basic concrete structure. Two rooms upstairs, and two rooms on the bottom floor. With only a dinky little floor fan, and two front facing windows there was no ventilation. It was a sweatbox so, watching movies from a couch and having an air-conditioned room to escape to for naps was an extreme luxury.
Max came back with a bandage above his eye and the faded pink of last night’s lipstick. He had had a rough day to say the least and was laid up on the couch for a few hours. The two of them were passed out when I left for a walk.
I like to take walks when I travel for the brief interactions I have with people from other parts of the world. I like to hear their stories, whether explicitly told or just absorbed through their unique outpost in the world. The similarities: food, music, humor. The differences: narco related violence, pre-Hispanic or indigenous traditions and practices mixed with Spanish influence- architecture, landscape, and of course language and music. Barra de La Cruz was a sleepy little town. There were a few shops open during the day selling essential food items, but not much else. After poking around for a little bit, I took the long way home and headed north along the edge of town. I stopped into an ancient looking building that had the construction of an airplane hangar converted into a modern-day trading post. I loved places like this. Part grocery store, part farm supply store, part restaurant. Kind-of-a-bar kind-of-not. A social hub. The further back I went the dustier the shelves got. A sharp contrast to the bright, shiny cooler in front of the store full of Jarritos sodas and beer of the Mexican variety. Corona, Victoria, Carta Blanca, and Modelo. There were always a few guys in places like this, drinking beers, telling jokes, talking about the latest news, and passing time together. There were three men at a table and a one woman working. She was running the shop and directing the show. I received a small cameo in my search for hand-made tortillas. They didn’t have any, so I bought a Tamarindo soda to support the cast of this priceless cinema hidden from the rest of the world and continued on.
I was surprised to see a field of boys playing baseball in full uniforms, long socks, the whole deal. It must have been 95 degrees in the sun, but the pace of the game suited the town just fine. I climbed the stairs to the apartment, sweat pouring off my brow and made my way nervously past Reef who was in self-imposed doggy time out, cowering under the table next to the couch.
There were no waves at Barra, so we decided to head down the road to a spot called Mojón. We turned down a dirt road and crept slowly over the uneven terrain. It took a while to get down to the ocean as Sergio navigated all the holes and branches in our way. More than 10 minutes for the one mile. We parked next to an abandoned hotel. I peeked in through the windows at the beds and rooms and wondered what had happened. I had heard stories of land deals gone bad. Foreigners opening restaurants or business illegally or trying to buy property too close to the water, and for whatever reason things not working out. (In Mexico you can’t buy land within 50 km of the coast without lawyers, trusts, and lots of work). Two local kids were out on boogie boards. There were some nice waves coming through. Later we were joined by a family (two brothers, a dad, and a friend) from San Diego. Even though I surfed poorly it was one of the best times I had in Mexico. The feeling of seclusion simultaneously mixed with brotherhood and gratitude for being shown such a spot like this was incredible.
The golden hour was upon us. That hour when the stratosphere opens its doors. Dipping into darkness, we slowly became shadows gliding past each other. Surfing at dusk, where each passing moment you see less and less, but know more and more. The secrets of the universe hidden and revealed to you, just within reach, slightly out of sight, always shifting, the silent comedy. The sun was piercing through the cliff walls, bouncing off the rocks and casting shadows around us. An infinite spectrum of green chandeliers were being shattered across the water, colors were being invented, wounds were being healed, and time was just a word for the constant changing of all things. The waves have a way of hypnotizing you. Sitting atop your board as they pass under you, bobbing up and down slowly for hours on end, you can’t help but relax when you come out. Lying in bed to sleep, you still feel the undulating rhythm of the sea.
Tlayuda, La Cabañita
rhythm of the sea.
Tlayuda, La Cabañita
We toweled off in the last light and headed home in the dark. We rinsed off and headed to a place called Las Gemelas (The Twins) for dinner. Fish tacos were the thing to get here and we ordered a few each. They also had Tlayudas here, Oaxacas’ answer to the pizza. A large, thin, flakey, toasted corn crust, smeared with a bean paste or puree, topped with lettuce, choice of meat, avocado, and Oaxacan cheese, also called quesillo (think string cheese, but better). They are usually cooked over a comal but sometimes folded in half and cooked over a grill. The toppings varied from place to place and like most food down here there was an array of house made salsas to throw on top, but tonight we were having tacos and lots of them.
There was a large table of surfers, a few families, and another table of locals who had clearly been drinking for a while. Their table was covered in bottles and cans. They were telling jokes, eyes smiling behind the heavy curtain of eyelids, laughing hysterically, and stumbling to get more beers. One guy, almost fell out of his chair, saved by the slow bend of a plastic leg. “A la verga,” one of them said. They were the home team and were a joy to watch.
