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Chapter 3: First Steps
As we waived goodbye to Turlock, California, we headed south on highway 99 toward Los Angeles. It was Sunday afternoon, September 16, 1973 and we were headed to LA for final preparations prior to our official departure for the trip of our lifetime. As I gazed into the rear view mirror, I was filled with satisfaction that we had been able to get everything into the VW camper and packed away with nothing showing from the outside except for the guitar and our camera case. Whenever we stopped, it felt safe that anyone looking in the windows would see nothing but the camper interior.
In LA we bought, mounted, and wired small fans that would run off the battery system and provide needed cool air movement when we had all of the doors and windows closed and locked. I anticipated that the little VW box would turn into an oven in the summer heat and at night would be unbearable without air circulation. It would be too dangerous to leave the windows open while we were asleep, so the fans were a necessity. We put engine gauges on the VW for heat, oil pressure and voltage to monitor the performance and get warnings before damage occurred to the engine. The final addition was a set of high pressure air horns mounted on the side of the fiberglass top right above the driver side window. A switch was installed so that the horn could be switched between the regular car horn and the air horns so that while driving in the city the air horns would not frighten other drivers. The air horns were really loud, similar to what you hear when those big semi trucks blast their horns. Surely, they would be sufficient to scare cattle and such off the roadway when needed.
Shopping for food and perishable provisions was a challenge. We bought lots of rice, 20 or so cans of vegetables, canned meat of various sorts, canned fruit, powdered milk, an assortment of condiments like mustard, mayonnaise, salt, pepper, cooking oil, etc, and finally six large half-gallon jars of peanut butter. We had read in several survival books that peanut butter is one of the best survival foods in existence. One large teaspoon provides enough protein, fats, and vitamins to keep an average adult alive for two days. With our substantial cache, we could stay alive in an emergency for nearly six months. We felt quite secure.
One last visit to say goodbye to Ed and Jeri was in order. Then on Tuesday night we took in a concert at El Camino college and camped in the dirt overflow parking lot across the street from the college auditorium. On Wednesday we went to see Fred at the VW dealership and loaded up with spare parts. He was generous beyond our expectations with replacement parts and final advice on everything he could think of regarding the VW engine and the conditions we would face in Africa. He was well impressed with how we had packed with no visible equipment laying around in the VW.
It was time for our final dinner in a place we could call home. We parked on a hill overlooking the Riverside Freeway corridor in Anaheim hills. Twinkling lights were beginning to appear as the sun sank below the horizon. Sharlene lit the little candle lantern that hung over the folding table and we ate simply of soup and sandwiches. We didn’t say much but we both sensed the flood of emotions that washed over each of us. Here we were, about to depart on a travel odyssey the likes of which very few people ever experience. It had the strange combination of giddy excitement and terror at the same time. Excitement over the realization of a dream that had been diligently forming for over two years, and terror at the prospect of the vast and numerous unknowns that we would face.
The dishes were washed and everything was back in its proper place as Sharlene moved with quiet efficiency around her closet sized house on wheels. I stepped into the van and plopped on the back seat grabbing at her waist with intimate hunger. We embraced, we kissed, she closed her eyes and softly whispered, “Is this really happening. I can hardly believe it.”
We lingered for a few delicious moments, together, close, as one flesh. It was dark now and the candle gave a soft intimate glow so that we could just make out each others shadowy faces.
“Thank you for this,” I said.
“It wasn’t me,” Shar said, “You’re the one who pulled it all off.”
“Yeah, but it really was your idea from the beginning. If you hadn’t dreamed this, it never would have happened. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
It was 7:30 pm on Wednesday, September 19, 1973. The odometer read 33,333 miles and we pulled away from Anaheim headed east toward Phoenix for a short stop to see friends and then south to Nogales and Mexico. The trip had actually begun.
In the first few moments of driving the thought crossed my mind, as it would time and time again over the next months, would we really make it? The odds were clearly against us. Numerous other adventurers had attempted such a trip, only to call it quits half way down South America. Others had faced debilitating mechanical problems and finally gave up in despair. Some had faced tragedy in the Sahara Desert, sometimes even paying with their lives. And still others fell victim to any number of physical ailments that resulted in abandoning the trip.
Would we make it all the way down South America, across the ocean to Europe and all the way down the continent of Africa? We were young, full of optimism and with seemingly unlimited resources of energy. It was a crazy, wonderful, extravagant dream, but, would we make it to the end?
