Pacaya Volcano
Pacaya Volcano
I dunno, maybe something is wrong with me. This isn't a pretty story. There's no unicorns, cute pussy cats or rainbows with John Denver music playing in the background. But this is a reality. This is the way some people are. It's a story about cynicism, putting your back against the wall and the resilience of human beings. Fortunately or not, it's my story; and this part of the story is not a beginning but it's a place to start, a jumping off point. A jumping off into the kind of man I didn't and did want to be.
Words have power and presence; each in it's turn vibrates in our minds with an instant resonance. If I should say for example, the word heroin, each one of you reading this would conjure up in your mind, unbidden, instant associations with that word. If I were then to say, erupting volcanos, again, images associated with those two words used together would leap to the front of your thoughts, different for each person but with much in common. We all of us speak a common language, heavy with symbolism and bias.
Now let's put those words together; heroin and volcanos and suddenly there is a disjointed spark that fails to properly ignite because we have no ready associations with those two words; normally they have nothing in common, no history, no flash card insights, no crossword puzzle 2+2 equals 4 satisfaction about them. In the case of the story I am about to tell you, normal has nothing to do with it. For me, in this particular instance, the thoughts conjured up by the words heroin and volcanos have a satisfying clang to them, dope deals and eco-tourism all rolled into one, that one being the place they should never meet. However we are nothing if not complicated we humans and what seems insane to one person has that down home warm southern wind feeling to others; I am one of those others, "...for man is a giddy thing...". Yes, I like to let my freak flag fly just a little bit now and then, mostly now.
My name is Jim. James sounds like a butler or chauffer; you can try Jimmy, Jaime, Jimbo, Santiago, Jim-Bob, whatever - I answer to Jim. I would describe myself as friendly, civil, angry, sarcastic, eccentric, demanding, laid back, creative, mostly honest, straight forward, adventurous, curious, slow to forgive, clear eyed, a great liar when necessary, honorable, loyal, foolish, idiotic to moronic, naive, perceptive, funny, cynical in a romantic sense, romantic is a cynical sense and a pragmatic rationalist and not at all greedy and also as sane a man as you will ever meet.
I am a lazy but honest sometimes material artist, a full time artist in a perceptual sense, a hard working world traveler, a lazy and worthless 9 to fiver and a person who can be moved by neither promises of money nor threats to withhold it. That last is something my friends have never understood about me which gives me a clue as to how much people themselves love money.
My heroes are largely non-existent entities like Bugs Bunny and Tarzan. They are winners and I like that idea. I like it a lot.
In early 1987 at the age of 33, I was living in my home town, Minneapolis, Minnesota over by 27th & Aldritch So. with my girlfriend Winnie who shall not remain nameless just because I don't know her anymore and despite the fact that she may not find my little fairy tail as enchanting as do I. I had returned in June of the previous year from a six month backpacking trip through SE Asia, an activity which I love to do. That Dec., 1985-June 1986 nuthatch of a trip is an insane story in itself, though a tale for another time. Suffice it to say that what most people consider weird and nuts I myself often consider a good idea. Although I guess I was looking at my life as a kind of private poem, it's not because I was trying hard to be that way or get attention. I never did shit so I could tell it to other people. I'm not some guy who admires basketball diaries, or being on the road or who wishes to inspire fear and loathing on some level; I consider those guys pussies who were trying way too hard - they were too aware, too desirous of publicity, too unnatural in their desire to attain some level of being cool amongst people they probably wouldn't even want to hang around with, the housewives and actors who bought into their bullshit. Without knowing if it's true or not, my instincts tell me they were probably liars. It took me a long time to understand and accept the fact that people wrote things about themselves that were untrue. I just don't get that. If you want to be known for doing a thing then go do it; if you can't do it then learn to live with it but don't live in some twilight zone where you lie to yourself and others to make an impression.
Just go on the internet in 2008 and Google "drug-dealing memoirs" and you'll get an eyeful of really pitiful, erstwhile "cool" people who wrote lying memoirs for, I dunno, attention, money - who knows. I have no insight into those types of people cuz I like to sleep well at night and I never, never lie to myself.
Some people take this type of thing in other directions: they may become fine artists who spend their lives trying to convince a gullible public how different they are when in fact they are horribly aware of what incredible middle class rednecks they are. Lauri Anderson and David Byrne come to mind; Lauri Anderson has had the same haircut for 40 years. How cutting edge is that? Even Doris Day didn't have the same haircut for 40 years. Patti Smith at haute couter shows; shit. Who's the real artist? Look at what people do and not what they say to color crayon themselves and you'll see the truth of it. If these people aren't fucking con artists then there is no such thing as a con artist. When I was a teenager I tripped on acid quite a few times among every other drug there was but I guess Cary Grant did more acid than I have from what I've read; things aren't always what they seem. People who believe themselves to be iconoclasts but who are in fact red-necked worshippers of tradition are a strange breed; in fact they worship being cool above all else and reality has little to do with their concerns or talent.
Without naive left winger proto-hippies and a fantastic sense of self-promotion Anderson and Byrne would occupy a place in American culture below that of a second class Vaudevillian sixth billing. I really got to hate these types of people during my 4 years of art school. The fine arts is a perfect hidey hole for liars; it's not like you have to show anybody anything like playing a piano or building a house. In fact, not being some mere plebe who relies on mere skills is a positive boon in the fine arts. Playing guitar normally is beneath these people; they'll play a guitar with a dead shark or something to impress on the world how far outside the box they can think. To me, a large part of the fine artists I met in school was about lying and confusing people into thinking you were actually doing something.
