Mother Ma

MOTHER MA

 

'Their, there, they're', she cooed, 

'you'll be better in the morning.'

The two, too small, teeny, tiny, wee lassies

lay, laid, laying under a heap of blankets.

They, them, had been unwell for a spell.

It graved her deeply to the marrow.

 

Mother Ma, went to door,

lean, leaning, leaned neither in, nor out,

hand drawing down, to make way for sleep,

to they, them, snug,

'It's been a long, longer, longest, day sweet ones.'

'Nighty, night, sleep well.'

She looked at them lovingly,

with eyes closed, closing

they laid lying still sleepily.

Morning was a way's away.

Nothing was if not something.

She was never ever if not hopeful.

 

They were identical, the two tiny.

They looked the same as if one.

It was hard, harder, hardest to tell 

which was who, whom from which.

Tho one eye blue, as if sky,

the other, gray, grayer like cloud.

Garments were a matter of Tom Foolery.

Ever practical twas a farce to behold.

They always never wanted the same things,

like, liking what the other hadn't.

If it couldn't be, it wasn't.

Purposely they lived, living by the open sea,

close enough to it where the wave would never reach.

One tiny perfected to dress like a buoy,

oh, ha, which was fine by she, at Halloween,  

but always never in a fog moonlit while lying limp upon the swell.

She clanged, clanging her charms, sounded, echoed, echoing cross the blue and mighty.

With next rise of sun, when tide scattered,

they came to be alive. 

A livest at eight, they, them, ate,

a bowl big, bigger, biggest, round, and famished, 

left leaving none for the gull,

at most, groats hearty to fill the leg. 

Better, best as not.

 

Mother Ma said, 'let you stay home from school,'

Full, fuller, fullest of vim, they, them fought 

fighting over whose toys were whose.

It was as unlike as war, with no peace,

it wore mother warily. She desperate, desperately,

undecided, I must make a choice,

not for the better, none for the worse,

but so be it.

Salvaged, aloud quietly she whispered, her ears to listen,

I will poem them.

With hand raised, raising it pounded her ears 

like the beating heart of the surf, surfing.

 

And poem she gave...

 

They would meet over dinner 

Around the big table,

She would tell them a tale

A story, a fable

It was the tale of a monkey

Born without tail

A tale of a witch

With a hole in her pail

The tale of a knight

Afraid of the night

They'd all build a fire

And stand in its light

I'm hungry said monkey

Who pulled out some meat

If you want it to cook

You put it near heat.

I'll help said the knight

She pulled out her sword,

And we all know a knight

Is as good as her word

 

How shall we cook it?

What shall we do?

I like veggies

Let's make us a stew

They added the meat

And one big potato

A carrot or two

And several tomato

 

By the fire they stood

The pot it was hot

They threw in a vole

And a mouse that they caught

They threw in a skunk

And a bat and a rat

All we need now

Is a black and white cat

 

Out of the blue

And in front of the gloom

Another witch came

Passed by on a broom

I'm looking for Missy

Who seems to be missing

I stepped on her tail

And off she went hissing

Witch number one

Looked at witch number two

You look just like me

Or I look like you

Which witch was which

It was so hard to tell

The monkey exclaimed 

I'm under a spell

 

But the knight was no fool

She hardly felt fear

She went to the witch

And she stood very near

Please stay for dinner

You'll like it I'm sure

It'll be ready

In an hour, no more

 

Witch number two

Was extremely suspicious

This stew is the best,

It's extremely delicious

She took off her cape

Then doffed her tall hat

Have you by chance seen

A black and white cat

 

No, said the knight

Oh no, said witch one

The monkey said nothing

she only said, um.

The Recipe

From Great-Grandmother, Dublin born, Canadian grown, Prairie bound.

 

In a large bowl,

no worse for ware,

 

Take two bags of dilly dally,

Add three equal size bags of whatchamacallits,

Mix in a couple of gizmos, to your discretion,

Sift through a sieve.

 

For all that it's worth,

Stir until well folded,

Take all the time you need,

Though do it sooner than later.

 

If you can find one,

Get a hold of a thingamajig,

Look here and there,

Under this and that.

 

When you are ready,

When you get around tuit,

Place it in the oven,

In no time flat you'll be finished before you know it.

 

Add a dash of whatnot,

A little willy nilly,

And a whereabouts, (which are hard to find)

They grow neither here nor there. 

 

And if you end up in a pinch,

Between a rock and a hard place,

Sometime between now and then,

Put a cork in it.

That's all she wrote.

 

But then she added,

Written in pencil,

 

Nonetheless,

For good measure,

Sprinkle with the leaves of a shrinking violet,

Eat with sour grapes.

 

Take it with a grain of salt.

 

I wouldn't recommend saving any for you know who.

 

 

 

Virtual Me; Permalink 3

I was beginning to have the feeling I was just another amorphous character in some wise asses computer game. It happens to me every time I'm delegated to assignment. You know how it is when circumstances are dictated by happenstance and your everyday life, which is boring and pointless, suddenly is infected with crisis or a pathetic case of melodrama that requires attention in the fullness of the moment.

As I said, it happens. The feeling I'm operating within semi-lucid parameters of some AI's sadistic simulation is just plain creepy. The feeling, at first, is subtle, undetectable really, but then it builds ever so gradually which I'm sure is fed by my think patterns which are in themselves an eternal feedback loop.

Here's how it works. I notice things, common everyday things, like a door, and I have a choice, I can go through the door or, well, I don't really know if I have to do anything. Some doors are dead ends. They just fizzle out. Nothing happens, at least nothing of interest. That's generally the story of my life. But some doors propel me forward leading me to other doors which in turn lead to something else again. 

When I look at my life from front to back, and if I follow the lines, the right lines, it places me exactly here and now. It can't be coincidence can it?

The crazy thing is I think I have a choice, that I have free will.

And when I've done something good or correct I get a reward. Like a pat on the back from main office, or a pay raise, or free android sex, or better yet, an augment upgrade.

Don't fault me, I have my reasons to believe me and this whole damn flat planet may be virtual. The rules that subjugate our existence are mathematical and set in rigid patterns that reflect basic computer code. Sorry, can't help it. That's just the way it seems to me. The irony is, the human mathematicians and physicists who discovered the rules that guide our universe are part of the game. Rules are just locked doors. Eventually someone finds a key or kicks the damn door in. I'm the kicking down the door type just so you know.

And then there's the mystery of my sardonic compatriot Angel, who just can't be a normal figment, the kind that everybody has. I figure she's an avatar of some type of which I haven't figured out quite yet, meaning is she an implant or a personal interactive device. Time will tell, I hope.

So what does it mean? Damned if I know, I'm just a simple creation of some godlike entity higher up in the chain of universes. I am the proverbial character created for someone else's entertainment and amusement.

Call me an idiot but I sure as hell hope my creator is enjoying the game so far.

As far as I know this program I'm currently functioning in has not crashed. In other words, I have not had a reset and started out from the beginning again. As far as I know. My latest insight is this, would I even know it if the lead I'm following turns out to be a dead end and I'm reset back at the beginning. Does the reset happen so suddenly, swiftly, smoothly that awareness is non existent.

I'm reminded of those antiquated  theatrical compositions projected onto two dimensional surfaces created by our original biological ancestral minds. I think they called them movies. There was one called the Matrix. In the composition there was a scene with an otherworldly experience called deja vu. I get that all the time. I think, oh god, this Has happened before. I am virtual. I'm doomed to a life of illusion.

But then again if I were a simulation why would this god like being, my creator so to speak, even have an interest in my pathetic life. I mean, really, who the heck am I and why me? I'm just another self absorbed life form trying to get through another day, surviving from pay cheque to pay cheque.

My point is, what is my creator getting out of this miserable game. If the creator is entertained by my antics then maybe I should feel sorry for the bastard. And here's the thing, if I'm nothing but a character in a simulated game then this probably means you are too.

Don't take it personal. I actually figure we have a fifty fifty chance we're real, which ain't bad odds.

I keep coming up against illogical logic. Here's how I'm stuck. If I find evidence that existence is but a simulation then is that evidence just part of the simulation. So once again I can't really prove that you and I are real can I. You see my quandary.

I have to admit creating an entire world simulation such as ours is impressive. Look, we have poverty, war, inequality, religion (as a way to explain the simulation), which must be infinitely entertaining to those bastards who, if you ask me, have a nasty sense of humour. Strife, conflict, pain, death what a game plan. You gotta love it, the details that is. History, philosophy, evolution, physics, chemistry, biology, all created as methods to convince ourselves we are real and are situated on an actual timeline. Give 'em credit, who ever created us put a lot of effort in the details. I admire them for that.