1973 was a turbulent year. Watergate had broken wide open and the country was just 11 months from President Nixon’s resignation. The Pentagon Papers had assisted and fueled the protest to bring the Vietnam War to a close; in January the Vietnam Peace Agreement had been signed in Paris. American Graffiti was a smash hit at the movie box office and the Waltons was the top rated TV show. The 110-story Sears Tower in Chicago was completed at 1450 feet, rated the tallest building in the world; in mid-year Skylab was launched. OPEC tightened their grip on oil exports, ultimately resulting in an embargo of oil to the US thrusting America into gas rationing and long lines at the gas pump. Superbowl VII was won by the Miami Dolphins, the Oakland Athletics defeated the New York Mets in the World Series and my alma mater, UCLA, won the NCAA basketball championship for the seventh straight year under the dynasty of John Wooden. The world seemed an unsafe place with newspaper headlines covering the overthrow of President Allende in Chili with the threat of Americans being kidnapped, the tyrant Idi Amin was killing randomly in Uganda, and civil tribal wars were raging in Rwanda and Burundi. But, no matter, with optimism and anticipation we were ready to embark on our great adventure into our first foreign country.
With passports in hand we entered the immigration office at Nogales to cross into Mexico. We were light-hearted and excited about this first border crossing into a foreign country. Our gaiety would soon turn to gloom.
“There’s the line for entry to Mexico,” I announced. “Let’s go.”
We both quickly walked over to the line that had only a few people waiting to talk to the immigration officer who sat behind a small unkept table. We noticed that the others had long white skinny papers in their hands.
“Look over there on the wall, in that plastic holder,” I motioned to the wall. “Those must be the papers to fill out.”
Sharlene darted to the wall and returned with five or six of the blank forms. She always got as much of something as she could for free. We scribbled in the information, just finishing as the officer spoke orders to us in broken English without lifting his eyes from the table.
“Papers,” he gruffly ordered.
We handed him the entry forms, passports, driver’s license and Carnet. He looked at the Carnet with a puzzled look and then handed it back to me with a grunt, still unwilling to lift his head and meet our eyes.
“I need insurance papers,” he said with an obvious sound of routine boredom.
“Oops, I forgot those in the car,” Sharlene chimed in with a bright smile and friendly tone. Upon hearing her voice the Federale glanced up and caught a glimpse of Sharlene. She had on white short-shorts, tennis shoes with no socks, and a skimpy polyester top that showed off her shapely body. Her shoulder length blonde hair was tossed back on her shoulders and her blue eyes had a glint of mischief in them. The official was taken aback for some moments as he gazed more intently on this beautiful female creature.
“Would it be OK if I ran out to the car and got them,” she inquired of the man as she pointed toward the parking lot.
“Si, si,” he sputtered. She was off in a flash, her shapely legs traveling rapidly across the dirty tile floor and the official’s eyes glued to her profile as she rushed out the glass swinging door. The official called out to his other associates and they all smirked and chuckled as Sharlene reentered the room and stepped gingerly up to the table again.
“Here they are,” she announced with hardly a loss of breath. She was in great shape physically having done aerobics and Air Force exercises every day of her life for many years.
With another long gaze at her face and body, up an down several times, he finally went to work on the papers spread out in front of him. All the while, I remained silent and as invisible as possible. Since our marriage, and even before, I had adjusted to the lustful gazes of men toward my wife. After all, she was really beautiful and physically desirable. In such circumstances, I had learned to keep repeating to myself, she’s going home with you, she’s going home with you, not them. Most of the time the fear and intimidation would quickly subside and my male ego would be stroked with the realization that she had picked me to marry and spend her life with. We felt pretty secure in our relationship, even though we had been married only two years and four months.
“Problema, una problema,” was the next word that I heard. “You have not enough money for your stay in Mexico,” the official stated as he looked straight at me shaking his head from side to side. I noticed that from time to time he would glance furtively toward his right hand which was hanging down at the level of the table. Each time I refocused my eyes in that direction he would rub his fingers together, obviously signaling me that for some amount of money, this little problem would go away. I ignored his gesture and kept talking. I had just committed the unforgivable sin in international border crossings by refusing to pay the money under the table. We were in trouble.