I always thought the whole thing was hilarious because the people who were so self-assured they weren't rednecks were the biggest rednecks I'd ever met, their creative thoughts as slow moving as time inside an event horizon.
It's easy enough to con people from the suburbs who donate their time to pledege-a-thons on public television but you can't con someone who's spent their life on the streets and I can smell a lie from 5,000 miles away. Unfortunately most of the students were from the suburbs and so totally bought into the bullshit and the grifters themselves weren't fond of people who blew their cover so I wasn't the most popular guy at art school when it came to "dealing with spaces" or other fine art mantras. When it come to modernist fine art it should be called disigenuous art cuz that's what it is. When you need volumes of books to explain why Jasper Johns or Jackson Pollack are such great artists you know something's up. It's like techno music where that generation had to invent a drug to enable them to listen to that shit.
These people just don't want attention, they want to be thought of as the ultimately cool person, a concept that became a near obsession for many Americans in the last half of the 20th century and a tribute to how many of those Americans mistakenly believed they led empty lives when in fact they were probably just ordinary. Rock and Roll was probably the ultimate expression of this American obsession. Me, it never even occurred to me to tell anyone other than my immediate friends what I was doing. In fact, for reasons which will become obvious, it was a damn good idea to keep much of this story close to the vest.
I'd had a rougher and more ignorant upbringing than most of the art students; I didn't even know what the hell the term "graphic design" meant in my first year of college in 1976 but I took the class anyway cuz I meant to ferret all this shit out. At this school they had a deal where you could order films to be played by calling the media center on a classroom phone and having it piped up there and shown on the TVs mounted near the ceiling. When I first got to school I used to find an empty classroom and watch movies I'd never seen before. First time I ever saw films like "Citizen Kane", "Repulsion", "The Third Man", "Beauty and the Beast" by Moreau and many others was alone in those classrooms.
Now, in order to understand the context of this story, you have to understand one simple fact about myself and it's like this: by 1987 I had been selling weed for 14 years and it had never occurred to me to have a 9 to 5 job, not ever in my life of 33 years up to that point. The only job I ever had was a 6 week xmas seasonal job at a department store, 5:30 pm to 5:30 am, 7 days a week, $2 an hour; I was 18 years old. I stole so much shit from that place it was incredible, mostly watches cuz you could only take out what you could hide on you. I got some funny stories about that place. Bought my very 1st pound of weed to sell with some of my paychecks; $150, Jan., 1973. But I digress.
The whole idea of a regular job was hateful to me, ergo the weed; this was my own fine art. I wasn't the type of guy who was going to work til the end of May just to break even with Uncle Sam and I wanted my time to myself. It was a sweet, easy lifestyle and an example of good ol' American entrepreneurship which was elegant in it's simplicity. I simply bought some marijauna at a bulk wholesale price and sold it to people for more than I had paid for it. I never made much money, never had a car in those days or since those days or ever for that matter but I loved it; it paid the rent, allowed me to focus my full attention on 4 years of college some years earlier. I had no boss, no hours to keep, could do what I wanted when I wanted to - it was indeed a sweet deal. So it wasn't Leave It To Beaver. The cops were never a problem, they were busy with snitches and black guys selling right out on the streets.
I was pretty small time cuz I didn't want the attention getting greedy brought. The more you sold outside your own tight knit group the more of a chance someone you sold to would get stopped for a traffic ticket or some stupid fucking thing like that; the cops would lie to them, tell them they were going to take their house, car and kids and suddenly you're fucked so it was good to keep things low and slow.
In the summer of 1986 however, there was only one seed in my employment ointment: there was a horrible dry spell for weed in Minneapolis as unhappily happened from time to time and I was close to flat broke. I had developed a habit of going on these long backpacking trips to third world countries and always came back with almost no money. What I always did after a long trip was live at my Ma's 5 bedroom house for a month or 2, the house over by 27th and Garfield So. where I had lived in from age 9 to 19, buy some weed, get up enough seed money if you'll pardon the pun, to pay for the deposit and first month's rent on an apartment and start the whole shebang rolling again.
But that dry, dry fall of 1986 put the kibosh on my plans for an apartment so I hunkered down to do the only thing I could do and had done before: wait for the weed to flow. Only there was one more unforseen problem: my mother, who had lived in the house she owned since I was 9 years old was about to realize her dream formulated while watching untold episodes of "Wheel of Fortune" and that was to move to Las Vegas with her live in boyfriend. A real shithole of a town Las Vegas, now and then. Las Vegas was a world class destination only in the minds of the redfaced suits who owned the casinos and the Americans who flocked there, cheerfully fleeing the trailers of their own minds but sometimes bringing those trailers with them. Anyway, my mother and her boyfriend were leaving for Las Vegas in Sept. of '86 so I had to make plans to live for free with somebody else til the weed freed itself up. Luckily for me my extremely eccentric but sweet and sexy girlfriend Winnie currently lived in the old neighborhood of South Minneapolis only 3 blocks from my mother's house and agreed to let me stay til I had the money for my own apartment.