The three of us however, had little energy to speak, but I was fine taking in the atmosphere. Observing. Drinking cold yellow beer. We were speaking in shorthand.
“Beer?”
“Yes.”
“Otra?”
“Si, por favor, gracias.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll go to Zipolite and visit the girls.” Added Sergio.
“I’ll text Dinorah and tell her we’re coming.” Max said.
In the morning we headed West on Mexico 200 towards San Pedro Pochutla, and then south through the steep rugged fishing village of Puerto Angel and finally down to the eccentric beach enclave of Zipolite. Large banana leaves and jungle ferns tunneled our view and caressed the car as we weaved our way through people in the street. We parked on the sand covered stone parking and grabbed our boards. We stretched our legs and our backs and were in the water within minutes. It was a shock really, almost too abrupt after a two-hour drive. I was sleepy, but the water woke me up.
From the water and my brief moment on shore I could tell we were in a unique microcosm. The moon was full and rising to the east above the hillside homes. Pregnant and glowing with power it was bouncing the light of the sun in a silver-shock across the shoreline. The place was magnetized. I felt transfixed. I looked for some omens and felt a slight undertone of instability. The place was getting ready to party. Couples took pictures together as the sun set to my left. Sergio and I were goofy-footed, so we were hunting for lefts. They were fast, shifty, and fun as hell. It was the three of us and three local groms surfing in our little section of sand bar. We were in the middle slightly to the west or northern end of beach and just further north you could see people surfing a heavier wave that was close to the rocks. We left that to the locals.
We met back up with Dinorah at Mestizzo for dinner where she was cooking. Sergio was putting his board in the car and said we could shower behind the restaurant. There was a little yard and shower out the back door of the kitchen where we rinsed off and stashed our boards. We saddled up to the bar and glued our eyes to the surf flick playing on the TV hanging from the wall. We accepted offerings of beer like it was some sort of hard-won reward for our bravery in the water, but I knew I was not doing anything close to what the guys on screen were doing. I knew I wanted to surf waves like they were on, but I also knew I didn’t want to surf like any of them. Just the same clip of macho dudes smashing aggressive turns at the lip of the wave over and over again. I didn’t know about the history of surfing yet or the reasons why different types of boards were used in different conditions. I had seen the movie ‘Psychic Migrations’ and knew I wanted to fly like the guy riding the rainbow-colored fish board. That guy’s name was Ryan Burch, and he was a shaper who had grown up in San Diego, the birthplace of the fish. I also didn’t know that one year later I would be in northern California, riding and falling in love with the wild, loose speed that could be expressed on these short thick planks originally designed as knee boards.
A man walked in with his fresh catch from the ocean and brought it to Dinorah near the entrance of the kitchen. After a few words in rapid fire Spanish an agreement had been made. 20 minutes later she emerged with large, heaping plates of pasta and seared fish for the visiting man and his family. It looked amazing. She had gutted, cleaned, and cut and prepared everything herself.
“Hola, chicos! What do you guys want, pizza?” She asked us on her way back to the kitchen.
“Claro, yeah, sure,” we said.
“Listo.” She replied.
“Gracias,” we replied in chorus.
Max was thanking the man behind the bar for letting him borrow one of his boards for the last few days as the pizza came out. It was charred to perfection and the crust was warm and doughy. It was a nice break from tacos. After dinner, a skateboard appeared, and we took turns putzing around on it. Sergio was the only one who knew what he was doing on it. The sound of the rolling wheels on the pavement was soothing and gave us all something to do and watch. Maya joined us out front with her boyfriend after work and we all headed to the beach. We hung out on the sand under the stars. Marisol came down later as well. It was nice to see everyone again. Giaco and Ari had left a few days before. Ari had made Shakshuka after all. They said it was delicious and I didn’t doubt it. The day before we had left for Chacahua, he made Giaco and I lunch, and it was tasty. Spicy grilled meats, cucumber salad, and garlic yogurt on some pita bread.
On the beach in Zipolite you could relax, have a good time and socialize without being hassled by the police. In Puerto Escondido however, they were known to try and make a buck off anyone who looked like they might have something on them. I had seen it many times exiting the water; ‘Los Extorsionistas’ walking in groups of three or four. Their flashlights making quick little circles in the dark contrasting the slow pace of their chunky, black boots trudging through the sand in unison as they checked peoples’ bags for marijuana. I heard a story from a buddy of mine that wound up in jail after drinking too much. He wasn’t causing any trouble, but he got picked up, lost his phone on the way, and had to pay his way out for the night of fun on the town. My only encounter with the police there was, one night, sitting on the steps of the corner store waiting for a taxi, a police car rolled up and asked me what I was doing, and then asked to see my wallet. I opened it up, and he looked through the cash for anything else that might be hidden inside but I was clean. He even hailed me a cab. I had heard that sometimes they would plant something on you, but that didn’t happen to me. My only guess was that I’d had enough beers to speak Spanish confidently, but not too many to slur my speech or seem like trouble.