Apparently there was a new rule in Mexico that you must show that you have sufficient cash for your stay in Mexico with a formula of $10.00 per day for each person. We had no idea how many days we were going to be in Mexico but I had written down 30 days to give us plenty of time to do whatever we wanted to do and see. That meant showing the officer cash in the amount of $600.00 or we could not enter. We had only $400.00 with us and I had cautiously written $300.00 on the form in order to not disclose all of our money assets.
After some minutes of trying to explain our trip and the arrangement we had made with American Express where we had access to additional funds, we were getting no where. The line behind us started grumbling in frustration, two other officials had now joined our protagonist and the decibel level of our confused interchange was rising rapidly.
“What kind of a way is this to welcome travelers into your country,” I shouted with indignant self righteousness. “We’re planning to travel through your country for many weeks and we have bee hired by a magazine to write articles about what we see and experience. This initial welcome is a pretty sad commentary on your country and thousands are going to read about it.”
Now I was mad and pulling out all the stops. I whipped out the engagement letter from Adventuring Magazine which verified my claim to be writers and banged it on the table. Two military types were quickly summoned and they approached rapidly with their guns at the ready. Our stubborn official then called out something and from a back office door the supervisor appeared and walked calmly to the table.
“Can I help you,” he spoke in perfect English. “Please bring your papers and come into my office,” he motioned me toward the office door which was still opened. Sharlene was motioned to wait outside and by now the entire room was gazing in her direction for all the commotion. She was embarrassed and uncomfortable standing alone and wondered if the episode would destroy the trip right from the beginning with me getting thrown into jail or something.
In about ten minutes I emerged with all of our documents in hand and the proper stamp on all of the papers for entrance into Mexico. Cooler heads had prevailed and the magazine trick had made the difference. The last thing the supervisor wanted was more ridicule of the Mexican system of payola at the border and a negative report on tourism in his country. I assured him that if things changed immediately, I would forget the episode as an unfortunate misunderstanding. He agreed and, with a broad smile and a pat on the back, he sent me out of his office to reclaim my wife and away we went in Bubbles.
The whole encounter had an ominous feel about it. Did it mean something about how the rest of the trip would go? Was it a sign that we were going to be hassled all the time? About two or three miles down the road we came to the customs inspection station. An even more surly man than the immigration official met us at the gate and my heart dropped. This time the encounter was much more straight forward. He came around to my window and drew up close.
“Do you want to pay me two American dollars or would you rather take all of your things out of the car for inspection?” he announced as he looked straight past me to survey the details of Sharlene’s body.
I liked this guy. No games, no subtlety, no hidden messages, just a straight ahead bribe. I paid him the two dollars and we were out of there in a matter of seconds. Little did I know that in the hundreds of border crossings that we would face, there was an inevitable game to be played.
Sharlene would become a beneficial distraction for some with easy processing of papers as the border officials would fall all over themselves trying to serve her every whim and need. On other occasions, quite apart from her awareness, her looks would create grave danger as ruddy, scar-faced mercenaries would eye her all over and contemplate getting rid of me in some forgotten jungle trench while taking her out to some desolate spot where a whole group of such animals would do violence and make pleasure of her body. No one would even know for six months or more until we failed to show up or contact home.
Sometimes these ruffians would challenge me in some fashion only to gain a level of respect if I chose to stand up to them. Other times, any words or actions of defiance could land me in jail or dead. Often with no local authorities to turn to and no American consulate at hand, I had to learn to depend on my own skills and instincts for survival. It was a nerve wracking game of wits and psychology, an instant analysis of human nature and a careful and accurate read of personality and circumstances. Sometimes a split-second choice of my demeanor and words was crucial and potentially life threatening. On more than one occasion I was aware of divine intervention to assist me in doing and saying the right thing.
These first stumbling steps getting into Mexico would be long remembered as the initial training ground for much more important decisions at border crossings in the months ahead. These first encounters were fairly tame and without much danger, but they served as an apt warning right from the beginning to pay attention to border crossings as a potential danger that could derail our trip and even subject us to physical pain or worse. The lesson was a good one and it felt as though God’s protective providence was already at work on our behalf.
I had read up quite extensively on the history of Central and South America. Watching for indications of how the history might relate to current personalities or cultural practices was a pastime that I was intent to enjoy. As we drove south along Mexican Interstate Highway 15 toward Guymas, I reflected on my most current reading.