So, in Sept. I moved all my stuff from my mother's into a storage locker and moved in with Winnie and George the cat. In all this time it never remotely entered my mind to find a job to weather the storm. A job was as alien an idea to me as mushroom people from Jupiter coming to Minnesota; certainly that notable event would have occurred before ever I got a job.
So, it was just a wait and see Fall and Winter as I scored small amounts of shit weed here and there for spending money but the city remained basically as dry as a bone when it came to scoring. I amused myself by playing pinball at a bar down the street sometimes when Winnie was at college. I loved playing the 8-Ball Deluxe. I could play for hours at the CC Club on a quarter. Friends came by, I made love, had an ordinary life. It was the first time in Minneapolis where I'd lived my entire life that we had no snow cover, one of the warmest winters on record from start to finish. That was a fucking break cuz the winters in Minnesota can be brutal. You learn exactly what the hell wind chill is during a winter in Minnesota. My career as the smallest time of hoods was, sadly, on hold. Enter fate in the form of one of my best friends, Kevin and his mother.
Now to add some more context to this story I have to tell you about Kevin, my love of climbing volcanos and a trip Kevin and I took to Guatemala in 1984 some 3 years earlier. In Nov. of 1984 Kevin was one of my closest friends. We both shared a love for vintage paperbacks and comic books and science fiction and Shaw Brothers kung-fu movies and collecting in general among many other things. In late 1984 I was about to take off on one of my backpacking trips, a 7 month visit to Guatemala, Rio de Janeiro, Bolivia and Peru. I knew my buddy Kevin would love Guatemala which I had visited on 3 previous occasions and though it took some doing, I finally talked Kevin into coming along for the first 18 days in Guatemala after which he would go back to Minnesota while I would continue on to South America for what would turn out to be a deliriously fantastic 7 month trip. Another nuthatch of a story in it's own right with some truly beautiful passages, but not to be told here.
During this 18 days in Guatemala I convinced Kevin to come along on what had become one of my favorite third world pursuits: climbing live volcanos. Standing atop a 12,000 ft. volcano in the middle of the night with a full moon straight overhead will definitely give you a hard on. As it turned out, Kevin loved Guatemala but didn't really enjoy climbing Pacaya volcano; Kevin wasn't a physical guy like that. In any event, by early 1987 Kevin was well aware of Pacaya Volcano and my general love of volcanos, more of which I'd climbed, some with Kevin, in Indonesia in 1986. Then, while still living at Winnie's apartment in Jan. of 1987, still waiting for the weed to flow, one of those weird little inconsequential things happened that can change a person's life: I received a phone call. What kind of a phone call you may well ask? Well hold onto your expensive jeans and I'll set about telling you all about it. That single phone call set off just about as unlikely a chain of events as you're ever likely to run into, whether fact or fiction, even in such an strange life as I had lived. To be truthful, even a fiction writer wouldn't have been able to make up this one, it's just too weird. Did I use the word unlikely? Unlikely is likely in my life. It was normal for me to have the attitude of a man walking along a cliff's edge wearing a blindfold; the difference was that I would peek out occasionally and I saw the cliff, no problem with that part. The problem was that, on the landward side, I saw the 9 to 5 and houses all made out of ticky-tacky as well and I found the latter at once frightening and invisible. You peep?
So who should call me during that grey Jan. 26th day but my good friend Kevin. His mother had torn a tiny, tiny paragraph out of the Minneapolis Star and Tribune newspaper and given it to him. All that tiny snippet said was that Guatemala's Pacaya Volcano had gone into major eruption on Jan. 21st and 25th. I knew in that moment that I had to go there. The problem was that I had no money. Thus was born my goofy idea in one moment of mad normalcy. You know how it is when you're doing a crossword puzzle? You're sitting there with your pencil in hand and you look at the clue and bang, the answer comes to you. How does that happen? Suddenly what wasn't there in your mind is there and you have no understanding or awareness of any process; it's just suddenly there in front of you, the answer.
Well, friends, that's how it happened with me that Jan. afternoon in 1987; discordant elements, one having nothing to do with the other suddenly became intimate friends and companions there in the front of my forehead. It was a whopper of an idea but one that would get me to where I wanted to be which was up on top of that erupting volcano in Guatemala and so was completely normal in my view. The whole thing appealed to my sense of humor and style. Doing a thing is one consideration and doing a thing a certain way another.
Now we need more context, a circle on a map, the finger of fate pointing to the path of understanding and enlightenment. I need to tell you what these discordant elements were, how they came about and what they were doing in my life there in Winnie's apartment in that warmish winter of 1987 in Minneapolis, Minnesota. You already know about two of these elements: drug dealing thought of as a totally sane way of doing business and my love of climbing volcanos, particularly that wonderful Pacaya volcano which was in constant eruption more or less though one had to be lucky to get to the cone when it was actually throwing out lava. I knew I had to act fast while Pacaya waited slow.
One of these other discordant elements had to do with opiates and backpacking in SE Asia. While traveling through Thailand the previous year, my good buddy Andy and I had scored some white lady and opium and stayed high smoking the powder for 2 weeks in Bangkok and out on one of the islands in the Gulf of Thailand and then eating the opium which was totally disgusting but got us higher than a motherfucker. We used to go to Kentucky Fried Chicken in Singapore just to get buns to put the opium in so we could swallow it whole. Otherwise it was just like eating shit and it was certain to make you vomit it was so horrible.