In the morning there were no waves, only naked flabby old white guys strolling la playa, enjoying Zipolite’s clothing optional policy. It was a safe haven for the LGBTQ community as well as freaks in general. Artists, musicians, old hippies, and surfers. People looking to lead a generally peaceful way of life. The town was waking up. I took a lap of the two-lane town as I waited for the restaurants to open. Horses trotted, drunks gazed and floundered in the sun, residents hosed down streets in the endless war on dust. I ate chilaquiles and drank coffee at a table on the street. I went to buy zinc for my face, and on the way back ran into a woman selling juices out of large plastic jugs from a little cart on wheels with a little cloth tent for shade. One of the things she mentioned was ‘Agua de Cacahuate’. Peanut water? I thought to myself. What the hell is that? I had to try it.
“Oh my god, this is amazing!” I said staring into my cup.
I could not believe how refreshing it was. Just the thought of peanuts can make your throat dry on a hot day so, how could this be any good? I thought going into it. It was made from ground peanuts, water, and panela, (unrefined cane sugar) or piloncillo as it’s known in Mexico and served over ice. I was reminded of Colombia once again. Drinking guarapo (lime juice and sugar cane) after a long day of biking with friends in the mountainous roads outside of Medellin for the weekly ‘Ciclovía’. Every Sunday the city would shut down half of the main highway for citizens to bike, walk, run, and rollerblade through the heart of the city. Something that would take a year of planning in the U.S. happened there on a weekly basis, and was full of volunteers slowing traffic, helping with flat tires or mechanical issues, and vendors on each side of the 7 mile stretch setting up shop selling food and drinks.
We surfed in the evening, and then had dinner at a busy restaurant on the beach. Two young girls were singing songs and playing together for tips. They had sweet voices and I imagined they were sisters the way they sang and moved together, hands on each other’s shoulders while discussing the next song. Their music put a nice spell on the crowd.
In the morning we parted ways. Max was heading to Oaxaca City by bus through the mountains. I wanted to go but I was low on cash and would head back to La Punta. Max was relaxing in a hammock wearing a pair of oversized headphones. As we gazed out at the sea, I was daydreaming about what Oaxaca must be like. A high elevation capital with cobblestone streets and cool mountain air. After a rich dark molé I would put on a jacket and wander the streets and fill my belly with mezcal. But alas, it would have to be next time. I was certainly torn. The best meal I had had in Mexico up to that point was made by a woman named Tere, from Oaxaca, who owned the place where I was staying while she was visiting her friend Lupe over Christmas holiday. It was a red chicken mole dish over rice that was spicy, complex, and delicious.
Tlayuda, La Cabañita
We toweled off in the last light and headed home in the dark. We rinsed off and headed to a place called Las Gemelas (The Twins) for dinner. Fish tacos were the thing to get here and we ordered a few each. They also had Tlayudas here, Oaxacas’ answer to the pizza. A large, thin, flakey, toasted corn crust, smeared with a bean paste or puree, topped with lettuce, choice of meat, avocado, and Oaxacan cheese, also called quesillo (think string cheese, but better). They are usually cooked over a comal but sometimes folded in half and cooked over a grill. The toppings varied from place to place and like most food down here there was an array of house made salsas to throw on top, but tonight we were having tacos and lots of them.
There was a large table of surfers, a few families, and another table of locals who had clearly been drinking for a while. Their table was covered in bottles and cans. They were telling jokes, eyes smiling behind the heavy curtain of eyelids, laughing hysterically, and stumbling to get more beers. One guy, almost fell out of his chair, saved by the slow bend of a plastic leg. “A la verga,” one of them said. They were the home team and were a joy to watch.
The three of us however, had little energy to speak, but I was fine taking in the atmosphere. Observing. Drinking cold yellow beer. We were speaking in shorthand.
“Beer?”
“Yes.”
“Otra?”
“Si, por favor, gracias.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll go to Zipolite and visit the girls.” Added Sergio.
“I’ll text Dinorah and tell her we’re coming.” Max said.
In the morning we headed West on Mexico 200 towards San Pedro Pochutla, and then south through the steep rugged fishing village of Puerto Angel and finally down to the eccentric beach enclave of Zipolite. Large banana leaves and jungle ferns tunneled our view and caressed the car as we weaved our way through people in the street. We parked on the sand covered stone parking and grabbed our boards. We stretched our legs and our backs and were in the water within minutes. It was a shock really, almost too abrupt after a two-hour drive. I was sleepy, but the water woke me up.