The history, the land and the people of Latin America are all unique with a myriad of anecdotes and folklore to make travel in this part of the world a constant fascination. On the third voyage of Christopher Columbus in 1498, he reached the mouth of the Orinoco River at the eastern edge of Venezuela. Over the next ten years, the eastern coast of South America would be explored as far south as the Plata River where modern day Buenos Aires, Argentina is located. Balboa discovered the Pacific Ocean at the Gulf of Panama in 1513, and in 1520 Magellan passed into the Pacific Ocean through the Straits of Magellan at the very southern tip of the South American continent. A year earlier in 1519 Cortez had begun his conquest of Mexico from his base at Vera Cruz. By 1531 Pizarro was conquering Peru, and 1536 Quesada was conquering the Chibchas Indians of Columbia. Spurred on by equal proportions of religious zeal and lust for gold, these explorers and their followers would not be daunted by heat, by cold, by jungle, by sickness, or by almost equally fanatical opposition.
When these European adventurers came to Latin America it was already inhabited by primitive and nomadic hunters, fishermen and farmers. Four groups of Indians, however, had developed fairly elaborate civilizations: the Incas, in the highlands of Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and northern Chile; the Chibchas, in the highlands of Columbia; the Mayas, located in the Yucatan Peninsula of Southern Mexico and in Guatemala; and the Aztecs in Mexico. These groups had developed an agricultural base from the growing of maize, a type of corn, which had been developed by the Mayans. They had organized governments and social systems of an advanced degree and carried on extensive mining of gold and silver. It is now commonly held that the Incas, the Mayans, and the Aztecs all came from a common ancestry and carried on trade amongst themselves.
The European conquerors “first fell on their knees and then upon the Indians.” The pattern of conquest followed the basic outline of the Indian settlements for in them were found the souls to save and the gold and silver to loot. In short order the stores of gold and silver were exhausted and the new settlers turned to agriculture for sustenance and commerce. The Portuguese had first settled Brazil and finding no rich stores of precious metal began farming sugar cane as a cash crop for export at an early date. The Indians proved too few to work the fields so wherever sugar cane plantations sprung up the African slave was imported to work the fields.
The discovery of Brazil by the Portuguese is quite a humorous episode of history. At the time of Columbus and his contemporary explorers, the Catholic Church and in particular the Pope held great power in international affairs. Spain and Portugal were clearly the two superpowers of exploration. In the same year of Columbus’ discovery of South America, sailing under the Spanish flag due to the financial support of Ferdinand and Isabella , the trade route to the Indies and the Spice Islands was discovered in 1498 by Vasco da Gama, sailing for Portugal, around the tip of Africa. In light of these two discoveries the fever of colonizing new territories took hold of both countries.
In order to reduce conflict over such exploration between these two powerful countries the Pope, in 1493, right after Columbus’ first voyage, had issued a written decree (often referred to as a Papel Bull) establishing a line of demarcation from pole to pole at 100 leagues west of the Cape Verde Islands. These islands were, at that time, the southern most recognized landmark off the Atlantic Coast of Africa near the widest bulge of the Continent. Spain was given exclusive rights to all regions west of this line and Portugal had exclusive rights to the east. Ferdinand and Isabella had cleverly enlisted the assistance of the Pope to inhibit the exploration and claims of Portugal and other rivals. The King of Portugal was dissatisfied with the bull (no pun intended) and requested a meeting of all the parties which took place in Tordesillas, in northwestern Spain in 1494. At that meeting the King made his case that Portugal would not have sufficient sailing room for their voyages around Africa. The decree was finally affirmed by the countries and became known as the Treaty of Tordesillas, June 7, 1494. In this Treaty, however, the line of demarcation had been moved to 370 leagues west of the Cape Verde Islands. Thinking that they were simply granting more sea room for the Portuguese ships to sail around Africa, the line of demarcation actually divided South America nearly in half.