The fact that they had big posters on walls in Malaysia that said "Drugs Are Death" didn't mean shit to me. The first time I'd seen "Midnight Express", that prison film about the American caught trying to smuggle hash out of Turkey, I was in a movie theatre in 1979 in Guatemala City with an ounce of weed shoved down my pants. In Guatemala you could get a year in prison for 3 marijuana seeds. What those posters in Malaysia said about death wasn't just that drugs were dangerous; they meant that people possessing a certain amount of opiates like heroin and opium were liable for some really harsh penalties up to and including execution and since they were in English they were aimed at Westerners like Andy and I.
Two Australian guys named Barlow and Chambers had been arrested in 1983 for possessing 140 grams of heroin and were executed later in that year of 1986 while Andy and I were there and we were well aware of it. One of the funniest things relating to drugs was when Andy and I got higher than shit hanging out in our hotel room in the capital of Malyasia, Kuala Lumpur. The rest of the hotel was completely sold out for Malaysian cops attending a motorcycle cop convention in town. It didn't make Andy and I nervous at all to be banged out of our minds in a hotel full of cops; it appealed to our sense of humor. We were for sure some brazen motherfuckers.
Andy ran out of money and left SE Asia in mid-March, 2 1/2 months into the trip, long before the 6 mo. I stayed for and before I came back to the states he had fallen in with some local Minneapolis heroin people who had friends from Minneapolis out in Manhattan, the big rotten apple; at least that was the way it was in 1987, before New York City was largely gentrified. One thing's for sure, in the Spring of 1987 New York was one weird place and I had never been there. That didn't fase me, I'd been to weirder places, but, I'm getting ahead of myself.
To get back on the thread, when I was staying at Winnie's, Andy had copped some of that white lady for me when he was in NYC for New Year's '86-'87. Andy had come back on Jan. 3 with 10 papers for me which I smoked for 4 days straight and again on the 16th of Jan. for 2 1/2 days, so I was aware of that connection in the back of my mind when Kevin told me about Pacaya Volcano on Jan.26. Other unconnected elements were that I had a rich divorcee of a friend who had a luxury condo out in NYC who never used it and built in customers among some of my friends who were always up for a pain killer or two and who I was sure wouldn't be adverse to smoking some white lady. One must understand that the reason people originally used a hypodermic to do heroin was that for decades it wasn't strong enough to do any other way. By 1987 dope in NY was strong enough to snort or smoke and so, once the stigma and unwieldiness of using a needle was removed a whole new group of customers were opened up; namely the type of folks who liked the occasional pain killer and a bit of adventure, their backs to the wall for an instant in time. Me, I'd shot up some white crosses a few times when I was 17 but in general I thought people who stuck needles in their arm were idiots. However, in reading this story, I'm sure that you dear reader, will quickly come to the conclusion that the word idiot means entirely different things to you and I.
And that's how it all came together in my mind, my brilliant nutty plan, my very own NY Times crossword: I would raise the money to climb Pacaya Volcano in Guatemala by flying to New York City for the first time ever, buying a bunch of dope on the street with other people's money, staying at my friend's condo in Manhattan for free, cutting the dope when I returned and selling it for a nice profit. And the best part was that other people would be paying for it. After I came back to Minneapolis and sold the shit, it would be smooth sailing up that live volcano waiting for me in Guatemala for the show of a lifetime; and I knew that volcano would wait. After all, volcanos and I are just like that and anyway, volcanos move a slow, sluggish life measured in geological epochs; waiting for me wouldn't be a problem. And so what could go wrong? You're probably saying to yourself, oh Christ, it's gonna be like one of those movies where the retired cops have the perfect plan to rob a bank and go off to the Bahamas but it all goes to shit. I never liked those types of movies and I wasn't about to let my plan have a single hitch.
It was a pretty simple plan, all I had to do was execute it. On that same day of Jan. 26 when Kevin first called me about the Pacaya eruption I wrote in my journal, "God, how I want to be there.", and on the 27th I wrote, "God, but I'm hot to go to Guate for Pacaya."
Another of my best friends was named Jim whom I'd met in college. Jim was born on the right side of the tracks. He had loads of money he'd inherited, liked to show it and was always up for something unusual and liked getting high on various drugs in a rather casual sort of way. I told him what was up and asked if he would like to invest some money in my little venture and he said yes.
Another good friend and fellow dealer I'd known since I was 16 was Ben. He was up for trying something new and so he was in for investing a little money. Dope was just getting hot in Minnepolis, a new craze among the eternally bored; we came to always call heroin white lady or just dope cuz to us it was the only drug there was. So right there, between Jim and Ben, I had the bulk of my money. In fact, by the evening of the day after I'd first heard from Kevin about Pacaya, I'd already gotten financial commitments from Ben and Jim that would cover my expenses to NY and most of Andy's finances as well. I had to have Andy along cuz he knew his way around the dope scene more of less. Turned out it was less but I am nothing if not flexible. I collected dough from a few other people and in just a few days I was set financially to go out and buy some NYC dope.