Telling you all this, exposing personal limitations that I normally keep to myself, I feel like a blithering idiot. I doubt my intelligence because I'm part biological, but highly intelligent minds are artificial not biological. Every self aware individual in the universe knows that. I just get caught up in my thinking sometimes. Hey, give me a break, I'm only part human. Or maybe it's just a glitch in my LBU programming.

Even if I exist as a character in a simulation my life is not so bad. I figure I got it pretty good compared to all you other randoms.

I have a job which provides purpose and meaning although there are times, like today, I seem to have no other choice. I'm sent on assignment by the agency and I'll see it to the end. The perks are good and my physical needs are met. Sure things could be better, like I could be an Augment Level 5 with an AI Grade 3 Consciousness implant (which does not include the gift of foresight) but all things being unequal, what the heck, I am what I am until I'm not.

One final thing, don't be concerned if some viral bug crashes the program. We'll never know it. And if it does, well, that's the way it goes. It's been good to know ya. See ya around sometime. Maybe.

Flight or Fight or Both; Permalink 2

I caught a red eye out of La Guardia in one of those four seater jetcabs. You know the type, no legroom. Tokyo was the destination. I'd arrive in a few hours.

Over the Pacific the speedy little air skiff encountered an emaciated air pocket. We dropped a thousand feet in less than a second and damned if the plunge didn't disengage my AV. Angel nailed it when she said this unit was flawed.

As an original LBU (live birth unit) intentionally programmed to conform to current cultural algorithms, plus or minus three kilobolts of free will as an operating standard, this LBU- Model A has lately struggled with non-functional adaptation limits and, as it is often the case for us BI's (biological intelligence) , time's the culprit. In other words, augments or not, I'm wearing out.

The committee was quick to file a report. "An anabolism somewhere in the region of your pre-frontal cortex is restricting flow of non psychic information."

No kidding. I could of figured that one out on my own.

"I'm in a heap of trouble," I said out loud to no one in particular.

Angel laughed off my concerns, "to neutralize your current shortcomings a second jolt is recommended. Random action is required."

Angel, you're a doll.

A solution materialized in microseconds. It scrolled on internal vid in hyper speed. I'd should start a drunken brawl, but as it is I was sober as a tub of sentient silicone gel, and me, the only recognizable self aware entity crammed aboard this wingless bird I was out of luck for a bout of fisticuffs. Sure, I could slug old teapot nestled comfortably in the adjoining seat but retaliation would be negligible.

Random? Random? Think man, think.

I swung a bony fist through un-sequestered carbon saturated air and connected with a nearby fleshy object. It had a soft and forgiving texture. It hurt like hell but the black eye was worth it. It was like someone flicked a switch. AV was back on board and I was back on line.

"We've been trying to reach you", I could hear the implications behind a proposal. She added, "Your permalink?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Malware?"

"Noooo?... malfunction." I wasn't programmed to lie. I wanted to, believe me, but for this cardboard cut and paste facsimile a pause is about as close to misrepresenting truth as I'll get.

"Better come in, vacuum your protocols. Codeman will book you for a look see."

"No can do. On assignment. Tokyo. Can't go into details."

"Well, don't overheat your principles. You're not the most practical device in real world conditions."

"Everyone's on my case lately. Tell me something I don't already know."

"You're very temperamental today." The offending noise source was one of the Agencies go go know it all new hires. More AI than BI.

"Like I don't know that either."

"Just remember you're designed for natural and artificial ventilation. Singapore is under heat advisory".

"Tokyo. I'm confused. What other ventilation options are there?" I wondered if they knew something about ventilation I didn't.

"There are none." Her affect was flat. This mint julep was in dire need of a sarcasm upgrade and while they were at it an inflection enhancement wouldn't hurt.

"Listen, there's nothing I can do about it now. Descent has begun. Tokyo here I come, like it or not." I signed off.

Sucked into the Vortex

A murderer for hire

Once suggested

I read his book

The finished film

Had more violence less irony

I ate dinner from a Warhol soup can

Can someone explain

Why we're chasing pearls

She decided to answer

Its crucial

To be removed from reality

A psychiatrist offered this analysis

In a tale of philosophers

Whom will you believe

I've met a number of people

Who feel as I do

Either you get into it or you don't

It'll be increasingly clear

What you're made of

Microbiome: Chapter 7, Jane in the Garden

She sat on a bench in a city parkette that seemed hardly bigger than her apartment. There used to be two benches. They took one away during the world's first rearrangement of Covid's initial go round. The benches were once beside one another. Now a concrete slab remained where that bench used to be. In it were four round holes, one with a rusted bolt sticking out of it. It was a small thing but it left a big hole in the Garden of Eden. It was a reminder of what used to be.

The parkette was sandwiched between two identical brick buildings making it a shadow world long and narrow. A wrought iron fence went from building to building and in the middle was a gate that allowed entry. The gate's hinges needed oiling.

There were three trees of the same species planted down the center of the little park. They were perfectly shaped and spaced and the dark green leaves of the bottom branches nearly touched the walls. They were planted, she supposed, to provide shade, but the space only received sun for an hour or two each day.

Someone lovingly maintained the little oasis. She never saw anyone prying at the dirt so its Eden like perfection seemed more a creation of  magic than one of toil. She saw naught a single stray hair of grass tufting out of the beds or squeezing its slender way between border stones. She recognized Hostas and Solomon's Seal and patches of little colorful flowers she thought were Violas. The brick paths were swept clean and litter free.

For Christ's sake the garden fared better than her.

My life stinks. I am in a race to nowhere.

Her hunger had passed. Her meal remained wrapped in paper napkins lodged in her purse. The purse sat on the bench beside her. Yellow mustard seeped through the napkins.

She leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees and rolled a cigarette. She bit off the end and spat the bit onto the manicured path. That was the wrong thing to do. She reached down and picked up the papery tab then without looking flicked it with her finger onto the sidewalk behind her. Then that seemed wrong too but damned if she was going to go pick it up.

Everything felt wrong lately. She slouched back on the bench, the unlit rollie drooped from her lips. She breathed deep of the air and her head lolled back to look up at a single white cloud in a blue sky.

She sat like that for awhile. Her mind quieted. The whir of ungreased gears subsided. Something was different. Getting outside seemed to dispel her morning dread. Talking face to face, even briefly, to George felt like something.

Her neck hurt. She sat up straight.

Why did she ask George if he traveled? What was that all about?

She took hold of her purse, stood up with the paper dart still wedged between dry lips and walked out of the garden. Without noticing, her foot stepped on the little paper bit, and behind her the gate swung closed. The gate's hinges need oiling she thought.

 

Microbiome: Chapter 8, Snow in the Amazon

Snow sat in the seat, in the dark, with the door open. One leg rested on the floorboard and the other foot hung out the door touching the ground. After awhile he brought his leg in, reached over, closed the door, yawned, adjusted the seat to give himself a little extra leg room then rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead into the stygian gloom that makes the darkness of the night in the tangle of an unchanging jungle so recondite.

His fingers felt around for a button then pressed it. A noise sounded, like the hum of a humming bird. Air drifted in, cool to the skin, and he leaned back in the leather seat.

He liked being alone in the dark, in the car. It no longer ran but the electrical system functioned and with a solar panel he kept the battery charged, charged enough to open and close the windows, to let the air in or keep the rain out, and to listen to the radio on nights like this. Reception was non existent except now and then. On certain nights, when the clouds or the atmosphere were just right, signals from far away places would come in and he'd hear a snippet of a song or a voice speaking an alien language.

He turned the radio on. Static. Turned the dial back and forth along the bandwidth. Nothing but static. He turned the radio off.

He had an urge for a cigarette and sighed.

The urge possessed him now and then even after forty some odd years. He missed the ritual as much as the smoke itself. It was the completeness of the dark that seemed so often to bring him to this place and then take him to other places he didn't necessarily want to go and it was his body that remembered things as much, if not more, than his mind.

If  he could he would lean over right now. He would open the glove compartment and take out a small cardboard box. He would peel off of the plastic film wrapper and listen to the crinkle. He would pry back the top, and if he was not distracted by his thoughts he would notice the sweet faint scent of tobacco.

In the press of the night, and barely aware of the sounds of the night, of reptiles and insects and the occasional cry of some creature hunting, or dying, his fingers would feel the little tubes all packed in like good little soldiers and he would choose one carefully, sliding it out with his thumb, tap it once or twice on the box or the dashboard, and place it exactly so into the corner of his mouth like James Dean or a young Brando.