Vasco da Gama later took note of the doldrums off the coast of Africa at the equator where no wind or breezes would blow for days at a time and thus it was necessary to sail far to the west before turning south toward the Cape of Good Hope at the southern tip of Africa. Following the heroic accomplishment of da Gama, Portugal, intending to cash in on the silk and spices of the East, launched a large fleet of vessels to sail to the Indies under the command of Pedro Alvarez Cabral. Vasco da Gama wrote up the sailing instructions for Cabral based on his first hand experience and instructed Cabral to sail farther to the west than he had done in order to avoid the delays from the doldrums in the Gulf of Guinea located along the bottom edge of the hump of Africa. Cabral went so far to the west that on April 22, 1500 he sighted South America and promptly claimed it for Portugal. Because it fell within the Portuguese territory decreed in the Treaty of Tordesillas, the vast area of current day Brazil was recognized as belonging to Portugal and speaks Portuguese as the national language to this present day. But for Cabral’s mistake in sailing too far west, all of South America would likely have been dominated by Spain.
At the same time that Cabral was discovering the coast of South America, a Spanish expedition was en route to the same area. The navigator of the expedition was Amerigo Vespucci. Upon reaching the northeastern coast of South America, near present day Guyana, he turned south and explored the Atlantic Coast of South America as far down as the mouth of the Amazon River. Vespucci was convinced that he had sailed along the eastern edge of Asia and returned for new ships and supplies. Spain refused his provisions so he turned to the Portuguese and was granted the voyage, this time as captain. Sailing back to south America he explored the Atlantic Coast all the way to Patagonia in the extreme south. This voyage led him, and the scholars of his age, to the decisive conclusion that this land mass was not Asia but a New World.
Years later an admirer of Vespucci would publish a document entitled the “Four American Voyages” using a derivative of Amerigo Vespucci’s name for the title. In an accompanying pamphlet, the author made the case that this new land should be named after the one who made the discovery and set the record straight about Asia versus the New World. He said, “the newly discovered world should be named after Amerigo the discoverer ... as if it were the land of Americus or America.” The idea caught on throughout Europe and the continent became known as America. Later the distinction of North America and South America would be adopted.
The Spanish and Portuguese colonists rarely brought their women to assist in settling this part of the world. Accordingly, they freely cohabited with the native Indians. The present racial constitution is the result of the intermarriage between the early settlers, their black slaves and the indigenous Indians. In time a loosely defined caste system developed which exists until today. Those of direct ancestry from the Iberian peninsula were called the Peninsulars, below them were the Creoles who were those whites born in Latin America, the mestizos who were the half-breeds of intermarriage of all types, and finally, at the bottom of the caste system, the native Indians and black slaves from Africa.
Thirty years following the American War of Independence, the colonial structure and rule of Central and South America began to crumble. High taxation, severe control of trade, and local discontents encouraged by secret study of the forbidden eighteenth century philosophers, fueled a growing movement for independence from Spain and Portugal. From 1810 to 1822 nearly all of the Countries of Central and South America became independent countries. Personality seems to have always weighed more important than principle in Latin America. This resulted in a whole series of dictators of the various countries, often ruthless and cruel, but nonetheless essential in that the only alternative would have been chaos. Bolivia had sixty revolutions in its first 100 years of independence and Columbia had no less than ten civil wars. In time the influx of new immigration, foreign investment and literacy developed a large middle class which has now stabilized the countries in the present era.
As we drove further into Mexico it was fun to imagine things like the Alamo and America’s fight with Mexico for Texas independence. The themes of Evita flashed across my mind with our hope of reaching Argentina in a few months, and more current was the overthrow of President Allende in Chile, an avowed socialist and Marxist, just a few weeks prior to our departure. We had been reading about the coup and the strong anti-American sentiment that prevailed in Chile. Parents and friends were constantly encouraging us to stay away from Chile as there were regular reports in the newspapers of American citizens and diplomats being kidnaped and killed there. Just before leaving Phoenix I had read where the entire country of Chile was under a curfew so that no one could be on the streets after 8 p.m. each night. It sounded like a dangerous place.
These current circumstances seemed to fit naturally in the flow of all the history I had been reading and it was satisfying to have a grasp of the roots of some of these countries and people.
It was 250 miles from the border town of Nogales to Guymas and we drove for miles through green lush vegetation and mountains. Nogales is at about 4,000 feet in a mountain pass and the descent to Guymas goes gradually down to sea level. The road runs along the western slope of the Sierra Madre Mountains with summits as high as 10,000 feet. We were expecting dry sandy desert having been exposed primarily to the part of Mexico just south of Tijuana. It was a pleasant surprise to encounter the mountains and greenery. The road was excellent, paved and well kept, but a little narrow. The drivers were all crazy as can be.