From the water and my brief moment on shore I could tell we were in a unique microcosm. The moon was full and rising to the east above the hillside homes. Pregnant and glowing with power it was bouncing the light of the sun in a silver-shock across the shoreline. The place was magnetized. I felt transfixed. I looked for some omens and felt a slight undertone of instability. The place was getting ready to party. Couples took pictures together as the sun set to my left. Sergio and I were goofy-footed, so we were hunting for lefts. They were fast, shifty, and fun as hell. It was the three of us and three local groms surfing in our little section of sand bar. We were in the middle slightly to the west or northern end of beach and just further north you could see people surfing a heavier wave that was close to the rocks. We left that to the locals.
We met back up with Dinorah at Mestizzo for dinner where she was cooking. Sergio was putting his board in the car and said we could shower behind the restaurant. There was a little yard and shower out the back door of the kitchen where we rinsed off and stashed our boards. We saddled up to the bar and glued our eyes to the surf flick playing on the TV hanging from the wall. We accepted offerings of beer like it was some sort of hard-won reward for our bravery in the water, but I knew I was not doing anything close to what the guys on screen were doing. I knew I wanted to surf waves like they were on, but I also knew I didn’t want to surf like any of them. Just the same clip of macho dudes smashing aggressive turns at the lip of the wave over and over again. I didn’t know about the history of surfing yet or the reasons why different types of boards were used in different conditions. I had seen the movie ‘Psychic Migrations’ and knew I wanted to fly like the guy riding the rainbow-colored fish board. That guy’s name was Ryan Burch, and he was a shaper who had grown up in San Diego, the birthplace of the fish. I also didn’t know that one year later I would be in northern California, riding and falling in love with the wild, loose speed that could be expressed on these short thick planks originally designed as knee boards.
A man walked in with his fresh catch from the ocean and brought it to Dinorah near the entrance of the kitchen. After a few words in rapid fire Spanish an agreement had been made. 20 minutes later she emerged with large, heaping plates of pasta and seared fish for the visiting man and his family. It looked amazing. She had gutted, cleaned, and cut and prepared everything herself.
“Hola, chicos! What do you guys want, pizza?” She asked us on her way back to the kitchen.
“Claro, yeah, sure,” we said.
“Listo.” She replied.
“Gracias,” we replied in chorus.
Max was thanking the man behind the bar for letting him borrow one of his boards for the last few days as the pizza came out. It was charred to perfection and the crust was warm and doughy. It was a nice break from tacos. After dinner, a skateboard appeared, and we took turns putzing around on it. Sergio was the only one who knew what he was doing on it. The sound of the rolling wheels on the pavement was soothing and gave us all something to do and watch. Maya joined us out front with her boyfriend after work and we all headed to the beach. We hung out on the sand under the stars. Marisol came down later as well. It was nice to see everyone again. Giaco and Ari had left a few days before. Ari had made Shakshuka after all. They said it was delicious and I didn’t doubt it. The day before we had left for Chacahua, he made Giaco and I lunch, and it was tasty. Spicy grilled meats, cucumber salad, and garlic yogurt on some pita bread.
On the beach in Zipolite you could relax, have a good time and socialize without being hassled by the police. In Puerto Escondido however, they were known to try and make a buck off anyone who looked like they might have something on them. I had seen it many times exiting the water; ‘Los Extorsionistas’ walking in groups of three or four. Their flashlights making quick little circles in the dark contrasting the slow pace of their chunky, black boots trudging through the sand in unison as they checked peoples’ bags for marijuana. I heard a story from a buddy of mine that wound up in jail after drinking too much. He wasn’t causing any trouble, but he got picked up, lost his phone on the way, and had to pay his way out for the night of fun on the town. My only encounter with the police there was, one night, sitting on the steps of the corner store waiting for a taxi, a police car rolled up and asked me what I was doing, and then asked to see my wallet. I opened it up, and he looked through the cash for anything else that might be hidden inside but I was clean. He even hailed me a cab. I had heard that sometimes they would plant something on you, but that didn’t happen to me. My only guess was that I’d had enough beers to speak Spanish confidently, but not too many to slur my speech or seem like trouble.