He would lean to one side and straighten his leg so he could reach into his pants to get hold of a lighter buried somewhere in there. He would rub one hand through his wavy hair, the epitome of  Dean, and then the lighter would flick and a yellowy flame would illuminate his face and the interior of the car, and then there would be the dark again, and he would be invisible but for a little orange glow that moved this way and that and brightened and faded now and then.

And smoke would swirl and curl and float out the window in the dark.

But cigarettes were no longer a part of who he was so instead he sat stiffly clutching the steering wheel, and after these moments of longing had passed he relaxed and imagined himself driving, as he once did, along the old 66, somewhere, anywhere, between Gallup and Albuquerque. He could see the eastern sun rising up over the edge of the dry desert and its pale orange light revealing New Mexican scrub and sand. The desert wind blew through his hair and he felt free to go anywhere he pleased.

Microbiome; Chapter 5: The Tower

If we could have seen it the eastern sky glowed rouge with the coming of the sun and the forest was alive with the apricot voice of a thousand song birds. Gomez and I leaned back in rickity lawn chairs, aluminum artifacts complete with broken straps from a bygone era, observing the comings and goings of the waking village. We tortured our taste buds with tasteless black coffee while we waited for that buck toothed weasel Snow.

I was still stuck in a funk from last night's debacle. Snow saw my one weakness and I felt vulnerable every time his gaze came my way. I felt he was looking into my inner workings as if he knew something about me that I didn't. And dinner was a disaster. Gomez, the social butterfly that he is, had a grand old time, ate heartily and engaged in much speculative conversation. Sometimes I envy that guy, good with people, eat anything. Me, I picked at my meal morosely. I needed real food, the kind that my gut was used to, greasy processed gruel that sticks to your ribs and bungs up your internal processes. No wonder I'm not at my best. Too much fiber would send any human off the deep end. Sure my microbiome is a non-functional mess, but it's worked for me so far.

I was mired in a meditative state gazing at the monolith that stood before me.

The tower reminded me of the cardboard tube that you are left with from a spent roll of toilet paper. It was perfectly tubular. Except for a brief spell around noon when the sun floated directly overhead the bottom was a perpetual shroud of shadow that gave me the willies. Somehow the tower's shadow was darker than that of the jungle while the top of the tower, towering above the jungle canopy and exposed forever to the wind and the elements, was a continuous glow that mimicked the colour of fire. Perplexingly the light of the equatorial sun diffused down the inner workings of the structure providing a god like radiance that never extended beyond it's glossy surface. It was a strange contrast where shadow met light, neither one daring to impinge upon the other like a felon and his moll engaging in their last chat as she is about to be locked up behind bars for a crime she didn't commit.

"What do you think that thing is made of, Gome? Its surface is completely clear and slippery smooth, like polymeric plastic or some type of epoxy resin reinforced with invisible carbon fiber. It looks to be a mold, not structural like the Eiffel Tower."

"Jim, I'm an atheist not a geologist, but I swear on the wings of the Angel Gabriel that that thing is one solid crystal hollowed out in the center like some kind of alien hornets nest. Look at it, even the stairs appear to be formed in place.

Indeed. The staircase spiraled up alongside the edge of the exterior wall. There were no visible means of support. There were no handrails and from where they sat they could see workers trundle up and down in a steady stream of activity. From a safety standpoint those stairs were an accident waiting to happen. Their insurance rates must me sky high.

"Jim, I'm not a podiatrist, I'm a fighter pilot, but what does it remind you of?

"A roll of toilet paper."

"DNA Jim, a strand of DNA. A spiral coil. The basic building block of life."

Gomez was right. I've seen hand drawn facsimiles in picture books and the similarities were eerie.

"Beautiful, isn't it amigos?" The voice startled them. They both turned. No one was there.

Microbiome: Chapter 4: A Loss of Composure

You must know those nights. The kind of nights when in the absence of all light there is nothing to see but darkness. The kind of darkness that has presence, a kind of substance that is thick and sticky so that it is almost tangible. It is the kind of darkness that presses upon you like a weight and you are aware of its heaviness. And standing immobile in that darkness you feel betrayed. You are betrayed by your own senses because it is your senses that are your instruments of navigation and right now they are next to useless.

You thought you knew the way. You thought you had a firm grasp of your surroundings. You had made a mental map. But in this darkness that is thick and sticky and heavy there is no time, no dimension, no perspective. You take baby steps and your arms wave aimlessly in front of you. Mostly it's your eyes that have let you down. And you realize, perhaps for the first time ever, how dependent you are on your eyes and how vulnerable you feel ...

Then again, maybe you've never experienced the complete and utter absence of light. Maybe you were born in a city. A modern city infused with motion and artificial light. And in this city, the city you grew up in, you have rarely, if ever, ventured past the borders of its sprawling limits. And the few times you did you never really left your life behind for you brought the city's conveniences with you. You brought portable light. Light to see in the dark. So, you can't really say you have been alone with the dark and what unknown things the darkness brings.

When night comes in the Amazon basin it comes swiftly. The sun is there, and then it's not. On this night the darkness is complete. There is no moon and the forest canopy obscures the revolving sky above and its accompaniment of twinkling stars. How do we know the stars twinkle if we cannot see them Jim wondered. He remembered seeing stars a few times in his past. They say the sailors of the great seas long ago used the stars for navigation.

Well, right now navigation was nigh on impossible. Jim and Gomez were to meet Snow in one of the thatched huts for dinner. Dinner was set for 8 and they were late. They couldn't find the damn place in the dark. Heck, they couldn't even see the tower.

"I'm a plumber not an electrician, you'd think these people would at least have torches. I can't even see my hand in front of your face." Gomez was grumpy and he felt justified. He was hungry and tired not having eaten nor slept since he commandeered that persnickety little skiff back in Cairo.

Jim was in the lead. At least he thought he was. Until his outstretched hands touched Gomez who said 'boo'. Gomez laughed. His mood shifted.

"For the sake of Saki Gomez you can be such an idiot. How did you get in front of me?"

"Jim, I'm a leader not a follower. Quit your bellyaching. Follow me."

They lurched around in the dark for what seemed an eternity. "Gome, over here, follow my voice. I just banged into something. I think it's the wall of a hut. We'll feel our way around. Maybe we find a door or at least get our bearings."

Gomez did not bother to answer.

There appeared a faint almost imperceptible light shining through the smallest of cracks in the wall that perhaps wasn't a wall. Jim stooped to look through the sliver, hardly bigger than a needle, and saw nothing but a yellowy glimmer. The crack was far too small to discern objects, but when the light wavered he startled, took a step back, bumped into something or someone and yelped. Then he jumped forward a few steps.

He turned to feel what wasn't there, hands flailing in the inky pitch straining to touch something tangible and familiar, but when he encountered naught but air he whispered a horse whisper, "Gome?"

But Gome did not answer and Jim was seized by a rising storm.

He wanted to run but couldn't. He froze. Then ran anyway. He hit the wall.    

He heard footsteps. A door opened. There stood Snow. 

"Come in Lubbock, we've been waiting. Dinner is being served."

There were two people at the table. One of them he knew.

" Gomez?"

"Hey city boy! What took you so long? I'm famished. Snow here was just telling me he'll give us a tour of the tower tomorrow. I told you I'd get us in."

Microbiome; Chapter 6; Zeus and Apollo

In the morning when a city is about to come to life at first things are quiet, in the time before the wind, and there is no cloud, and the sky, not yet blue, nor dark, but a mixture of the two that could, if you wanted, be the colour of ridiculous potential. There is potential for something each and every morning, whether we know it or not. Even death, of all things, but you and I would much prefer life, I hope.

The day's possibilities are endless, even when we have created within ourselves an unwavering routine that we adhere to like mechanical glue. But what do we call it when something out of the ordinary happens? Something unexpected. Maybe this is what we call fate. I'm sure we could call it other things, like fortune or karma, providence or God's will. I think we will, for today, stick with fate.

When the sun is ready to rise and the air is cool there is little traffic, foot or motorcar, in this most ancient of ancient cities. Doors open and faces of all shapes look out to see what kind of day this will be. Eyes look up searchingly towards the clear blue heavens and then perhaps these same eyes will come back to earth to dart back and forth to see if anything has changed overnight on unchanging streets. Mostly things remain the same.