My buddy Andy was crucial to my plan; he had been to NY before and I hadn't and he was acquainted with the transplanted Minneapolis hop heads living in NY and had scored on the street before. Andy was in. He came up with some of his own money and was just as happy about going as I was. What Andy didn't understand though was that I was looking at this like a military campaign, like Patton swinging the 3rd Army around the Germans in France in WWII. I wasn't going to NY to fuck around and I was taking no prisoners. I was like that; if I had a plan to get done I'd get all serious about it cuz I figured if you're gonna do something do it right. It would be all business, getting in and getting out. There would be no going to see cool bands at cool clubs, no going to cool restaurants, no exploring the culture of NYC, no visits to museums, no strolls through Central Park.
NYC had no cache' for me. Guatemala was the end game and it was that volcano that was on my mind. I knew that NY had gangs going back to the Civil War, when kids were so poor they were reputed to play with dead rats they tied to the ends of sticks; some game that. I had no confidence that the city had advanced much culturally in the last hundred years and so my first time to the Big Apple was no big deal for me. As it turned out I wasn't disappointed.
The last part of my plan was to get ahold of the woman who had the condo in Manhattan. Dee Dee was a rich Jewish divorcee who loved slumming with the art crowd. I'd met her and a small crowd of other rich folks through the owner of a downtown art gallery that handled my photography. These rich folks liked getting high but were phenomenally unconnected so they needed to know people like me plus they thought it was like slumming I guess. Dee Dee had a passing aquaintance with Andy and when I told her we were going out to NY City and wanted to use her empty furnished condo on 73rd and 3rd she simply handed over the keys. She was a good kid but had no idea what Andy and I were up to.
I worked really fast on my plan and by Feb.3, a week later, I had the money together and, as simple as that, Andy and I had bought airline tickets and off to New York we went. Our plane landed in Newark and we had to take a bus that went to the Port Authority to get deeper into Manhattan. Along the way, the scenery was one of a blasted heath and I found myself wondering if the outskirts of Hiroshima looked any worse in Aug. of 1945 cuz the landscape was definitely post-holocaust. The last rays of the sun sparkled off these enormous clustered edifices that was Manhattan in the far distance. It was monstrous and possessed a kind of beauty all at once. From the Port Authority we caught a cab to Dee Dee's condo and I met my first NYC doorman. I thought it was a weird thing for a grown man to do. I was sure I made more money fielding phonecalls in my apartments than did this guy with a weird accent I'd only heard in movies who had to defer to Noveau Riche assholes.
Andy and I were pretty scruffy looking so we tipped the doorman well so he'd mind his own business. I didn't waste any time; we threw down our shit and took the subway to The Bowery and walked to Alphabet City, Ave B, Houston, the East Village, the center of street sales of the white lady at night. Though it was Feb. NYC wasn't awfully cold. I was dressed like an idiot, wearing black sweat pants and a vintage blue gabardine overcoat to go with my very long black hair I always kept in a pony tail; must've made quite a sight. New York City was weird but not in a fun way like Rio de Janeiro or Hong Kong; it never threw that enchanted blanket over me like it did some people. Some folks are in love with NY before they ever get there.
In South Minneapolis we have an area called East Lake Street. You go from West Lake Street which is Uptown a couple miles straight down to East Lake and it's like stepping back in time 30 years. People are poorer, there are no yuppies like Uptown and folks dress like they got their clothes from the Salvation Army in the 1970's. That was my impression of New York City with the added oddity New Yorkers had of never looking people in the eye; I didn't know what the hell that was about. Friendly they were not. The people I ran into always acted like I was about to pull out a knife and it seemed they were running scared. Weird way to live which is something to say coming from me. My life as a small time drug dealer in Minneapolis seemed like it was more relaxed than the 9 to 5 of the average New Yorker. But then, I was the type of person who didn't sweat anything. I was always focused on what could go right, not what could go wrong. Americans in general seemed increasingly to think about what could go wrong. Don't smoke cigarettes, wear a helmet on your bicycle, etc. Someday the fucking government will make us wear helmets to step out the door. I really loved it when I could travel outside the U.S., to places where people were still in touch with the realities of life and where I didn't have to put up with the political correctness which was just starting to infect America.
As it turned out, Andy's connections were less than useless. They were a handful of people he knew only on a very casual basis, one or two woman he'd briefly met in Minneapolis and who were now living in NY. The last thing these chicks wanted was to interact with people from Minneapolis since they seemed to feel they'd made a clean getaway. No connection there. No matter what we offered no one Andy talked to was interested in helping us score 10 bundles of dope. A bundle was 10 papers, a paper was $10, one high, but $40 in Minneapolis so my grand would turn into 4 grand back there and after cutting it, 8 grand. Plenty to go to Guatemala and get high and then some. My only problem was that I had no clue as to how to get any. Normally people who do dope were more than happy to get involved with a deal that would earn them some money or dope so I didn't know what was happening.
So we hit the streets on our own that first night. Houston and Ave. B looked like Berlin did after WWII, all bombed out with lots of Latinos and addicts. Walking around that night you could see dealers operating out of the doorways of abandoned buildings and strangely, cops would be on the corners, peering around the corners of buildings but doing nothing, just watching. Dealers and cops were totally aware of each other but had some rules I didn't understand so that they didn't fuck with each other. Another New York deal I didn't understand. These cops had to be paid off.
