but I disliked being part of a convoy. Denise said she and Gail had not been sick a single day and had washed more potsherds than any four of the others. She wanted me to know that their departure had nothing to do with female hysteria but was rather a carefully considered and justifiable move.
I agreed. âYou stayed longer than I would have.â
We picked up a hitchhiker, an old man, who piled into the cab with us and sat by the door, silent, with his stick between his knees. He rolled up the window, as I knew he would, to keep the aires âevil windsâfrom swirling about his head, seeking entry. These dark spirits penetrate the body by way of the ears and nose and mouth, and cause internal mischief. He would suffocate on a bus before he would crack a window.
At Refugioâs place we had some coffee with hot milk. He was sitting under a shade tree, bolt upright on a wooden chair, with his hands placed stiffly on his knees. He was a pharaoh. Sula was trimming his hair. Manolo was polishing the new red truck.
âNo!â said Refugio. âBut this is terrible news! Dr. Ritchie! Such an amiable man! There was a light in his eyes! So quiet! Always dedicated to bennee! He leaves small children?â
âI donât know. I wouldnât think so.â
He said he had seen the pagano Skinner go by in his truck and had wondered. Now Skinner was a pagan monkey. Was his stupid cloche then fixed? Yes, I said, but they were going to the wrong town, to Villahermosa. The death had occurred in Chiapas, and the proper place to deliver the body and make the report was Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital. They didnât know that Villahermosa was across the state line in Tabasco, or didnât think it important. There would be bureaucratic delays, various Mexican hitches. Skinnerâs temper would flare. He would insult the officials and his problems would be compounded tenfold. He and Lund would be gone for days. The fellow with the motorcycle, Burt, was now the boss at Ektún. He was an agreeable young man. Refugio could now resume his deliveries to the site and perhaps even sell the boy some odd lengths of plastic pipe.
âYes, this is good thinking, Jaime. But my little green man? You wonât forget him?â
It took me a moment to make the connection. His Olmec jade piece, my photograph of same. âNo, I wonât forget.â
The fuel gauge needle had long been resting on E when we reached Palenque. The old man got out at the town plaza. He took off his straw hat and said, âYou have my thanks, sir, until you are better paid.â
If the girls offered to help pay for the gasoline I would accept. We would split the cost three ways. But I would let it be their own idea to give me money. As they say in New York, I should live so long. They drank Cokes and ate potato chips at the Pemex station while the boy pumped 160-odd liters of leaded Nova into my two tanks. They watched with mild interest and said not a word as I stood there for some little time peeling off fifty-peso notes. Gasoline was fairly cheap then, but they didnât give it away.
On the drive to Mérida the girls played around with the CB radio and scratched at tick bites on their ankles. Denise was a laugher. Her Spanish was excellent and she made jokes with the Mexican truck drivers. She kept asking me what people were doing along the way. âNow what is he doing?â A man lashing milk cans to a motorbike. A man selling bags of soft cheese. A woman bathing a child. If it was some activity I didnât understand, I said it was a local custom, a ritual, just a little thing they did around here to insure a good crop. This was a line I had picked up from the anthropologists.
North of Champotón where the road runs along the Gulf there is a rocky promontory and a small sandy crescent of beach. I stopped to see if anything of value had washed up. Sure enough, there were two mahogany planks bobbing about
I agreed. âYou stayed longer than I would have.â
We picked up a hitchhiker, an old man, who piled into the cab with us and sat by the door, silent, with his stick between his knees. He rolled up the window, as I knew he would, to keep the aires âevil windsâfrom swirling about his head, seeking entry. These dark spirits penetrate the body by way of the ears and nose and mouth, and cause internal mischief. He would suffocate on a bus before he would crack a window.
At Refugioâs place we had some coffee with hot milk. He was sitting under a shade tree, bolt upright on a wooden chair, with his hands placed stiffly on his knees. He was a pharaoh. Sula was trimming his hair. Manolo was polishing the new red truck.
âNo!â said Refugio. âBut this is terrible news! Dr. Ritchie! Such an amiable man! There was a light in his eyes! So quiet! Always dedicated to bennee! He leaves small children?â
âI donât know. I wouldnât think so.â
He said he had seen the pagano Skinner go by in his truck and had wondered. Now Skinner was a pagan monkey. Was his stupid cloche then fixed? Yes, I said, but they were going to the wrong town, to Villahermosa. The death had occurred in Chiapas, and the proper place to deliver the body and make the report was Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital. They didnât know that Villahermosa was across the state line in Tabasco, or didnât think it important. There would be bureaucratic delays, various Mexican hitches. Skinnerâs temper would flare. He would insult the officials and his problems would be compounded tenfold. He and Lund would be gone for days. The fellow with the motorcycle, Burt, was now the boss at Ektún. He was an agreeable young man. Refugio could now resume his deliveries to the site and perhaps even sell the boy some odd lengths of plastic pipe.
âYes, this is good thinking, Jaime. But my little green man? You wonât forget him?â
It took me a moment to make the connection. His Olmec jade piece, my photograph of same. âNo, I wonât forget.â
The fuel gauge needle had long been resting on E when we reached Palenque. The old man got out at the town plaza. He took off his straw hat and said, âYou have my thanks, sir, until you are better paid.â
If the girls offered to help pay for the gasoline I would accept. We would split the cost three ways. But I would let it be their own idea to give me money. As they say in New York, I should live so long. They drank Cokes and ate potato chips at the Pemex station while the boy pumped 160-odd liters of leaded Nova into my two tanks. They watched with mild interest and said not a word as I stood there for some little time peeling off fifty-peso notes. Gasoline was fairly cheap then, but they didnât give it away.
On the drive to Mérida the girls played around with the CB radio and scratched at tick bites on their ankles. Denise was a laugher. Her Spanish was excellent and she made jokes with the Mexican truck drivers. She kept asking me what people were doing along the way. âNow what is he doing?â A man lashing milk cans to a motorbike. A man selling bags of soft cheese. A woman bathing a child. If it was some activity I didnât understand, I said it was a local custom, a ritual, just a little thing they did around here to insure a good crop. This was a line I had picked up from the anthropologists.
North of Champotón where the road runs along the Gulf there is a rocky promontory and a small sandy crescent of beach. I stopped to see if anything of value had washed up. Sure enough, there were two mahogany planks bobbing about
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