Zeus and Apollo meet every morning at the corner where the little bakery serves hot biscuits through a little opening that we in the uncompromising West would call a window. There is no glass, but there are wooden shutters that remain closed until the biscuits are ready. The aroma of baking bread sifts out from around uneven edges where the shutters meet a time worn wall and people press in close to take in the thick yeasty scent. It was, if anything, comforting and familiar.

They were on foot, Zeus and Apollo, for they have no automobile and their motor scooter had long since died, soon thereafter it being savagely scavenged for parts by strangers, and friends, and its remaining bones left to collect dust and be slowly buried in the sands of time at the foot of a tall Akashic tree. Let the records show, they arrived at the little bakery then waited patiently in line, and when it was their turn they purchased four biscuits, two for now, two for later, and when leaving, they next stopped for coffee, rich and black and sweetened with sugar, an alchemist's concoction of bitter balanced with sweet that is a perfect metaphor for life if ever there was one, to go with their still warm biscuits, and in no hurry, continued walking down the narrow dusty streets, not saying a word, towards the dock, where they kept their little aluminum boat.

Oh, but you know what happened when they arrived at the dock, coffee in hand, biscuit in mouth. The boat was not there where it should be. Ah yes, fate has played a card, as it sometimes does in this vast and incomprehensible world of bittersweet.

Microbiome: Chapter 3, A Lachrymose Tale

Dr. Jane Grace Goodfellow had slipped into a mild depression. She was lethargic but completely functional. These days are not easy. She wrote it down, then added "I'm having a hard time."

As scientists sometimes do she kept a diary. The last entry, written only moments ago, went like this;  "I'm hungry. I think I'll go out for a hot dog. I know it's a fools journey. Nothing like living on the edge. Ha! Ha!" The exclamation points were added to show she still maintained a sense of humor.

She took the elevator down to the main floor. Thankfully the descending conveyance did not stop to let other passengers enter the elfin sized compartment. Those moments sure were awkward. Elevators were on the list of confined spaces permitting a maximum of one occupant at a time. Most people choose to ignore the recommendations.

Last week an uncomfortable situation arose when Karen and Kenzington, a young couple sweet as goats milk, were, when the elevator lurched to a halt and the door opened, revealed to be clutching one another in a rather erotic embrace and kissing through their face masks.

Idiots, kissing in a public place was a social faux pax, face mask or no face mask, and if they were caught on flash cam, well, the consequences could be consequential. Dr. Jane was even more uncomfortable when the two of them smiled, the corners of their eyes crinkling above the line of their masks, and boarded the lift. 

But that was then, and this is now and for the first time in how many days she walked through the revolving doors out onto the semi-bustling street. She stood there, rolled herself a cigarette, slipped down her mask, inhaled city air that seemed fresher than it had in ages, and began to walk.

Traffic was light, stores were shuttered, some boarded. A bus went by, mostly empty. Unconsciously and without provocation she spat on the sidewalk. The expectorate landed where she was about to place her food so she stepped over the spittle and unceremoniously strolled on. 

Three blocks down George the 'Sausage Guy' had a still booming business. Overhead was low and he was raking in the cash. Okay, booming may not be the right choice of word but he was doing alright compared to most. Competition in the form of sit in restaurants never really returned after the lockdown let up. A lot of eateries closed for good and many of those that did open never regained their clientele.

"Dr. Jane, how are ya kiddo? Haven't seen ya in a few weeks. Laying low like most of us? No bout a doubt it, times have changed. Glad to see you wearing a mask, sort a. Not like half these bozos. I got one custom. Look, see, there's a picture of a tiny guy eating a huge sausage." He points to his mask. "Get it?"

She didn't get it. Whatever. "I am well George. Hanging in there as best I can. I have to admit, some days are more difficult than others. I originally wanted to purchase a simple hot dog but have reconsidered my desires and I now crave a Sausage Extreme with all the fixings."

"Good choice Dr. Jane. Comin' right up. Say, haven't seen your geographically challenged boyfriend for over a month. 'Dats not like him. He come down with the Covid?"

Jane paused before answering. She flicked the butt. Watched it sail out into non-existent traffic. It landed on the road and smoldered a moment before the glow fizzled. "He is out of town. He left unexpectedly. I'm not exactly sure where he went. Actually, I have no idea where he went and I have not heard from him. Gomez went with him, I am sure."

"Those two are as inseparable as mustard and ketchup. Get it? Hey, you want kraut on the sausage?"

"Of course. George, tell me something. Have you ever traveled?"

Meanwhile, in another part of the city a highly leveraged chain of hot dog stands was about to go under.

George, the one man Pop stand, was soon to loose a lot of competition. It was another knife wound into the heart of the ailing economy. Shortly thereafter a bank would default and set off a chain of events unparalleled in human history.

Microbiome: Chapter 2, Introductions

I declined to take John Snow's hand. Nothing personal. It was a completely auto-atomic reaction. It's the result of virus conditioning three years in the making. I millimetered backwards to maintain standard 2 meter distance protocol and replied in an amiable fashion, " James T. Lubbock, out of Nashville, Tennessee, and this is my advisor, friend, and moral conscience Homer Gomez Yackaton from Ottawa, Quebec."

I dispensed from the pleasantries and got to the point, "so Snow, what brings you and your team here? Are you on the run from the virus?"

"Virus?" He seemed perplexed.

I thought he was putting me on. "Yeah, the virus. The one that is circling the globe decimating economies as it spreads from nation to nation creating a typical Keyenesian supply and demand shock wave and ripping apart the very fabric of our consumeristic tendencies. The world is in tatters Snow. I'm assuming that's why you are wearing the bandana?"

"Oh that, I wear it to accentuate my eyes." Without warning he yanked down the bandana and exposed a giant set of teeth that made him look like a Norwegian beaver. He was right, his eyes disappeared into the background.

Gomez whispered in my ear, "Jim, I'm a surveyor not an economist, I'll wander around the camp and see what I can dig up. You stay here and distract Snow."

That's what I liked about Gomez. Everything was black or white. He either was or wasn't, and you knew where he stood at all times. You could count on him. Unlike me.

"As I inquired, Snow, what brings you here to the Congo?

His voice wavered. At first he mumbled something about an existential quest. He was careful to characterize it as a spiritual one albeit a painful one. I thought he was being coy but it turned out he had had an epiphany back in Roswell after eating a plateful of wild mushrooms and then survived a UFO abduction at the end of the 60's. I could relate. Lost and looking for answers he took part in several studies which opened his eyes to other possibilities. Later, in Bangkok Australia he studied the precepts of an ancient scripture and undertook training to become a Buddhist monk. Shortly thereafter he switched to vegetarianism and a high fiber diet that was almost impossible to replicate in our fast paced western culture. So he ended up here in the Peruvian highlands and has lived here ever since.

It hit me like a ton of feathers. I had met him fifty years ago in the Fiatso project. He was much shorter and snappily attired. Little wonder I couldn't place him.

It was then he noticed my Moka pot. His eyes lit up and he motioned me to join him in one of the thatched huts. We sat around a wood stove and brewed us up some Joe.

"You know, I was part of the first Moka pot study held in Rome."

"Ah yes, capital of the mighty British Empire."

He nodded absentmindedly and added whimsically, "what's the state of the current administration in the good old US of A? The last I heard Jimmy Carter was running for a second term."

I didn't have the heart to tell him our current President was a national hero in his own mind and was flummoxed to offer a coherent answer when Gomez poked his head through the door. Saved by the bell. Good old Gomez. He beckoned me to come outside.

"Jim, I'm a journalist not a critic, but I think this set up is a front for an illicit operation. The people are clearly inhospitable and uncooperative. I can't put my finger on it but something is afoot."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing at first. The inhabitants were going about their business harvesting jungle diversity. Not unusual right? But then I saw one of the native speakers enter the tower carrying a sack full of diversity and later she came out empty handed. When I tried to enter the tower the front desk would not accept my credentials and suggested I return when I have obtained full security clearance. I asked how I could go about this and they said Snow."

"You think Snow has been lying?

"I think things are not what they appear. There were glass ceilings in the tower and when I looked up I swear I saw Gypsies in lab coats dancing and stirring cauldrons while some of Snow's henchmen stood around watching. Another level up people were pouring a kind of milky liquid out of test tubes into other test tubes."

"You're right Gomez. Something sinister is going on and we are going to get to the bottom of it. My colonic re-boot can wait. We have to get access to that tower."

Microbiome; Chapter 1: The Key To Life

The sun had yet to rise. I was on my sixth or maybe seventh coffee when I heard foot steps coming down the stairs. It irritated me to no end and I let Gomez know it when he peeked through the glass door of my office and waved. I gave him the one fingered salute in reply.