I was very specific with Andy about not taking the first deal that came to hand on the street cuz I was scared of being sold some shit. That was another weird thing about NY I didn't understand; who was stupid enough to deal to strangers on the street? In Mineapolis we all sold out of our homes to people who had been properly introduced; they had a resume. To me, selling drugs on the street was the same thing as saying please eventually bust me. The problem was that for some reason, Andy, being 27, 7 years younger than I, looked much more acceptable to these street dealers who wanted nothing to do with me. I had to rely on Andy to connect so what does the moron do? He takes the first shit someone sells him, a bundle of this shit brand named Ganeo and gets ripped off . We went back to the condo to check it out and not only was it 3 papers short it was total shit. Needless to say, I was pissed but had no idea how to do this the right way. I had been counting on those Minneapolis druggies living here to hook us up with someone that could be trusted.
So, we go right back out onto the streets and I decide we're going to go to one of these "stores" set up in an abandoned building whether they liked the way I looked or not. I bulled past the lookout at the entrance and got up the stairs half way to the first floor landing of some bombed out apartment building and the guy starts saying "tracks, tracks". I didn't even know what the fuck he was talking about. Turned out he wants me to show him the needle tracks on my arms so he knows I'm an addict and not some cop. I got nothing to show him cuz I'd rarely done dope at this point and was smoking it anyway which was something heroin people in the states absolutely did not do. So this lookout yells up something in Spanish and those people upstairs with the shit melted away and that was that; strike 2. They were more comfortable with Andy so he talked his way back in while I waited in some sleepy bar and he scored 3 papers of Spider-Man (the dealers always stamp some brand name on the package), which was some good shit. Only 97 papers to go.
We were getting nowhere fast. We still had almost all our money so I had no problems there but we were as far away from scoring as if we were still in Minneapolis. We called it a night and went back to the condo and got high. That was fun after a long day that had started in Minneapolis; I loved nodding on dope; thats what they mean by opium dreams. I could watch an entire movie with my eyes closed.
The next day we went to the apt. of some black dude Andy had met at the turn of the year on his first trip out here named Norman. Andy thought Norman might help us for a percentage. Some air head chick Andy knew from Minneapolis was at this guy's apt. but Norman was asleep. This chick was going to meet some other women for breakfast so Andy and I had to split. Shit, I really wanted to talk to this guy. These women at the breakfast place were no more than polite to Andy but when it came to me it was like I wasn't even there. Andy was devilish handsome with those Paul Newman eyes and charm and women always swooned all over themselves for Andy; they wanted to wrap him up, give him a big hug and bake him a pie. Women like we were sitting with were so cool and stand-offish that I was surprised they ever talked to anyone, even each other. I'd met people like this before in Minneapolis; you'd get introduced to them and they wouldn't even acknowledge anything had just happened - hated those fuckers. Typical people from Minneapolis in NYC; they didn't want to talk to anyone from Minneapolis, the oh so uncool place they had escaped from to live in some shit hole of an apartment for a thousand bucks a month there in NY, 3 times the rent in Minneapolis. I had no idea where these fucking morons were coming from. If you were cool you brought it with you; didn't matter where the hell you were. Don't get me wrong, some cities are a lot more fun than others but I don't need to wear them like an armful of tattoos; I knew who I was.
They were into the whole fake CBGB's scene with it's shit music and that whole scene was only about trying to be cool and was done and gone anyway, clinging to the memory of it's heyday. What else could it be about since the bands in that whole scene had no talent although you couldn't tell their fans that. It was the Ramones and the Butt Hole Surfers and about being anybody but yourself; one giant empty cup. I don't think these people ever understood that they were just as big a bunch of rednecks as any guy with a suit and briefcase in that they had their own uniforms they couldn't change out of, language they had to use and music they had to love. In their own minds they were some type of liberated anti-establishment l'enfant terrible but to me they were uptight rednecks; I might as well have been in fucking Branson, Missouri trying to score standing room only tickets to see Andy Williams sing "Moon River". These people would be working in an office soon enough; right now though, they were all artists using their boring lives as a boring canvas to make boring art. They didn't see their own futures as clearly as I fancied I did cuz when these types of people turn 30 the cuteness wears off real fast and they drop of a cliff into reality. All the tatoos in the world won't save you from working in a hat shop if you don't police your shit. Even I had the sense to get a B.F.A. while I was selling. Yeah, I knew who I was.
By the time I was interacting with these oh so cool idiots there in that breakfast joint in NYC I'd already hiked the Inca Trail, stood on the tops of volcanos in Sumatra, Java, Bali and Guatemala looking at full moons in the middle of the night, hung out twice for 6 months in Rio de Janeiro, photographed it's Carnaval parades, been a thousand miles up the Amazon River, been to the geographical heart of South America, run all over Thailand, Bolivia and Peru and so much other shit that I couldn't possibly list it here. I kept quiet about that stuff though; I hadn't done those things to impress anybody but myself and didn't wear it on my sleeve and certainly didn't use it to open doors; my tattoos were all on the inside, stupid fucking male earrings too. These fucks had nothing on me. As far as I could tell they were like a lot of backpackers I'd met traveling around the world; they wouldn't do jack shit all day and then at night they'd sit and write it all down in their journals. Me, I'd be out trucking all over the place, sticking my nose everywhere, checking everything out. These people were impressed with themselves and with the mere fact they were in NYC, the Big Apple. Whoopde-fucking-do. They were probably impressed that they put their own shoes on in the morning. The funny thing about these kinds of people is that they spent so much of their time and effort trying to convince people that they weren't rednecks that I don't know when they found the time to do anything else; guess they just didn't.