In the morning there were no waves, only naked flabby old white guys strolling la playa, enjoying Zipolite’s clothing optional policy. It was a safe haven for the LGBTQ community as well as freaks in general. Artists, musicians, old hippies, and surfers. People looking to lead a generally peaceful way of life. The town was waking up. I took a lap of the two-lane town as I waited for the restaurants to open. Horses trotted, drunks gazed and floundered in the sun, residents hosed down streets in the endless war on dust. I ate chilaquiles and drank coffee at a table on the street. I went to buy zinc for my face, and on the way back ran into a woman selling juices out of large plastic jugs from a little cart on wheels with a little cloth tent for shade. One of the things she mentioned was ‘Agua de Cacahuate’. Peanut water? I thought to myself. What the hell is that? I had to try it.
“Oh my god, this is amazing!” I said staring into my cup.
I could not believe how refreshing it was. Just the thought of peanuts can make your throat dry on a hot day so, how could this be any good? I thought going into it. It was made from ground peanuts, water, and panela, (unrefined cane sugar) or piloncillo as it’s known in Mexico and served over ice. I was reminded of Colombia once again. Drinking guarapo (lime juice and sugar cane) after a long day of biking with friends in the mountainous roads outside of Medellin for the weekly ‘Ciclovía’. Every Sunday the city would shut down half of the main highway for citizens to bike, walk, run, and rollerblade through the heart of the city. Something that would take a year of planning in the U.S. happened there on a weekly basis, and was full of volunteers slowing traffic, helping with flat tires or mechanical issues, and vendors on each side of the 7 mile stretch setting up shop selling food and drinks.
We surfed in the evening, and then had dinner at a busy restaurant on the beach. Two young girls were singing songs and playing together for tips. They had sweet voices and I imagined they were sisters the way they sang and moved together, hands on each other’s shoulders while discussing the next song. Their music put a nice spell on the crowd.
In the morning we parted ways. Max was heading to Oaxaca City by bus through the mountains. I wanted to go but I was low on cash and would head back to La Punta. Max was relaxing in a hammock wearing a pair of oversized headphones. As we gazed out at the sea, I was daydreaming about what Oaxaca must be like. A high elevation capital with cobblestone streets and cool mountain air. After a rich dark molé I would put on a jacket and wander the streets and fill my belly with mezcal. But alas, it would have to be next time. I was certainly torn. The best meal I had had in Mexico up to that point was made by a woman named Tere, from Oaxaca, who owned the place where I was staying while she was visiting her friend Lupe over Christmas holiday. It was a red chicken mole dish over rice that was spicy, complex, and delicious.
My Old Flame
My Old Flame
It was nice to get back to my place. My room, my stuff, and my guitar. I was already growing nostalgic for this place. This stretch of coast had lots to offer and lots to explore. La Punta is a left-handed point break that, as of this moment, is my favorite wave. It is a crowded wave, but far less dangerous than its blood thirsty cousin Zicatela up the road. It was where most of the surf lessons in the area were held. There was usually a mine field of people and students on the inside. Their coaches wearing flippers and pushing them into waves, guaranteeing they got waves. You had to respect them. This was their home turf, and they were trying to make a living. You could tell they were tired of battling foreigners for waves, but for the most part they all seemed like good guys. A couple of them lived next to me and there was always a group of them hanging out at night. Jesús was good friends with them and hung out there all the time. They would always offer me beer and I would bring locally made IPA’s or Stouts to share, which garnered mixed reviews, but we shared beers and laughs through the language barrier and on a few occasions I spent the night hanging out with them talking surf, and travel, and what it was like to live there. I still have an extensive list of places to surf in Mexico thanks to one of these guys. He spent an hour showing me on the map places to visit. He told me which breaks were lefts, which were rights, how big they got, when to go, what the town was like, and everything in between. At La Punta, the locals sat out past a big rock that rose from the ocean floor to about 10 feet above the surface of the water depending on the tide. It was a family affair here; brothers surfing together, nephews laughing as they dropped in on their uncles who’d push them off the wave. They’d come up smiling and give a loud whistle. Local shapers surfing with their wives and daughters. Up on the rocks, fathers and sons would cast fishing nets into the water. Guys were always popping up, seemingly out of nowhere right next to you, wearing snorkeling masks and gasping for air. Equipped with thick plastic fishing line, or tarraya and a bottle like contraption made from plastic, wood, or bamboo known as molotes. They would use them to get sardines for bait, and then put them on the line for larger fish. I once saw my neighbor fishing and surfing at the same time. He would throw a line of string out that was wrapped around his finger in between the larger sets. When he saw a wave approaching that he wanted, he would reel it in quickly and take off. He had a little black pouch around his waist in case he caught anything. That was life down there; you had to hustle even while you were having fun.
I had been surfing on a 6’10” made by a local shaper named Ody, who made stylish boards and was a super nice guy as well. It was a washed-out pink color with solid blue rails. I sold it to a local board repair guy who bought it for his wife. She blushed when he called her name to look at it from the porch and humbly nodded in approval. I counted my blessings that she liked it as he reluctantly forked over the pesos into my hand. I wondered how many boards he had fixed to buy that board. I took the money and headed out to the central marketplace downtown to buy gifts for family and friends.