It seems that little attention is paid to speed signs, driving safety and the like. Bubbles wizzed along at seventy miles per hour and every car, motorcycle, and truck approaching from behind soon whipped past us as though we were coasting to a stop. It was a bit unnerving. Even the big forty foot semi trucks jealously zoomed by us at eighty-five or better with little or no judgment of oncoming traffic to allow sufficient room to pass on the two lane road. It was left up to me to judge the distance and slow down to allow room for passing lest I be found run off the road into the ditch. It didn’t help matters to notice that nearly every truck driver had a can of cerveza (beer) in one hand as he navigated the steering wheel with two knees and the other hand. The concentration and focus of attention required by this type of driving is exhausting. I hoped that my endurance for the driving vigil would increase over time.
Just north of Guymas we found a beautiful campground overlooking the ocean. Things were now looking up and our spirits rose dramatically following the harried border crossing and our tense introduction to Mexican drivers. It was late afternoon and the sun was sinking low in the western sky. The campground was set up on the side of a hill with terraces like an amphitheater. It looked clean and modern but there were very few other campers. We paid our 25 pesos, about $2.00 US, and pulled into our spot about two-thirds of the way to the top of the terraces. We parked the van sideways so that with the sliding door open we could watch the sun go down. It really was an enchanting setting for our first night in a foreign country.
Our stopping routine was not perfected as yet but it had begun to take on reasonable shape. Once parked, I would open the back door that swung up and out of the way. Then unscrew the water drain and make sure the propane tank was turned on. While I attached the snap on screens to the two front windows and the back opening, Sharlene would pull the two folding chairs out of the closet and hand them outside. Next the passenger seat would be swivelled around to face the rear of the camper as the appropriate 8-track tape was inserted and adjusted. Next came two glasses of ice from the small refrigerator with some appropriate refreshing beverage. With the Carpenter’s playing softly in the background, we would lounge in our chairs, sip our libation, and gaze at the beautiful landscape for several minutes, without saying a word.
No surf was visible on this body of water because of the Baja Peninsula just 85 miles to the west, which cut off the constant surge of the Pacific Ocean leaving a serene and calm body of water, the Gulf of California, with deep blue water lapping against a golden sandy beach. There was still a warm breeze from the heat of the day and the quiet stillness became therapeutic for us both. These were the times we had longed for, and they were coming to pass.
The near silence was broken with a soft announcement. “I think I’m going to take a shower and clean up before we make dinner,” Sharlene spoke first. “We have plenty of time until dark and that truck stop we stayed in last night was awful, no sleep and no facilities.”
“Sorry about that,” I said, “we probably could have gone back up the road to find a decent camp ground but it was already so late, and it was a hassle getting the car insurance, and we knew we wanted to get across the border before the crowds came. Besides, I think we’re going to have to get used to some pretty strange places to camp once we get further south. These luxury campgrounds will be a thing of the past. Soon we’ll be in areas where people camp all the time, it’s how they live every day. You go ahead and I’ll watch our stuff. Then when you get back I’ll run down for a shower too.”
The sun was sinking lower now and the first hint of nightfall was drifting in. Before Sharlene returned, I set up the little candle lantern on the hook I had installed over the folding table in the camper. I knew she loved candles and this setting for romantic candlelight couldn’t have been more perfect.
As I returned from a refreshing shower and shave, I was met by Sharlene standing erect outside the camper with a broad smile. She resolutely announced, “I am going to make pizza in our pressure cooker for dinner.”
What was expected to be a few minutes turned into more than an hour. Now it was getting dark and we were both starving.
“I don’t know why this isn’t working like I thought,” Shar was embarrassed and a little irritated.
“Let me see it,” I responded as I took the pressure cooker lid off with a hand towel and hauled the hot pan outside. By now it was about 100 degrees inside the van from the propane stove burning for an hour and the growling of my stomach more than ended the solitude.
“It still looks half raw to me,” I said while choking down my frustration.
“Well,” Shar said defiantly, “the instruction book says you’re supposed to be able to cook bread and such on the little platform inside the cooker. Pizza crust should be about the same, don’t you think?”
Her demeanor turned a little sheepish as we both looked at the mass of half cooked dough sloshing around in tomatoes and melted cheese.
“I don’t care,” I said hungrily, “I’m going to eat it anyway.”
