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 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. I gave him the one finger salute.

He opened the door a crack, stuck his head through 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 with a diet like yours I swear your microbiome is corrupted. 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 insecurities 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 gold at a run down cafe in the south side of Cairo. I sat and enjoyed the scenery while Gomez went off to commandeer a 10 hp round-a-bout down in the delta quarter. That's the tough part of Cairo where the Nile spills into the Atlantic. Foreigners like Gomez and I were seen as troublemakers and I was worried I'd never see Gomez again. I chastised myself, 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.