I remember this time around 1987 well. Young people were uncertain how to dress and act but tried so very hard to dress and act and fit in somehow. Hell, that's normal - it's just that there was a type of desperation about it that I found unsettling and like I said, they were very, very prickly. These people I was meeting with Andy who came to NY from Minneapolis were just the same as people like my mother, who watched "Wheel of Fortune" and dreamed of Las Vegas; it was only in their own minds that there was a difference. Welcome to Branson.
After breakfast with the jet set, Andy and I went back to Norman's and caught him leaving for work. He got off of work after the dope stores closed so he couldn't help us personally. However, he said he'd help us out by setting us up with some "coppers" and told us to meet him in a bar at midnight. I felt a little better about the whole thing but I was definitely no fun to be with. Yeah, I'm a cranky boy when my plans go awry. Business is business and fun is fun; you can get fucked up confusing the two.
Andy and I killed time back at Dee Dee's apt. and left early in case we'd have some luck copping on our own. We went to the "store" where we'd gotten the Spider-Man the night before. Andy got a bundle of some no-name stuff in red papers that later turned out to be not so hot. Great.
So that night of our 2nd day we went to some bar that was featured in the movie, "Crocodile Dundee", like I gave a shit. The whole grungy place looked like it had been spray painted black which nicely matched the cognocenti's uniforms in that area of the world. This Norm guy showed up at the bar and soon Andy and him went out to cop. Ended up cooling my heels for 2 fucking hours in that hole, listening to some guy telling me about how he'd been kidnapped in some NY thing I didn't quite understand and watching people desperately trying to figure out how to reach out to each other what with the prickly spines. Unfortunately all that coolness was getting in the way of their hooking up. You go to other parts of the world and people are so natural about interacting with one another it's quite a difference. Don't get me wrong, I love America and always liked coming back from my trips, at least in those days. No wonder young folks get all fucked up just to meet one another.
Finally, pissed off as hell with the waiting, I caught a cab back to the condo. Andy was probably getting high although I'd told him to put that off til biz is done. Surprisingly, Andy showed up right after I got back with 7 good papers of Ganeo and the news that he'd set up a score for tomorrow night. Only 90 some papers to go; we were spinning our wheels. I was unhappy.
At least we got high that night. Laying back in that apt. and nodding out - Andy using his needle and I my tinfoil and straw.
The next night about 8:00 we went back into that bombed out area of a slow motion war where the guy with the dope from the night before was going to be and bought 9 bundles of some good shit. It was as simple and as quick as that; one throw of the dice. Mission finally accomplished. We jumped right in a cab and got the fuck out of there and went back to the condo and got high all night.
The next day we took it easy and went to see Chinatown and Times Square. I was a lot more relaxed. Couldn't believe NYC had 2 movie theatres that showed kung-fu movies 24 hours a day. We didn't get high that night so we wouldn't be all fucked up looking for the flight back to Minneapolis the next day.
On the flight back, we both had aisle seats, Andy one row behind and across the aisle. All of the sudden he says, "Hey, Jim". I turn around and he's holding out his hand with a bunch of papers in it. That was Andy's idea of a joke. I was impatient and in a foul mood the whole time in NY cuz nothing we'd tried as far as scoring our dope had worked out until the last minute and that was like a miracle. I was happy to be the fuck out of there; it had just been the means to an end. So on Feb.7, less than 2 wks after hearing about Pacaya volcano, I was back in Minneapolis with the means to raise money to go to Guatemala.
I spent the next few weeks back in Winnie's apartment in Minneapolis cutting, doing and selling dope. Gave over the little my investors had coming. Kevin had to wait a while to go to Guatemala so it was a waiting game but finally Kevin and I made reservations for Guatemala City and my dream of climbing up an erupting Pacaya Volcano was coming closer. Got high almost every day and almost blew the Guat money but managed to save a grand it would cost for the trip.
So, on Monday, March 23, 1987, I was off to Guatemala City for what would be my 5th time in Guatemala. Now if you ever want to come to a cool place then come to Guatemala. It's like one of those Chinese boxes that opens to another box and another and another. Guatemala's only about 2/3's the size of Minnesota but there is an absolute ton of things to do and see there. That is if you're the type of person who likes to get out and about. If not, you'd probably be fascinated to sit in a bar that was used in a half assed movie, that much closer to being cool and famous; maybe get a real fascinating tattoo the next day. Shit on that stuff and on you too if your sporting a bunch of dumb fuck tatoos.
That morning of my flight to Guatemala City I wrote this in my journal: " I awoke at quarter to six this morning with the first thunder of Spring calling to me outside. Said 'Good-bye' to crazy Winnie and got a cab. Didn't go but a few blocks before a good rain started, all the way to the airport. I took the thunder to be the reverberations of volcanos in Guatemala - they're waiting for me."
