Chiming bells that no one hears
Negro Modelo in hand and a bead of sweat on my brow, I gazed across the dusty street towards the main square. To my right the church clock chimed four. This is Palenque town.
Pretending I could read Spanish, I turned back to the newspaper that lay casually half on my lap and half across the bar table. The front page had screamed “20 deaths in 15 days” (yes, I could read that much, and the gory picture of a dead body in front of a car gave the game away in any case), and so I´d gone straight to page 9 to read more about the local “road of death”. As my Ma would say, the paper was full of only pictures and words. The pictures I found quite useful as I studiously considered Tabasco Hoy! and managed to deter the street sellers from pestering me.
Amidst the funk/rap mix that the bar was playing to me, its only customer, the strains of something more familiar crept across the gently sloping street outside. Between church bells, gangsta rap and a rumble of a large lorry somewhere else I could make out ‘Eye of the Tiger’ doing the rounds once again. Once again because it reminded me of Em and I travelling across the Alti-Plano last year, blue in the face and arms with the effects of altitude and semi-delirious from the crazy driving of Bolivia’s equivalent of Michael Schumacher.
It came from the now familiar set of market stalls which seem to be surround every small town square across the Americas. At least this far south and further down into the Americas: there’s only “Malls” and “Parking Lots” north of here. No one was browsing to listen to this classic of the 80’s, not even the local pack of mongrels that are also a permanent feature of this part of town. In fact, it struck me that an inordinate amount of effort must go into setting up and dismantling stalls each and every day for very little reward. At least the guys on their trikes with wares proudly displayed up front got some free entertainment as they lolled on their saddles, also not doing much.
Across in the distance, to the south, lay the final hills we would see on this trip, the last mounds of verdant greenery guarding the highlands of Central America. Only a couple of hours ago we’d tumbed down those slopes in a mini bus full of gringos (like us!), knowing that soon our stomachs would be at rest and our heads cleared from the drone of the engine and the pulsating Latino dance music we’d endured for nearly six hours.
Now the skies above the earth´s very own belly rolls were becoming dark and ominous, slate grey clouds colliding with the green line of the horizon, prophets of a storm building forces against the clear blue skies above my head. A glint of sunshine cast its arrow earthwards and brought out in brilliance, for the briefest of moments, the glistening limestone edifice of the very tallest tower of Palenque’s ruins.
The sloping road in front of the bar became an impromptu football pitch as four little kids shouted ‘Goooooaaaaalllll’ enthusiastically, despite the lack of anything substantial to call goal posts. Another lad, tending a dormant market stall, found his entertainment with a long pole that he used to push the awning upwards and release the pool of water that had been there since who know’s when. Splashing down, this awoke the stall holder next door, who appeared displeased that his neat display of nothing had received a soaking.
My eyes back on the newspaper, I read that Saddam Hussein has alleged he was tortured by the Americans while in detention. Clearly a slow news day since this is hardly news.
My nostrils inhale a strong, sweet and hypnotising aroma and for a moment my head swims with glorious thoughts of sensual pleasures. The reality is different, as the frighteningly large maternal figure of the bar sweeps her way behind me, pretending to tidy tables that need no tidying, arranging paper cloths that have been disturbed by some magical breeze, and chastising a little lad for loitering at the side of the open bar. Despite this vision, which destroys any sensual thoughts I may have had, I can’t resist drawing in deeply as she sways her way past me again to complete yet another pointless chore.
Th church bell chimes again and I must be on my way. I’ve booked our ride across the border to Guatemala – bus, boat and then yet another bus – and Em will wonder where I’ve got to. I jump a cab and set off back to the hotel. The cabbie sneezes twice, and then grebs three times from the window in a colourful display matching the colour of the hills we’ve left behind.
Tags: Mexico
mihai