My neighbor Citlali had some errands to run in town and said she’d give me a lift. I hopped in her vintage red VW beetle and we took off down the main stretch of road with the afternoon winds rolling up from the sea through the windows of the car. Citlali was a former professional surfer and 4x national champion of Mexico. She told me about surfing out at Pipeline with only three other women in the water.
My Old Flame
It was nice to get back to my place. My room, my stuff, and my guitar. I was already growing nostalgic for this place. This stretch of coast had lots to offer and lots to explore. La Punta is a left-handed point break that, as of this moment, is my favorite wave. It is a crowded wave, but far less dangerous than its blood thirsty cousin Zicatela up the road. It was where most of the surf lessons in the area were held. There was usually a mine field of people and students on the inside. Their coaches wearing flippers and pushing them into waves, guaranteeing they got waves. You had to respect them. This was their home turf, and they were trying to make a living. You could tell they were tired of battling foreigners for waves, but for the most part they all seemed like good guys. A couple of them lived next to me and there was always a group of them hanging out at night. Jesús was good friends with them and hung out there all the time. They would always offer me beer and I would bring locally made IPA’s or Stouts to share, which garnered mixed reviews, but we shared beers and laughs through the language barrier and on a few occasions I spent the night hanging out with them talking surf, and travel, and what it was like to live there. I still have an extensive list of places to surf in Mexico thanks to one of these guys. He spent an hour showing me on the map places to visit. He told me which breaks were lefts, which were rights, how big they got, when to go, what the town was like, and everything in between. At La Punta, the locals sat out past a big rock that rose from the ocean floor to about 10 feet above the surface of the water depending on the tide. It was a family affair here; brothers surfing together, nephews laughing as they dropped in on their uncles who’d push them off the wave. They’d come up smiling and give a loud whistle. Local shapers surfing with their wives and daughters. Up on the rocks, fathers and sons would cast fishing nets into the water. Guys were always popping up, seemingly out of nowhere right next to you, wearing snorkeling masks and gasping for air. Equipped with thick plastic fishing line, or tarraya and a bottle like contraption made from plastic, wood, or bamboo known as molotes. They would use them to get sardines for bait, and then put them on the line for larger fish. I once saw my neighbor fishing and surfing at the same time. He would throw a line of string out that was wrapped around his finger in between the larger sets. When he saw a wave approaching that he wanted, he would reel it in quickly and take off. He had a little black pouch around his waist in case he caught anything. That was life down there; you had to hustle even while you were having fun.
I had been surfing on a 6’10” made by a local shaper named Ody, who made stylish boards and was a super nice guy as well. It was a washed-out pink color with solid blue rails. I sold it to a local board repair guy who bought it for his wife. She blushed when he called her name to look at it from the porch and humbly nodded in approval. I counted my blessings that she liked it as he reluctantly forked over the pesos into my hand. I wondered how many boards he had fixed to buy that board. I took the money and headed out to the central marketplace downtown to buy gifts for family and friends.
My neighbor Citlali had some errands to run in town and said she’d give me a lift. I hopped in her vintage red VW beetle and we took off down the main stretch of road with the afternoon winds rolling up from the sea through the windows of the car. Citlali was a former professional surfer and 4x national champion of Mexico. She told me about surfing out at Pipeline with only three other women in the water.
Citlali
Citlali
“It was an incredible experience.” She said when I asked her about it. “Wow, I’m surfing Pipeline and there’s only 4 girls in the water, this is crazy!” She had a great smile and was easy to talk to. She was full of life and strength, physically and spiritually. She had an heir of power to her and had great insights on life. You could talk to her about anything. She was practicing massage therapy at this stage of her life, and you could tell she was the kind of person who would be great no matter what she did.
We stopped at a health food store, and the man behind the counter was friendly and familiar with her. Next, we stopped at an older woman’s house to get a special type of wood for a ceremony that Citlalli was attending and helping with that evening. Afterwards, at the central market, she showed me around and greeted the woman at the various stalls. I told her I was looking for a traditional blanket. I found a nice big one with integrated lines of black and blue with interwoven thin lines of white. There were sections of white and pink leading into a blood red. Sunny yellows leading into lime greens, avocado skin greens, and then black again. Small bands of red, orange, and yellow in between the larger sections of black. If you looked at it lying down, you could see the ice blue bands of moonlight stretching across a static electric desert night behind charred hillsides. Or the setting sun casting shadows upon fields of maize and cactus. I bought an extra spicy green hot sauce for my sister, who has been known to slip a bottle or two of the stuff into her purse if she liked it. I had been accumulating bottles of mezcal over my time there and bought a few more. I bought some huge chunks of chocolate to make hot chocolate, using a doweled wooden spoon that you put between your hands and rubbed back and forth vigorously to create a nice frothy cup on the stove top.