With that, I dumped the whole mass onto a plate and carved up some smaller pieces and began to gorge myself on slippery dough and what appeared to be the insides of an omelette. It tasted good going down but later the glob in our stomachs was too much to allow for any sleep. Our stomachs just kept trying to make sense of this claylike intruder and do something with the mass that was violating any resemblance of normal food. The can of peaches worked like it was supposed to and we laughed about the whole affair for days after.
“Maybe it would take away some of the heavy feeling in my gut if we took a walk on the beach. There is barely enough light left for a short walk. You game?” I asked while controlling my laughter over the pizza and finishing up the dishes. It took Sharlene awhile to see the humor in the cooking fiasco.
“You bet, I’m always ready for a good walk,” Shar responded with glowing anticipation.
As I opened the sliding door I was suddenly startled by visitors to our camp. Outside the door, about five feet away, sitting all in a row and staring at the very door I just opened, was a large family or pack of racoons.
“Whoa,” I exclaimed, “where did those guys come from?”
They didn’t appear to be afraid and didn’t budge an inch even with the bang of the closing door and my outburst.
“I don’t know, babe, they look a little menacing to me. What do you think?” I looked at Sharlene with an inquisitive pose.
“They’re just racoons, surely they’ll run away when we get out.” She sounded confident as she slid the door back open just a crack.
Shar slowly stepped out with one foot, slid the door open a little further, and then put her other foot on the ground, still tightly gripping the door handle. In the dim light I noticed the white knuckles on her right hand as she held the door. Suddenly the biggest of the racoons tok a step forward toward Sharlene. She instantly jumped back inside the van and slammed the door even harder than I had just previously done. Still no movement from our furry friends.
“I think we’ll just call it a day and go to bed. What d’ya say?” my clipped speech betraying my genuine concern.
“Yeah, and I think I can wait til morning to go to the bathroom,” her look of frustration was obvious.
The night was a restless one. We left the back door open where our feet lay next to the folding screen which was snapped to the opening from the inside. It wasn’t perfectly tight so throughout the night mosquitoes would invade our slumber, buzzing in and out next to our ears and noses so that prolonged sleep was impossible. Twice, I awoke to see two little claws, a twitching, sniffing black nose and bandit-masked night vision eyes peering at me from the rear bumper, separated only by the flimsy screening. Finally, I reached out and pulled the back door closed with a thump. Sharlene was wrestling with the doughboy in her stomach for much of the night and the increased heat with no back door opened made for a fitful slumber in gulps of a few minutes at a time.
The next morning we were diligently informed by the campground proprietor that roving bands of racoons had invaded the camp throughout the night and had, in fact, cornered a large dog and killed it. We were told not to mess with them if they came back and above all else keep our distance. They had been known to attack humans as well. We breathed a sigh of relief and headed out for a morning walk in place of our canceled venture of the night before.
As we walked down to the beach in our swimming suits, we noticed a small inlet running back to the right as we emerged from the bottom of the amphitheater. A few other travelers were walking back around the inlet but we headed straight for the water’s edge and wadded out until we were up to our waist in the warm salt water. We splashed around a bit, and ran our toes through the soft sand on the bottom of the sea floor. The water was crystal clear and we could see small fish darting in and around our legs.
We walked part way down the beach out in the water and gradually worked our way back to shore and continued on the narrow strip of wet sand where the tide was receding. A few hundred yards up the beach where the small inlet began circling sharply, a commotion arose with numerous people gathered around looking out into the lagoon. With excited chatter and pointing motions with arms and hands, everyone’s attention was focused on the center of the still lagoon. Suddenly, I saw it. A huge black fin slicing out of the water as the great shark maneuvered slowly around the lagoon, quite oblivious to the animated humans standing at the shore. As if on an afternoon stroll, the great fish moved back and forth and around in long lazy circles. First rising high in the water so that the fin was fully exposed and then partially submerging to where just a small part of the tip was visible. The sight was nearly poetic in its grace and grandeur but I couldn’t help but think of the scenes of the Jaws movies where swimmers in no more than a few feet of water were brutally devoured by the man eating great white. I was glad we were out of the water but a little shaken by what might have occurred just a few minutes earlier as we played in the water. So many close calls so early in the trip was disconcerting to me but Sharlene seemed to be unaffected by it all. It was time to get going and travel on to Mazatlan. |
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