Blog 11-A Rise on the Carretera

We got from the ferry to the encampment in a carro publico van, our luggage piled on top, our bodies squeezed together. The van dropped us (our little pod of four, our new friend Franz the Guardia, and eight other passengers from the ferry) in a place that looked like no place, just a rise on the Carretera Naval. The driver dumped our duffels on the gravel and took off. Before we left the City Machi made the rule, one small duffel bag apiece and one with tarps for our shelter was all we could bring.
Our 17 year old leader pointed to a plume of smoke. We followed the smoke to the last rise on the road. We looked down at a spiraling path. Spread below us was the cluster of brown tents, blue tarps, wooden shelters, and small pastel houses of the encampment Franz had called Palenque. “Mira, el circo,” Taina said. Franz beamed at her. “Where did you ever see one?” But she had run ahead to keep up with Machi who now stood at the head of the path down to what was once the Playa Coral Ecopreserve and was now Palenque.
Among the haphazard encampment shacks built of scrap wood there were many more tents than I had imagined, a few made of green canvas maybe liberated from the Base or handed out by ngo's on a resource blitz. Many of the shelters were lean-tos made from palm fronds, tarps, plastic table cloths, shower curtains. Among them were some wooden houses with techos de dos aguas, former vacation rentals from the old EcoPreserve, and abandoned summer homes. “Como el cuito de abuela,” Taina said.
Franz nodded. “Taina's right, it is a quilt, a patchwork of people as different as you and me, who refuse to move, to be moved, for as long as it takes, until the Desaparecido they're here for is released from the Camp, or until Karaya is free. We are looking at human strength. People come because they want to end the war. People come because this is a good place to hide. For others this Encampment is better than home, than living on the street, or better than a mushroom town in a City park. Palenque's a different kind of mushroom town with a cause. People come and go and some stay. Some have been here for years. Sooner or later everyone you know turns up in Palenque.”
Julia took his arm. “I didn't imagine a happy place." Franz turned to face her. “Listen.". Just then the wind shifted, and shards of music reached us. “We are a happy animal. We can be a happy animal.” I took his other arm. "As welcome on this planet as Taina's dolphins chasing the Ferry.”
Just then Taina screamed, “Caballitos!” Three small wild horses ran past us on the road heading in the direction of the Base. Franz let out a loud laugh. "Or as welcome as wild horses in Playa Coral.” Taina chased after the horses. “Mira, mira los caballitos.”
Even thought Julia and I clung to him Franz announced he had to part from us. He hugged and kissed us all like an old friend. He squatted down and Taina kissed him. "Don't look sad." She watched him walk quickly away from us on the road to the Base. We turned onto the path to Palenque. I felt bereft, lost without Franz, someone I had just met, and a Guardia! Taina ran ahead of us calling out,"El circo." Machi kept up with her. There were enough shelters and paths among them to get lost in. "Vamos a vivir en la playa,” Taina chanted as she ran.
As we made our way through the labyrinth of shelters of the encampment we passed three young men building a frame from two by fours between two other wooden shacks in a narrow space where I would not have seen the possibility of shelter. They waved and Machi waved back. A few yards from where four men played dominoes on a table made from crates Machi found an empty spot sheltered by a seapine. He pointed and we set down our duffels in a little circle. We sat on them and looked at each other.
Julia opened her arms. “We are here.” She took my hand. “Now what do we do?” She closed her eyes. She was praying. I wished I hadn't broken up with God when my family left Ventura and went into exile in the dark, crowded City of skyscraper canyons. I was 14 . I decided no matter what my father preached, if the City could exist God did not. If God did exist and had made the City, God was evil.
Julia opened her eyes. “We have to eat.” She handed us protein bars from our emergency stash. The sun was halfway to the horizon. I looked at my watch and it was just past four. “The beginning of our new life.” I looked at her and spoke so that Machi and Taina didn't hear. “How long can we last here?” Julia looked away. I knew what she was going to say. “As long as it takes to find them." I had some money but couldn't imagine the cost of living here. I was eligible for City unemployment benefits, a quarter of my old salary, for a few months after my “humanitarian” layoff, if I could get online someplace in Karaya and file my weekly claim. I was just about old enough to collect retirement money, but the end of the burocrazy and my layoff had been so sudden...Was I ready to retire? How long would my almost inexistent savings last? How could the world of my extinct workplace and this one be on the same planet?”
“A la playa." Taina jumped and twirled and then stopped. She'd seen an iguana, the first time. She stood perfectly still with her hands held up and said, "Un dinosaurio bebe." She moved her hands to grab the crested lizard and it vanished. She dug her hands into her duffel and chanted, “Donde esta la playa?” She pulled out her blue bathing suit with the ballerina tutu, and stripped and changed behind the seapine. Machi reached for her hand. When he followed her lead she was overjoyed. Julia waved at them as she spread a tarp on the ground and lay on it, with her head on Taina's duffel for a pillow. I couldn't believe that within minutes she was asleep, right here, outdoors, a la intemperie, on the sand.
I jumped up before I lost sight of Machi and Taina. I followed them past the maze of huts and tents on the path along the dune, toward the hum of the surf, ever present beneath the music, bits of conversations, and radio voices kiting on the wind. The path turned onto a beach of white sand and turquoise sea I remembered. Taina screamed, la playa, and ran ahead. Machi ran after her. I kicked off my sneakers, rolled up my jeans, and caught up to them just as they reached the water. Taina ran into the surf and Machi ran in after her, wearing the shorts he'd traveled in. I let the waves lap at my ankles and watched them.
Machi pointed to the sun slowly slipping toward the horizon. In that light the high mesh fence of the outer perimeter of the base loomed over us as it rose from the water. This was not paradise. “We don't have a lot of time to build our shelter.” He got Taina onto his shoulders and rode her all the way to our spot where Julia still slept on her back, her head on her duffel, her heart open to the world. I watched her breathe. Her lips formed a gentle smile. I'd never seen what Julia looked like when she was completely unafraid, at peace. Here! Erased of its constant mask of fear I could see Taina in her face, almost sweet.
The thin young man with a long face we'd seen building a frame with two by fours when we arrived emerged from the narrow space among the shelters alongside ours and stood for a few minutes watching us struggle with our blue tarps. He approached Machi. He'd come with hammers, two by fours, nails and rope, and another worker, a shorter, stocky young man he introduced as Robles. Our new friends Lagarto and Robles worked with us past sundown, until we had a home. They helped Machi build us a fire and said they'd show him where to get fresh fish. They were back in an hour with a big pargo, cleaned and gutted. Lagarto set a stacked metal container by our fire. "Here's rice and beans from the Comedor de las Senoras de los Frijoles. Love that name." Machi laughed loud. The three young men squatted by the fire. They wrapped the pargo in plantain leaves and set it on stones on the fire. When it was done Lagarto gave Taina a tiny bite. "It tastes like the sea." She ate her fill then found herself a spot by the path to dig in the sand. We sat close to the fire in happy silence until Lagarto asked us who were our Desaparecidos, the Palenque question we would be asked again and again.