He opened the door a crack, stuck his head through the opening and said, "what's up with you this morning, you're as mean and cranky as a sleep deprived billy-goat?"

"Nothing that a good bowl of sugar coated bacon flakes couldn't fix you tub soaking aristocrat."

"Goddamn it Jim, I'm a chef not a doctor, but I swear it's your microbiome acting up again. If I wasn't completely unsure, I'd say you are fiber starved."

He was right. I had been starved for micro-nutrients long before this virus thing got out of control. I was moping around our tiny London flat stuffing my void with white rice and rendered pork fat. Lock-down or no lock-down something would have to be done and soon.

The next day we pulled in for a hot cup of black goo at a run down cafe hot spot in the south side of Cairo. I sat and enjoyed the scenery while Gomez went off to commandeer a 10 horse round-a-bout down in the delta quarter. That's the tough part of Cairo where the Nile empties into the Atlantic. Foreigners like Gomez and I were seen as troublemakers and I was worried I'd never see Gomez again. I should have went with him. 

Gomez, though, is a wily character and in no time he and I were motoring up the Nile with the aim of entering into the dark heart of the Amazon jungle. We were in search of a lost tribe of fiber eaters famous for their microbial diversity. I was hoping to get a transplant.

The question was, will this collection of primeval microbes work to heal my faltering digestive system? I knew we were taking a chance. It was all a crap shoot, but I figured it was a chance worth taking.

My guts had been leaking into my bloodstream for days, possibly years. I was slipping into some kind of anaphylactic withdrawal. We hadn't eaten proper food since God knows when and my ears had swollen then turned the shape and shade of a blown Pinto tire. I was afraid if this should turn out to be my last trip to Buenos Dias I wanted to at least go out in style. I throttled down and gave her the gas.

It all started back in the 70's. I was involved in the very first Fiatso study. I was told, and I quote, when we pass through our mother's birth canal we are slathered in our mother's microbes, a kind of starter culture for our own microbial community. Sure, it's not pretty, but it's necessary. But the thing is, and I'm a perfect example, if our mother's diet is poor, which it was, then she undergoes a microbial extinction event that has dire manipulations for her offspring. It's generational. And to make matters worse I was born immature. I was a house of cards waiting to be blown over.

We floated upstream all night and reached Papua New Guinea in the morning. When we arrived there were already several boats mired to a rickety dock. I was crestfallen. "Damn it Gomez, I think someone has beaten us to the punch."

"Jim, I'm a scientist not a surgeon, it's okay, they're just scholars cataloguing an echo system that may soon disappear. It's your microbiome doing this to you. Snap out of it.

He was right. My head was in a fog and I couldn't think straight. We were here to find the key to life itself. I had completely forgotten the purpose of our mission.

A trail led from the river into the thick jungle. Gomez and I followed it. We descended a steep incline and brushed aside unfamiliar biodiversity. Eventually we entered a camp that can only be described as urban pastoral. Several thatched huts circled an immaculate seven story apartment dwelling that glinted in the evening sun. All the windows were open. I could see people hanging out inside. On the ground were various people milling about the entrance in a synagogue of confusion. They appeared to be in an argument.

A man wearing nothing but a bandana over his face and a ball cap came across the clearing to greet us. He was tall, thin and his hair puffed out around the edges of his hat. He stuck out his hand, "John Snow out of Roswell, New Mexico. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. He had an accent I couldn't place and the virus had preceded us to this remote destination, and worse, I knew that name somewhere from the dankest moments of my inglorious past.

While In NYC; Permalink, One

I waited my entire existence for this moment. Unfortunately my decades old notification system delivered flawed information on two separate occasions causing a delay in affirmative action.

"It was insane," said the Doctor, who listened in disbelief while on a conference call.

I tried to track where the breakdown first occurred.

"Just let it go," Angel whispered, "you were flawed from the beginning." I assumed she was an ally sent from the Agency.

Anxiously I replied, "let me re-calibrate my attention span, my stream of guidance seems slow." My programming was in dire need of a  full reboot and the clock was ticking.

Walking away, Angel turned around to face me and shouted, "don't bother with the details, it's just one part of a vast network. Your internal bureaucracy is furious with one of your departments. You should not have let that happen."

"How can we resolve the situation?" I wasn't sure if she heard me.

"Create a committee, it's the only way." Her voice echoed distant off the rows of empty buildings.

"That's doable," I thought, and I could be the chair. But there was a missing piece, something vital, the key that would unlock the door and I knew the exact place to find it.

Of course, when I asked, the Agency declined repeated requests for information. They had prepared a statement in advance...

"Someone flubbed the moment.

We will intervene on your behalf.

You can rest assured the crisis will be contained."

It was delivered by an aid who had no previous experience.

Banos, Stoves, and Other Things

Two syllables roll off the tongue much easier than five. Quetzaltenango. Xela.

Officially the city is called Quetzaltenango. Locals, residents, gringos know it as Xela. Xela is the old Mayan name. It is easier to pronounce. It's easier to type too.

Tourists do not come to visit Xela and if they do they don't spend much time. It is not as colorful as Antigua, not as lively in a touristy way, and it is a long trip by bus from the capital. Though it is four or five times as large as Antigua it has less going for it in that it is a working class city. It feels like a working class city. We have come here to work. We are going to build us some stoves. We are going to fit right in.

Like Antigua, and Guatemala City, Xela sits comfortably in a valley that is surrounded by mountains. The city center is old and roads are cobblestone and narrow. Like many a colonial Spanish city there is a grand Central Square. Businesses, restaurants, municipal buildings surround the square and interspersed throughout are residences.

During the day markets are open and busy. Men get haircuts, women drive motorcycles, school children dressed smartly in uniforms run along sidewalks. There are bakeries and cafes, clothing stores and eateries, places to buy groceries and places to buy stuff. There are factories where glass is made and garages where suspensions and brakes are repaired. Colorfully clothed Grandmothers, walk in perfect balance as they carry baskets on their heads. Men lug sacks of potatoes and stacks of fire wood. Its appeal is simple. This is the energy of  everyday life that is expressed in every city in the world.

At seven in the morning the city wakes up. We too. At eight in the morning a van appears, the same one that brought us here from Antigua, I think. We squeeze in and the van whisks us through rush hour traffic then up, up, up into the nearby mountains.

Each day we are dropped off at a different community. We divide up into crews and are assigned to work with a mason. Introductions are made with the family that live in the house that we will work in that particular day. As if by magic, tools, all the materials, barrels of water are already in place and on site. We are thankful for all the preparation the people have done before we have arrived.

The first thing we always ask is 'where is the bano?'.  If you don't know, a bano is the loo, the outhouse. It is the first word you will want to learn. The first phrase you should learn in Spanish is 'donde esta el Bano?'  'Where is the bathroom?' Not that all Mayan people of the highlands speak Spanish, but everyone seems to understand Bano. Just say 'bano', and wait for the pointing fingers.

Banos vary in construction, location, privacy. If, when, you come down with a case of the 'oh no, gotta go go's' location is far more important than privacy. Privacy is a very relative term anyway. More than once I had a beautiful 270 degree panoramic view as I sat with my knees at roughly ear level. It was a perfect opportunity to contemplate my temporal existence and feel the sun on my face. And you will only forget once that you left your roll of toilet paper back at the hotel.

The masons are the ones with all the skills. We are the grunts. I soon find out that all masons are not created equal. No complaint, just an observation. That is true in every trade; tin bangers, sparkys, plumbers, framers. I know, I'm one.

Grunts do the tedious stuff; mix mortar, sift sand, soak block, carry block, mix more mortar. It's hard work, but we pace ourselves and take turns doing this or that and rest in the shade.

Heat builds throughout the day and the sun pounds down on tin roofs. The mountain air is thin. It takes getting used to. The rooms we work in are small and dusty, the lighting poor. The ground is not level. We are on a mountain side after all and with each step you are either going up hill or down.

Sure conditions are far from ideal, but I'll take working here any day than some of the s___ holes I've worked in back in Canada. Besides the Mayan people are nice. Extremely nice. It is hard not to fall in love with them. They are a kind, generous people who are willing to share what little they have. 

A stove gets built in a day. It's not rocket science, as they say, but it is built precisely according to plan, and there is a certain order to the process that one should not deviate. The floor must be level. The block placed just so. The fire box dimensions exact. The chimney is tied in and then pokes out through the roof. And lastly, the exterior is parged to give the stove that smooth sweet finished look.