I spent my last two weeks surfing and eating as much as I could. I surfed with Jesus whenever we ran into each other. Jesus was probably 5’7”, compact muscular build, and a strong swimmer. A very mellow guy, and a good friend to have down there. Jesus was a humble and wise person who gave sage advice and, best of all, he had a silly sense of humor. A lot of times it was what he didn’t say that was impressive. You could learn a lot from him if you paid attention. Whenever I was hung up on something, a detail, a word in Spanish or just in general he would say: “Don’t worry, be happy.” At first, I found it dismissive or annoying, but eventually it made me laugh and helped relax me.
Jesus was one with the water when he surfed. The way he crept into a wave was smooth, and subtle, like a cat in the jungle you didn’t notice until it was too late. Many times, he’d fly by me on a wave that I hadn’t even seen him catch, coming out of nowhere, nestled in the arc of a blue wall. He seemed to disappear and reappear.
On a few occasions, he showed me some local breaks just outside of town. He pointed out good places to eat, where to find things in town, and had his ear to the ground. He was the unofficial guide of Puerto and just an all-around helpful person. You would see him riding around on his trusty, old faded black Honda motorcycle and usually donning an old 49’ers hat. I met him through a guy named Swan, who rented me a room when I first got to town.
My last session surfing in La Punta I saw Jesus in the water after being out for a couple of hours. He was paddling in from further out past the rock.
Citlali
“It was an incredible experience.” She said when I asked her about it. “Wow, I’m surfing Pipeline and there’s only 4 girls in the water, this is crazy!” She had a great smile and was easy to talk to. She was full of life and strength, physically and spiritually. She had an heir of power to her and had great insights on life. You could talk to her about anything. She was practicing massage therapy at this stage of her life, and you could tell she was the kind of person who would be great no matter what she did.
We stopped at a health food store, and the man behind the counter was friendly and familiar with her. Next, we stopped at an older woman’s house to get a special type of wood for a ceremony that Citlalli was attending and helping with that evening. Afterwards, at the central market, she showed me around and greeted the woman at the various stalls. I told her I was looking for a traditional blanket. I found a nice big one with integrated lines of black and blue with interwoven thin lines of white. There were sections of white and pink leading into a blood red. Sunny yellows leading into lime greens, avocado skin greens, and then black again. Small bands of red, orange, and yellow in between the larger sections of black. If you looked at it lying down, you could see the ice blue bands of moonlight stretching across a static electric desert night behind charred hillsides. Or the setting sun casting shadows upon fields of maize and cactus. I bought an extra spicy green hot sauce for my sister, who has been known to slip a bottle or two of the stuff into her purse if she liked it. I had been accumulating bottles of mezcal over my time there and bought a few more. I bought some huge chunks of chocolate to make hot chocolate, using a doweled wooden spoon that you put between your hands and rubbed back and forth vigorously to create a nice frothy cup on the stove top.
I spent my last two weeks surfing and eating as much as I could. I surfed with Jesus whenever we ran into each other. Jesus was probably 5’7”, compact muscular build, and a strong swimmer. A very mellow guy, and a good friend to have down there. Jesus was a humble and wise person who gave sage advice and, best of all, he had a silly sense of humor. A lot of times it was what he didn’t say that was impressive. You could learn a lot from him if you paid attention. Whenever I was hung up on something, a detail, a word in Spanish or just in general he would say: “Don’t worry, be happy.” At first, I found it dismissive or annoying, but eventually it made me laugh and helped relax me.
Jesus was one with the water when he surfed. The way he crept into a wave was smooth, and subtle, like a cat in the jungle you didn’t notice until it was too late. Many times, he’d fly by me on a wave that I hadn’t even seen him catch, coming out of nowhere, nestled in the arc of a blue wall. He seemed to disappear and reappear.
On a few occasions, he showed me some local breaks just outside of town. He pointed out good places to eat, where to find things in town, and had his ear to the ground. He was the unofficial guide of Puerto and just an all-around helpful person. You would see him riding around on his trusty, old faded black Honda motorcycle and usually donning an old 49’ers hat. I met him through a guy named Swan, who rented me a room when I first got to town.
My last session surfing in La Punta I saw Jesus in the water after being out for a couple of hours. He was paddling in from further out past the rock.
Jesus, Zicatela
Jesus, Zicatela
“Hey, white boy.” He joked. This was the most crowded I had ever seen it here, fifty people maybe, felt like a hundred. The waves were good, but they were dying down and it was getting dark.
