I'd need a radio in order to dispatch what I'm about to say:
My driver today was from Haiti (as an inordinate amount of my drivers from Newark driving into Manhattan at 5:30pm typically are). I asked him if he spoke Creole and in a somewhat accented English he replied with "Of course I speak Creole, I speak French, a lot of English, and some of other stuff" in the way that only speaking something oddly francophonic for the majority of your life can do.
You somehow ignore the hard sound of an h and emphasize that "oo" sounds like "uhhhhh"
I told him I was from Mexico and after the perfunctory (<-- is this the right word?) about "futbol" and "quotations" the truth came to be. Being from the little island of Haiti the man had little aspirations for his nation's soccer team. To him, like apparently to many of the Caribbean islands, Mexico is the tallest little person in the room. The only one in the scrappy, upstart geographic coalition that includes everything south of the Rio Grande that can dream of greatness and the world cup.
Mexico is the only one that can do it. Short but you jump (in reference to a legendary goalie in Mexico affectionately known as "the rabbit" and reminiscent of the French goalie of world cups past.
Mexico is the only country to have qualified for every World Cup and never won. That is, we've played at every single one but never made it to the finals.
He suggested we could make a real run for the Cup this year on the back of a new generation of Mexican footballers that defeated Brazil at the Olympics and the previous generation that won the sub-17 world cup. But they've never spoken of my people like they have of the current generation of Spanish balonpie.
Nor will they ever. We stand in the shadow of their turbulence. Still.
Pause as he wrestles with the Holland Tunnel traffic
And the conversation naturally veers to Mexico boom industry. Tech. Ha!
He probes here and there with a couple well placed questions that suggests he's far more studied than his faded Jets jersey and porcelain cat on his dashboard suggest.
Last Saturday my mother texted me a simple "Honey, your father and I are ok but just wanted to let you know they did it again but we are safe and at home! Love you" which prompted me to call (i dont do well under vague allusions to threat). The drug lords at home had taken to some of the key avenues and as they've done before in protest for this or that, boarded public transportation buses, politely asked the populace to get the f*** out, please. With an automatic gun in hand. The buses, once commandeered, were parked crosswise and torched.
You know, the casual things that happen in the "Second world" that are more reminiscent of war lords than of a country only a 3.5 hour flight and a free trade agreement away.
Casual.
I told him we were a democracy. He said that is good, that Haiti had a democracy but that the problem was that the definition of democracy at home for him was different than what a political science professor might use to describe it. An obvious stalwart supporter of democracy he admitted the weaknesses of the system in an uneducated nation more distressed about the day to day survival than the circus held at the nice government buildings far, far away.
I asked him about dictatorship.
Too much power in one family. it goes straigggggt to their heads (in obvious reference to Duvalier)
And then he surprised me - who is your general?
Frankly I don't know. I've met generals in the Mexican military. Battle scarred men who have never seen a war, faces pockmarked by the skin breakouts created by years of greasy beans and rice and though with less pomp and circumstance than some of their compatriots up north - they can still gut someone bare handed without taking a second breath.
Who is your general?
Frankly I have no idea, but it occurred to me that I come from a country that is fighting a war on drugs. We call it that, and it's fast and it's furious (cough cough) and that maybe its time we start figuring out who really runs these efforts. And the claims that some may make of the endangerment of those in the middle of the war - it's moot, masked the judges like they do in colombian but let the people shooting know their committing acts of civil war. That the children they recruit can also do the fighting.
We need a decorated general with a heart of gold - maybe with a beard to cover his scars on his face.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Boats
My first memory on a boat goes back to an age best remembered amidst the blurry blackouts of a 2-3 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
When I was little I used to go to a pool - a YMCA of the sort Mexico has I imagine - in the Distrito Federal. My cousin, who at the time seemed like an adult but in hindsight (and math) could not have been a day over 16 was a swimming instructor. And though i would hold on to the edge at the deep end of the pool to keep the thrill level high, the thing i lived for was the end of the day. My cousin would pile together swimming boards and fashion a multicolored red, green and blue raft of a delicate nature. He would them plop me gently aboard and shove into the deep end. The slow swaying would begin the slow and inevitable process of disintegration until I had to abandon ship.
The musicians were almost as good as the ones on the decks of the unsinkable. And the music would play on although at the time I'm pretty sure it wasn't something classic but something popular in the early 90s at home - Reik probably, or Fey.
My love for water, open or otherwise was sealed in those moments amidst my confused and childish screams of happiness and terror of the dark bottom. As I grew up older and discovered girls (where had they been?) and water sports (if ever something can make a man feel so grand and so little other than not being able to hammer a nail in straight) I found pleasure in speed.
Whether tailing a large boat jumping in and out the waves on a jet ski with nothing holding you back other than the earthly bounds of sanity and self restraint or the pleasure of being dragged behind a speed boat, water rushing in, enema-style until you "got up" - it was incredible. And that was all well within sight of land. But I was more of a Columbus and less of one of his earlier crews. I wanted to see nothing but water, feel myself at peace amidst the big sloping waves of the open sea.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day.
My (fairy?) godfather came along and showed me how to fish.