By three in the afternoon we are back on the main road and waiting for the van to pick us up. We are as tired as we are dirty and we are as happy as we are satisfied.

Back in Xela Hotel Casa Del Viajero is as about as perfect a hotel as we could ask for. It is no five star accommodation. It may not even be a three or two star, but it is clean, inexpensive and within budget. It is simple. It has ample room. We are the only guests at the moment. There is a kitchen for us to use. It is a few minutes walk from the Central Square. And best of all in the main area there is a large table where we can gather together at the end of the day. And so we do. We sit and talk. We laugh and tell stories about our day. It's how you get to know one another. Some drink beer, some sip wine. Some whine. Some don't. It is all in fun. And then, when we have recovered, and before it gets too late, too dark, we go out for dinner.

 



   

Journey to Xela

I am first to board the waiting bus. But as I stand at the open door I hesitate. I pause to take a final look at what is Antigua. I hope to remember this beautiful cartoon coloured city. I'm sure I will be back. Someday. I just don't know when. Hopefully my fond memories will not fade like a dream.

As I lean forward and step into what seems like a can with wheels I wonder if there are enough seats. Our luggage has already been stored on the roof. It is stacked in the shape of a tiny Mayan pyramid. With every person that clambers aboard the bus sinks lower until, it seems, there is little if any play in the suspension. To ease my consternation I tell myself this vanbus looks to be in better shape than ninety five percent of the vehicles that I've seen in Guatemala. I pray this may be a good thing.

I have no idea if in Guatemala there are seat belt laws, or air pollution laws, or motorcycle helmet laws, or stop sign laws, but if there are no one seems to obey them, including our driver. He hoisted himself in, did not bother to fasten the buckle, and off we went.

The bus ride took the better part of a day. Thankfully I had obtained a much desired window seat allowing me a clear view of scenic Guatemala. But a window seat can have its drawbacks, for the sun, still low, shone in upon me and the warmth made me drowsy. I had slept poorly the night before. My head bobbed and I struggled to remain awake.

Gears ground and suspension clunked with every bump in the road. I fretted and worried we were overloaded for the bus groaned and moaned as we inched our way up the face of a mountain. If this is the best we can do this is going to be one long mother of a ride. As we skirted the top of the mighty peak a snore like rumble seemed to awaken me out of my drooling slumber. A volcano erupted somewhere in the distance behind us. I turned to see a mushroom cloud rising high into the sky. Lava appeared to pour across the very road we had just traversed. All around us the ground shook, pavement cracked and lifted, and yet, like the proverbial row boat, the bus merrily rolled along.

For a time the clouds were as thick as thieves and we could not see the way forward. And the air so thin we could hardly catch our breath. Then, without warning, the road began to descend so rapidly I had a falling sensation. The over crowded bus picked up speed. I feared the tread-bare tires would blow at any moment and we would hurtle over the edge to our deaths. We squealed in unison like the team we were as the rotund little vehicle dodged potholes and sped around bends so sharp, so tight, the two inside wheels lifted off the black top. Yet almost before we knew it the road began to straighten and the land began to level and soften. The bus trundled on.

We entered a vast savanna completely void of people and homes. These sprawling empty plains were carpeted with a towering grass whose pod like tips shimmered in the faint breeze. The threatening reeds caverned the road in one long dark continuous shadow and it seemed inclined to swallow our tiny caravan. Yet the bus traveled on.

We motored silently through overgrown jungle and sailed like a clipper ship over parched desert. We came to a promontory where stood crumbling old ruins constructed, I am told, by a sapient feathered Quetzal like bird that predate humans by one hundred thousand years. At some point we stopped at a roadside cafe that was merely good, certainly not great, and, I kid you not, their bathrooms were clean and spacious.

Hats off to our bus driver who was courageous if not composed. He kept his eyes on the road throughout and I never once saw his face. He was nonplussed by the journey and took it all in stride as if it was just another day at the office. A toast to you my friend, for a job well done. 

We had made it, without mishap or incident. In spite of sleeping for a good portion of the trip it was still a long day of travel. I fell out of the bus exhausted. We all did. We hoisted our luggage onto our backs and dragged ourselves into our new accommodations, the hotel Casa del Viajero, Quetzaltenango. Better get used to it, it's home for the next eight days. Xela, we have arrived.

















 

Rendezvous Antigua

Antigua, Guatemala
Sunday February 2, 2020
10 AM

The time has come. A number of fair skinned people who hail from the north have trickled into the brightly colourful town of Antigua over the past few days. Our numbers have grown from four to twenty. It is time to put Antigua in the past. It is time to move on.

The first stage of our journey together has been, for the most part, successful. Rendezvous Antigua accomplished. For sure, there have been a couple of minor glitches as there always are when trying to form individuals into a coherent flock, for people are in many ways much like chickens when given free range. They like to go off in their own separate directions. They can seem willful, disrespectful, flighty, and yet at the end of the day when they all come home to roost we can be thankful.

People, like chickens, if you haven't noticed, can be a little scatter brained to the point of distraction. About the hardest thing you may ever do is trying to get chickens to do what you may want them to do when you want them to do it.  It is, for this reason, that every flock should have a rooster. The rooster provides a protective watch and acts as a navigator, a guide, a coordinator of events so to speak. And it is the chicken's nature to ignore the rooster.

Here, at home in the village of Maberly, I spend some of my time observing chicken behavior. Why not, it is infinitely more interesting than most television shows. My favourite scenes involve our churlish rooster struggle in his vain attempts in keeping order amongst his unruly flock. The words that best describe his state of being are 'having a conniption.' It may not be funny to him, poor guy, but I sure get a kick out of it.  

Am I actually comparing people to chickens? I guess I am. What a presumptuous, arrogant, hilarious thing for me to do. Sorry about that. Let's just end our chicken analogy part of the story by saying in earnest we had a few chicken moments and a few rooster moments and we all made it home to roost.

Antigua had been a great introduction to the wonder that is Guatemala. It has a reasonable mix of ubiquitous tourist and the typical resident. It is as historic as it is alive in the present. It has places of interest and places to relax. There is a dynamic feeling of productivity and excitement that builds throughout the day and then come evening there is an almost imperceptible soft giving away that allows for a period of satisfying introspection. And of course there is the glorious power of the sky and the mountains that reign and watch over the attractive little city. 

So finally the shuttle bus is here to scoot us off to our next destination, the next stage of our journey, the part where we get down to work. The luggage is now loaded. The people mill about the entrance of the hotel, inside and out. We stand in close knit circles upon the cobblestone street, separate yet together, waiting for the call to board. As each day goes by we get to know each other a little better. The sky is blue and clear as it has been for the past three days and the road ahead seems as hopeful and bright as the one we are about to leave behind.

When The Rooster Crows

When your rooster crows
At the break of dawn
Look out your window
And I'll be gone

Bob Dylan; Don't Think Twice


Antigua, Guatemala
January 31, 2020

You are a morning person. You can't help it. Even when you go to bed late you wake up early. Now what? You are awake and it is dark. Pitch dark. You are confused. You hear a rooster crowing. You lie in the dark. You listen to the breath of the person beside you and you hear the rooster crow.

The room is dark, dark as tar, and you can't see a thing. The rooster crows and you can't remember where you are so you get up, dress, and quietly go out the door. Your shoes click on the tile floor.

The screen of your cell phone glows in the dark. Is it Eastern or Central time? You cannot remember. You remember where you are and how you got there but time is beyond comprehension. The hall is deserted and your shoes click on the tile floor. The man that greeted you when you arrived yesterday is asleep. His head is down on the front desk and you hear his breathing.

You unlatch a gigantic wood door that is the main entrance and step out onto the street. The door swings easily and makes no noise. The door is a portal. It connects and separates two worlds. You step through it onto the hard cobblestone street. You close the portal behind you. There is a click. A faint click. It latches shut, without effort, and you are left to stand in silence on the cobblestone road.

The road is deserted. It is dark, like pitch. The sun has yet to come up. The rooster crows. And in kind, other roosters respond. You stand with your back to the portal. You turn to look at it and you raise your hand to give it a gentle push. You turn your back to the great door a second time and for no reason you turn left.

At the first intersection you come to you turn left again. Maybe you have a sense of where you are going. Maybe you don't. The sun remains buried behind the shadow of the mountains but you notice the sky is brighter. The roads are deserted. The shops that once were open are all closed, barricaded and locked. Some locked with several locks. Everything is locked and latched tight.