“The waves are small now, I’m going home.” He told me.
I told him this was my last night and that I was leaving tomorrow. We said our goodbyes and made plans to surf again. A few minutes later, with the lull in the waves, and encroaching darkness, the crowd thinned out. It was down to just about 10 people, and then a half hour later just five of us: A father and son, a guy who rode a unicycle around town who went by Limón, and another local. I was in heaven, I had been out for 3 hours already and couldn’t find a groove, but I knew more waves were coming. I hoped anyway, but I had a feeling.
I was still dealing with the pain of losing my dad two years before. It had been a dark and confusing couple of years. My love for the ocean had pulled me back in and helped me focus on something tangible. Although the feelings that came from catching waves were inexplicable, fleeting, and intangible, that was what always kept me coming back. Over the next couple of hours there were 3 amazing sets of perfect waves and I got a wave on each of them. You could hear us all whooping, yelping, and cackling over the crests of foam in the dark, like monkeys who had just discovered some forbidden fruit, swinging from branch to branch, in the last specks of light. Celebrating in the waters that brought a message from light years away. A message only understood while actively trying to decode it- each wave a different code, a different message, each wave a different lesson. Like three kisses from the gods, spirits, angels, or whoever watches over us. I wondered if my dad had anything to do with those waves, maybe someone he knew, a new friend. Who knows, all I do know is that after two months in Mexico, and five hours in the water, I had never needed anything more in my life than those waves. It was such a release of emotions. I started crying, but I was laughing too, laughing at the ridiculousness of life. I felt the spectrum of human emotions. I was happy, grateful, and lucky to be there, and felt alive after navigating my way through the shitstorm of death. The deluge of darkness. Grief works in funny ways; it comes when it comes. It washes over you. You can feel it in your blood, like a drug you didn’t want. Whatever pain, anger, confusion, or resentment you thought you had rid yourself of is shown to you, and it feels a lot better to let it go. Or at least try, even if little by little.
I took a few minutes to say goodbye to this place. I just sat there on my board for a few minutes. I looked at the rocks, the pelicans hovering around, the water, the sun, the sky. Everything looked like a warm shade of gray and charcoal. I wanted to stay out there forever. I wondered if I’d ever come back here.
Jesus, Zicatela
“Hey, white boy.” He joked. This was the most crowded I had ever seen it here, fifty people maybe, felt like a hundred. The waves were good, but they were dying down and it was getting dark.
“The waves are small now, I’m going home.” He told me.
I told him this was my last night and that I was leaving tomorrow. We said our goodbyes and made plans to surf again. A few minutes later, with the lull in the waves, and encroaching darkness, the crowd thinned out. It was down to just about 10 people, and then a half hour later just five of us: A father and son, a guy who rode a unicycle around town who went by Limón, and another local. I was in heaven, I had been out for 3 hours already and couldn’t find a groove, but I knew more waves were coming. I hoped anyway, but I had a feeling.
I was still dealing with the pain of losing my dad two years before. It had been a dark and confusing couple of years. My love for the ocean had pulled me back in and helped me focus on something tangible. Although the feelings that came from catching waves were inexplicable, fleeting, and intangible, that was what always kept me coming back. Over the next couple of hours there were 3 amazing sets of perfect waves and I got a wave on each of them. You could hear us all whooping, yelping, and cackling over the crests of foam in the dark, like monkeys who had just discovered some forbidden fruit, swinging from branch to branch, in the last specks of light. Celebrating in the waters that brought a message from light years away. A message only understood while actively trying to decode it- each wave a different code, a different message, each wave a different lesson. Like three kisses from the gods, spirits, angels, or whoever watches over us. I wondered if my dad had anything to do with those waves, maybe someone he knew, a new friend. Who knows, all I do know is that after two months in Mexico, and five hours in the water, I had never needed anything more in my life than those waves. It was such a release of emotions. I started crying, but I was laughing too, laughing at the ridiculousness of life. I felt the spectrum of human emotions. I was happy, grateful, and lucky to be there, and felt alive after navigating my way through the shitstorm of death. The deluge of darkness. Grief works in funny ways; it comes when it comes. It washes over you. You can feel it in your blood, like a drug you didn’t want. Whatever pain, anger, confusion, or resentment you thought you had rid yourself of is shown to you, and it feels a lot better to let it go. Or at least try, even if little by little.
I took a few minutes to say goodbye to this place. I just sat there on my board for a few minutes. I looked at the rocks, the pelicans hovering around, the water, the sun, the sky. Everything looked like a warm shade of gray and charcoal. I wanted to stay out there forever. I wondered if I’d ever come back here.
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