And he didn't walk on water. His gait is slow, slower now even, and at the center of his chest (clearly exposed whenever he's close enough to hear the ocean waves) is a bulbous, abnormal scar that protrudes. That's where the doctors have cracked his ribs open multiple times, reached in and squeezed a little bit more life out of him. His skin is parched and spotted but still retains a glimmer of the youth he once was and still thinks it is. Wake up at the crack of dawn, board the boat, sit on the boat trolling for swordfish and marlin. That's where i learned to love the ocean in the non-suicidal Hemingway style.
And did seriously, did none of E.H's friends pick up on the suicidal undertones of the old man and the sea, for whom the bell tolls, and a farewell to arms?! Something about fighting with a sword for hours on end, knowing when to give and when to pull, when to sit down and when to call for help getting back to your chair as your quads and forearms burn from exhaustion and the sun. When to wait it out, let the fish really sink into it while you sip on a beer - not so quietly - taunting it.
The "dorado" is a dinosaur of a fish. A neanderthal head, a golden hue that turns blue and a nasty kick to it. Bring one on board and all hands on deck to subdue the monster that will flay shins and break the occasional finger. Then a thud and a celebration as the smaller fish make breakfast lunch and dinner.
6 years later i haven't really been out on the water like i miss. I've gotten to learn the true sundowner experience, wearing a cowboy hat, celebrating the birthday of a nation other than mine - smiling and happy. Ironic that I now, for the first time in my life live on an island that feels nothing like one (though it's still teeming with dinosaurs). Maybe someday I'll get to go back and seek out a small mexican fishing village. One where i can fish, sell, cook and then sit down at the town square with a bunch of my friends while singing and drinking. I'll probably sit down as the last waves of heat rise from the asphalt and the cobblestones and wonder something about the crazy idea of growing the fishing business to a multinational empire. Wonder about the quote - "monopoly? monopoly is just a game senator - I want to rule the world". And vaguely remember terms like IPOs, DCF and EBITDA amidst the blurry blackouts of a 22-24 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
Te quiero Tio Ray.
When I was little I used to go to a pool - a YMCA of the sort Mexico has I imagine - in the Distrito Federal. My cousin, who at the time seemed like an adult but in hindsight (and math) could not have been a day over 16 was a swimming instructor. And though i would hold on to the edge at the deep end of the pool to keep the thrill level high, the thing i lived for was the end of the day. My cousin would pile together swimming boards and fashion a multicolored red, green and blue raft of a delicate nature. He would them plop me gently aboard and shove into the deep end. The slow swaying would begin the slow and inevitable process of disintegration until I had to abandon ship.
The musicians were almost as good as the ones on the decks of the unsinkable. And the music would play on although at the time I'm pretty sure it wasn't something classic but something popular in the early 90s at home - Reik probably, or Fey.
My love for water, open or otherwise was sealed in those moments amidst my confused and childish screams of happiness and terror of the dark bottom. As I grew up older and discovered girls (where had they been?) and water sports (if ever something can make a man feel so grand and so little other than not being able to hammer a nail in straight) I found pleasure in speed.
Whether tailing a large boat jumping in and out the waves on a jet ski with nothing holding you back other than the earthly bounds of sanity and self restraint or the pleasure of being dragged behind a speed boat, water rushing in, enema-style until you "got up" - it was incredible. And that was all well within sight of land. But I was more of a Columbus and less of one of his earlier crews. I wanted to see nothing but water, feel myself at peace amidst the big sloping waves of the open sea.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day.
My (fairy?) godfather came along and showed me how to fish.
And he didn't walk on water. His gait is slow, slower now even, and at the center of his chest (clearly exposed whenever he's close enough to hear the ocean waves) is a bulbous, abnormal scar that protrudes. That's where the doctors have cracked his ribs open multiple times, reached in and squeezed a little bit more life out of him. His skin is parched and spotted but still retains a glimmer of the youth he once was and still thinks it is. Wake up at the crack of dawn, board the boat, sit on the boat trolling for swordfish and marlin. That's where i learned to love the ocean in the non-suicidal Hemingway style.
And did seriously, did none of E.H's friends pick up on the suicidal undertones of the old man and the sea, for whom the bell tolls, and a farewell to arms?! Something about fighting with a sword for hours on end, knowing when to give and when to pull, when to sit down and when to call for help getting back to your chair as your quads and forearms burn from exhaustion and the sun. When to wait it out, let the fish really sink into it while you sip on a beer - not so quietly - taunting it.
The "dorado" is a dinosaur of a fish. A neanderthal head, a golden hue that turns blue and a nasty kick to it. Bring one on board and all hands on deck to subdue the monster that will flay shins and break the occasional finger. Then a thud and a celebration as the smaller fish make breakfast lunch and dinner.
6 years later i haven't really been out on the water like i miss. I've gotten to learn the true sundowner experience, wearing a cowboy hat, celebrating the birthday of a nation other than mine - smiling and happy. Ironic that I now, for the first time in my life live on an island that feels nothing like one (though it's still teeming with dinosaurs). Maybe someday I'll get to go back and seek out a small mexican fishing village. One where i can fish, sell, cook and then sit down at the town square with a bunch of my friends while singing and drinking. I'll probably sit down as the last waves of heat rise from the asphalt and the cobblestones and wonder something about the crazy idea of growing the fishing business to a multinational empire. Wonder about the quote - "monopoly? monopoly is just a game senator - I want to rule the world". And vaguely remember terms like IPOs, DCF and EBITDA amidst the blurry blackouts of a 22-24 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
Te quiero Tio Ray.
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