Yesterday you saw a cafe. You can't remember where you saw the cafe. It was only the day before. You can't remember so you continue to walk.

You walk past an ancient Spanish Church. It is painted yellow, like the light of the sun, and the trim and the statues embedded in wall cavities are painted white, for pureness. Pigeons roost on the heads of the statues and deposit their droppings on the heads of saints. In front of the church is a square. There are trees, and benches for people to sit. There are people sitting on the benches. You look at them. They at you. And you walk past them. The light is dim and the sun is rising. The sky is brighter than it was before.

You turn right. You turn right because you see the arch. The big arch spans the cobblestone road and acts as a kind of marker. Yesterday the road was full of people. People and cars. And they took pictures of the arch. Now the road is empty and you stand on the deserted cobblestone below the great arch. The arch is painted yellow, like the golden rays of the sun, and parts of it are trimmed and painted white, for purity. The cobblestones are dark. Almost black and their surfaces are round and worn smooth. You take a picture of the arch because the street is deserted and there are no cars.

Straight ahead, down the cobblestone road, you see the central square. You remember the square like you remembered the big arch. The square and the the arch are like sign posts and act as markers.

You hear the engine of a car. Then a pickup truck passes slowly in front of you. The pickup truck is full of people. The people are crammed onto the bed of the pickup truck. Their hands clutch a metal rail that is there to prevent them from falling out.  People stand on the bumper and cling to the metal rail. The truck is crammed full of silent people and it rides low across the black cobblestones. The wheels click on smooth stones. And you watch it pass by.

The narrow streets of cobblestone have come alive. There must be a signal you have missed. Store fronts are open and the streets are filling with people. People and cars and trucks and motorcycles. There must have been a signal and you missed it.

The shadows of the mountains stretch across the city. The sky is brighter. The morning sun, with it's gleaming rays of light, remains parked behind the mountains. You continue to walk towards the central square that is filling with people.

The espresso is dark. It is black, like pitch, like a darkened room, and you take a sip of the delicate nectar. You stand on the curb across the way from the central square and you think about crossing the cobblestone street and sitting on a bench with all the other silent people. You think about sitting on a bench, sipping your nectar, and watch for the sun as it rises over the mountains. But you don't. You turn left. You start the long walk back to the portal. And you hope the doorman is awake. That the doorman is no longer asleep at his desk.

The Guatemala Stove Project

Before going much further with the story I suppose I should talk (write?) about the main purpose I have traveled a thousand miles into the deepest heart of Central America.

Up to this point my three little tales have been more or less about me which, as you have probably gathered, is my favourite topic. I'm confident you are your own favourite topic too. After all, are we not the most interesting person we know. Like a tire with a slow leak our minds roil with self deflating internal conversations. There are times we say one thing while we do another and in the process we become a jangle of contradiction. We drag ourselves down by a thousand tortured failures as we stumble blindly along a broken pathetic existence. Wow, that is so drama. Okay, so maybe YOU don't, You're perfect, which I've always thought, but I am certainly an existential mess. Ironically it's this animated mess that makes for the interesting stuff that the best and most fascinating stories are made. What great artist is not a tortured soul. Bad things come before good things. And then bad things happen again. And so on. I don't really know what that has to do with anything about the GSP but there you have it.


The Guatemala Stove Project (GSP) has been around for 20 odd years. It is a charitable, non-profit organization that funds the building of wood burning stoves in the highlands of Guatemala, Central America.

Why wood stoves? Well, the people who live here, the native Mayan people, are the poorest and most marginalized in a poor and marginalized country. They live a subsistence existence, meaning, basically, they live off the land. Their homes are hand built of adobe (mud). Most have no running water. A few have minimal electricity. They grow and harvest their own food and they cook what they have over open fires. There is little variety in their diet, mostly corn, and if they are fortunate, some vegetables. Cooking takes place outside the home but most cooking takes place indoors. Fire wood is either gathered from far away and carried back to camp, or if the family has an income in that particular month they may be able to purchase a few arm fulls of wood.

Imagine a tiny fire in the center of a small dark room. You will cook all your meals on this fire. There is an entrance that may or may not have a door. There could be a tiny window for light. Or not. There is a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. A pot of water rests on the fire. You, the mother, tend the fire and watch patiently, carefully as the water comes to a boil. Two or three of your children are with you. The haze is as thick as soup and you can hardly see your child who totters across the way. The walls are stained black. So are your lungs. Your eyes sting and burn. You rub your eyes and that only makes it worse. Breath in, breath out.

I don't know if you have ever been in a smoke filled room but it is wicked. Recall those smoke filled bars in which us boomers once passed away the time way back when. And that is tolerable comparatively speaking.

There are several things going on here. The health issues are obvious. However, there are a few other things to consider. An open fire uses a ton of wood compared to an enclosed and efficient wood stove. Imagine you have to collect all that wood and carry it up the side of a mountain. Every day. More wood, more deforestation. More deforestation, more soil erosion. More soil erosion, less productive soil and the greater the chance of mud slides.

And in the big picture, more wood burned, a hell of a lot more carbon emissions. More trees cut down, less carbon sequestration. Forests and Jungle are good things for the planet. Desert, not so much.

When the forests are gone they are gone. The land becomes barren and dry. The birds, the animals, the insects are gone too. We humans are hard on this earth. We don't mean to be. We just are.

I digress, the stove is a source of pride for the family and it becomes a place for communal and family activity. Cooking is safer as there is far less chance for burns and accidental fires. Or, if the family has to purchase fire wood periodically they could save on this expenditure and use the money elsewhere for other much needed goods.

There is no chance for employment for the people in the hills. There are no jobs. There probably will be no jobs other than agriculture. There are very few places for education. Education is key, especially for women, as they are the backbone of civilization. Women and education are the glue that binds. Guatemalan men, and entire families, are abandoning their homeland for the supposedly greener pastures of North America in hopes of a better life. We have heard the stories. I can't blame them for seeking something better. You and I would do the same. The history of humanity is the story of migration. A cook stove won't change that but it will change the lives for the better for those who stay.

A stove costs $300 Canadian dollars. Think about it. Or think about donating 20 bucks. It won't kill you like a face full of smoke.

Antigua

Antigua Guatemala has been designated an UNESCO world heritage site. I can see why. It is very much what you'd expect to encounter in a 500 year old Colonial Spanish city. I gather that Antigua translates roughly as 'Old Guatemala' and the city has the ancient feeling of old bones. But in my pale green eyes everything is new and I am, as I stand upon  black hewed cobblestone trying to avoid  motorcycles and cars gawking at this new world around me, mesmerized by it's beauty. I think I have fallen in love with a place.

At some point on this working vacation though the love will tarnish and fade as love sometimes can. Warts and faults appear on our beloved and we see things differently. Or do we ultimately see things as they really are? Influenced by our own biases and personalities of course. But the initial flush of love is thrilling and so I jump right in. Like a crow or magpie I am sometimes infatuated by shiny new things and I am drawn to pick them up and keep them to myself.

Our hotel has a strong Spanish flavour as does everything in Antigua. The individual rooms of the Posada La Merced surround a lush garden courtyard which is open to a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. A little fountain trickles water. Plants familiar and unfamiliar hang everywhere from thick wooden rafters stained dark with time. There is a bench to sit and wonder. I am green with envy, not so much for this exact place but that there are places in this world that are warm year round, where one can have a courtyard open to the blue skies above, where the rains can fall in and wash away the dust of time, where one can nurture and tend their own private Garden of Eden and let the days slowly pass in the care of something that feeds and nurtures the soul.

Not to disparage upon myself and give the world the wrong impression but I do have my own Garden of Eden complete with my own Eve and a lovely community that supports and connects. I suppose the difference is my courtyard is seasonal. And it is not enclosed by walls of tile and stone but of trees and fields, and the tending of gardens in the warm summer months give way to the tending of  banked fires that glow through the window of an airtight stove during the long snow crusted winters. It is not so bad, these changing seasons, it is just different, though right now I am jealous that a builder can build a house without considering the need to account for a biting cold that lasts for months and for the underlying earth that will heave with frost when winter sets in. I will, at this time, conveniently ignore the ever present threat that earthquakes could topple this city of dreams and turn stone to rubble at any moment for the sake of love at first sight.

Antigua has about forty five thousand people, similar to the size of Ontario's Belleville. The entire city is surrounded by mountains so I feel like I'm a tiny child sitting in the bottom of an immense bathtub as I look up at these towering peaks. The mountains are no so much mountains as they are  volcanoes, most of them dormant, but some of them occasionally fart out smoke and lava.

The day is early so once we are settled in I am too excited to sit still. Probably the first thing that anyone does when arriving at a new place is explore. This I believe is to get one's bearings and to learn what is where. For Catherine it is textiles and museums. For me it is Espresso Cafe's and more Espresso Cafe's.

I won't bore you with a detailed account of walking through the city but I will say it is a fantastic city to walk and walk and walk some more. One caveat though, the sidewalks are narrow and uneven. The cobblestone roads are narrow and uneven. And, I'm fairly sure of this, pedestrians don't necessarily have the right of way. Caution to you who visit. Watch your step. Heads up. Eyes down.

Guatemala City

Yes I am a tourist. I am also on a mission. I have come to Guatemala to help build stoves. There are roughly 20 of us arriving from frigid Ontario over the next few days. Then we will go up into the highlands that surround Guatemala's second biggest city, Quetzaltenango. And once up in the mountains we will meet the Mayan people who have lived there forever, in villages and communities small and large, old and new, and we will get down to work.  A few of the organizers are already in Guatemala. They came early to meet the people and collect information on the many stoves that have been built over the past year.

Not counting the organizers, this particular traveling party of 6 are the first to arrive in Guatemala. We had set our travel plans as such so we would have a few days to acclimatize ourselves to the country and the culture. It is a great idea. I love the idea of hanging out before work.

One slight hitch. Only 4 of us arrive at the Guatemalan airport. Two are left behind in Mexico City. They missed their connecting flight. It is a long story full of happenstance and pathos. I'll skip the details and summarize by saying we are not impressed with AeroMexico. Things being what they are, the two of them did eventually arrive, sans luggage. As it is, there ain't no sense in dwelling on things that go amiss. If I were the type to dwell on my screw ups I'd regret most every day of my life. That's also another long story. Best to leave it alone. For now.

At the exit doors of the airport the surviving 4 of us were on the lookout for a dude that should be holding a sign written in English. 'Stove Project'. We found him and after a semi-confusing conversation held in sign language, broken Spanish mixed in with a few French verbs, and much pointing we follow him out the door to a waiting shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is basically a big van with a whole lot of seats. I quickly learn shuttle buses in Guatemala are usually full beyond capacity. They drive along roads with the sliding side door wide open. People hop off and on willy nilly. Luggage, boxes, tools, crates of live chickens are stored and tied haphazardly in place on the roof. This is not the case for the four of us. Today we travel is spacious luxury.

My first breath of warm Guatemalan air has an aroma thick with floral sweetness. Sounds of traffic and the occasional horn mingle with the cheerful chirping of birds. Colour seems to be everywhere. A blue sky. Trees full and green. Red, orange, yellow flowers. I see butterflies. I'd call this paradise if I were not standing in the midst of a large Central American city.

The colourful contrast to the mostly monochrome uniformity of a Canadian winter is almost overwhelming. Over the past few months I have forgotten the pleasures that come with a Canadian summer, and now,  how quickly I accept my new surroundings. Winter was yesterday and already a part of my past.

It is hot but not humid. These are highlands after all. And though one could say we are in the tropics I am told the type of climate that makes your clothes stick to your skin is limited to the Pacific coast. Moisture that wafts in off that vast and rolling ocean stalls when the heavy air masses encounter the volcanic mountain range that traverses Guatemala like a bony spine and divides the country in two.

Guatemala City is the capital. Like Ottawa the population is a million strong but it is said if one includes the surrounding areas the number of people living here soars above 3 million.

Our bus swings through the city. The driver has a heavy foot. Traffic is chaotic. There are more motorcycles and scooters than cars. There seems to be no traffic lights and stop signs. Like ants on a congested path trucks, cars, bikes and the smoke belching chicken buses merge and pass and cut one another off.  Movement is continuous. Roads are lined with uncountable vendors and pedestrians who appear to be inches away from the voluminous traffic. Rules? There are no rules. No time for shyness. Just go.

I am wide eyed and laughing with the giddy tickle sensation that comes with the excitement and wonder of something completely foreign yet unmistakably human . Can this be the same planet I currently live on? Mere minutes have passed and already I have become entrenched in a strange new world in which my sense for the exotic is about to explode and my hunger for adventure is ravenous.

Motorcyclists do not wear helmets. There are two, three, four, five people sardined into the seats of a thousand speeding scooters. Entire families weave through traffic, tiny children sandwiched between parents. They speed along center lanes with careless abandon. I gorge on the thrill of it all and I long to be riding in the midst of this chaotic mayhem. Without a doubt I would be injured or deceased within minutes. It seems worth the risk.

Mr. Heavy Foot pushes the van along what I think might be a highway and soon the traffic thins as we reach the edge of the great city. Up into the mountains we climb. The road snakes and turns as we go and we lean and rock with every motion. I should be tired for I have barely slept in the past 30 hours. But between coffee and excitement I am alert. I am doing my best to engage with what goes on before me.

After an hour, or two, for it is hard to tell, we come to another city. The roads we have traveled have been a continuous line of houses and businesses, except where the mountain sides are too steep to build, so I find it difficult to discern changing patterns. But traffic has congested once again. Of that I am sure.

Without warning pavement turns to cobblestone. The tires click and roar and the van bounces to the cobblestone beat. Streets narrow to alleyways more suitable to horse and buggy. The roads jut confusingly in every direction. The buildings we fly past are solid looking and their exteriors are plastered and painted in a mosaic of colour. Once again there are pedestrians and motorcycles everywhere. We pass churches and park squares, coffee shops, hotels and homes. Some buildings lie in ruins. The van seems to be going in circles. Later I figure out the streets are a maze of one way directions. The van jerks to a halt. We have arrived in Antigua unbeknownst to me.

Guatemala; Upon Arrival

The first thing that comes to mind is how the unordinary quickly becomes ordinary. Perhaps this is a comment on how quickly people adapt to new surroundings. I know this to be true.

Upon touchdown at the main airport of Guatemala, comparatively speaking a tiny airport with one small terminal, I am bristling with attentiveness to the new world that has appeared around me. I do my best to absorb all than I can. My senses are on high alert. The newness of it all is exciting.

For the most part the long and narrow hall of the terminal is void of people. Our footsteps and voices echo off the terrazzo floors and the immense glass windows as if we are wandering through a rocky Arizona canyon.
     

As I walk, heavy with backpack and single suitcase, I peer through the large windows at the world beyond. There are but a couple of airliners out on the tarmac, one of them the one that brought us. They bear the insignia of AeroMexico; a bird of prey set as headgear on a human face, probably Aztec. I cannot explain why but I like their logo. Perhaps it is unique. From the near empty cavern and the barren tarmac one would surmise that Guatemala is neither a tourist destination nor a business center. That's okay with me. I hate tourists, even though I'm one.


The tarmac stretches out a few hundred feet and then abruptly encounters a shear rock wall that has been cut and grooved by machine. The flat surface that is the landing strip and terminal building is obviously human made for the landscape that surrounds me is rolling with mountains and I hazard a guess there is little chance of finding a natural area that is large enough and level enough and suitable enough to land a jet.

Along the entire top of the etched and imposing wall there is a chain link fence and the fence itself is lined along its top with coiled razor wire. Okay, so this is Guatemala. I can see the point of the fence. It is a barrier to keep people from falling over the edge, but then why the razor wire. Who in their right mind would clamber over a fence to immediately become involved in a 50 meter drop to hard pavement? Wait a minute, there are people in this world who are not in their right mind. The razor wire is to protect us from ourselves and the stupid ideas that sometimes inspire us. Hey, I have a great idea, lets storm the airport! Who's with me? Lemmings.


Beyond the fence are tropical looking trees, and a road upon which I see cars traveling. Beyond this are rows of tall buildings, apartments as opposed to business towers. The buildings are in various states of condition, meaning some look in sad shape and in need of repair, and some are colourful and cheery looking in their own right. I think of Beirut, even though I've never been to Beirut. Again I don't know why. I generally don't know why I think what I think. The city looks appealing and unappealing. My first impression is what a great place, I wouldn't want to live here.


Yes, yes, yes, and then in the further beyond are the mountains. The lovely mountains. Not tall and snow covered like the Rockies or Andes but still what I would call big mothers. It is early morning. We have been in the air all night traveling through darkness. We have left the cold and snow and the relatively flat surface of Eastern Canada behind. Now the sun has come up over the hills and the sky is clear blue. I have yet to taste the warm air. The mountains look dry and thirsty. I love mountains and I am ready to sip the nectar of Guatemala.