Flew into Guatemala City through Miami. Kevin had been delayed and wouldn't fly in until the following evening. I arrived to a beautifully humid 68 degree night. Took a bus into the center of town for 4 cents U.S. instead of the $5 for a taxi. Came to my favorite cheap shithole of a hotel on 9th Ave., The Espana, where I'd spent many a day. Spent the night wandering downtown, playing pinball and eventually talking to Carlos who owned a tienda across the street from the Espana and who I'd first met on my 1st visit to Guatemala in 1977. Ninth Ave. is loaded with hookers. At night they walk back and forth with their double-knit dress pants and middrift bulge, calling out, "I love you", in Spanish, "Mi amor". I didn't love them.
The next day was hot and sunny. Made my way to this place called the Club Andenismo, an office of volcano climbing enthusiasts located in a sports complex. These guys were always friendly and a good source of information about the latest conditions on Pacaya Volcano. On my previous visit to Guatemala hey'd actually given me diplomas for each volcano in Guatemala I had climbed. After I talked with them a good while I went out to the airport to meet Kevin.
The following entries with dates attached are from my journal I kept at the time; bold paranthesis I've added in writing this for clarity:
Wed.-March 25, 1987 (Kevin and I are big fans of kitsch and collecting.) We spent the day looking for toys and religious knick-knacks and visited the Club Andenismo again. The guys at the club (Andenismo) gave us some helpful info about Santa Maria and Pacaya Volcanos. Ate at McDonalds in the evening.
Thur.-March 26 Woke early and went out to buy a couple of bus tickets to Quetzaltenango. The guys at the Club Andenismo had told us a group of Guatemalans were going to climb Santa Maria Volcano and I wanted to join them. (Santa Maria at 3,700 meters is an old giant cone of a volcano located outside of Quetzaltenango, the 2nd largest city in Guatemala. At the base of that old cone is a newer and very active ash cone called Santiaguito. In 1979 my best friend Joe and I had skirted the base of Santa Maria to view the active cone which was throwing out a huge column of ash. Joe and I had spent the night in a goat herders hut, high on valium. I figured to make Santa Maria a priority cuz I had trouble finding my was to the top during my first climb. Pacaya was still in eruption and could wait awhile since there were a few other areas I wanted to swing through without having to go all the way back to Guatemala City which Pacaya was close to, 25 miles away.
In 1902 Santa Maria had blown it's top in an enormous eruption, the 3rd largest in the world in the 20th century according to my guide book. In 1922 the Santiaguito ash cone had formed at it's base and has been in constant eruption ever since. I'd climbed Santa Maria alone in 1983, spending 2 nights at the top. From the summit you can look down and see Santiaguito erupting, a situation perhaps unique in the world. Big time fun; I dream of stuff like that all the time and then do it.)
Spent the rest of that very warm day in Guatemala City scoring some very cool old toy watches made in Japan. They'd been lost for 18 years in a warehouse and the guy who owned the store had just put them out, entire boards of these watches; bought all I could afford since they were rare and vintage already.
In the evening, Kevin and I stuffed ourselves at a Pizza Hut and then went to see Poltergeist II.
Fri.-March 27 Woke at 7 AM and before long we were off to the bus station and an appointment with Santa Maria Volcano. The bus comes into Quetzaltenango with a nice view of the entire cone of Santa Maria and the surrounding valley. We got ourselves a room at the Hotel Radar 99, where I'd stayed in '83. (Don't even ask me about the name. That's the 3rd World.)
That evening we'd found a guy named Zuddy Escobar who was associated with the local Club Andenismo. We learned that 70 Guatemalans were climbing up Santa Maria the next day. That was too much for me and I decided to postpone our climb til Sunday.
Sat.-March 28 Kevin and I spent the day doing a short trip to the nearby town of San Francisco El Alto and stopped along the road on the way back, sticking our noses into everything and I taking stock photos. That was my favorite thing to do when backpacking around; just get out trucking around and check shit out.
In the evening we went wandering around Quetzaltenango and I got some nice shots with my Pentax 6x7 of these kids in super-hero and wrestling masks. After that Kevin and I ate some spaghetti and packed our shit for the climb tomorrow.
Kids In Quetzaltenango
Sun.-March 29 We woke a little after 6 AM. Our goal was to get a bus to a flat area at the base of Santa Maria Volcano called Llanos de Pinal just outside of town. From there you started hiking. Nice, clear day and we didn't have any trouble finding the right trail up cuz the groups of Guatemalans from the night before were making their way down. Walking up Santa Maria Volcano is a real bitch of a hike. Half way up you keep thinking where in the hell is the top. Luckily it's a cone and can't keep receding forever and at last the top was in sight. That last 100 meters is tough cuz the air in thin up there.
Love hanging around on volcano tops as the sun goes down; it seems as if you're on top of the world. Built a big fire, ate some food, hung out. Listened to Loggins and Messina, Etta James, Linda Ronstadt and Joni Mitchell on my walkman later that night when Kevin was asleep. Kevin was tired; he's a big guy, 6 foot 6 inches tall and had puked his way to the top from heat exhaustion. Slept.
Mon.-March 30 Kevin and I woke about 7 AM on a beautiful morning - not very cold as it sometimes can be so high up. A mist hid all the lowlands from us, filling the valleys like a river but we could see Santiaguito just fine. The crater was emitting leisurely puffs of smoke which unfolded high in the air.
To the south we could see the peaks of other volcanos far away poking their peaks up through the mist. Closest to us we could see Atitlan and Toliman Volcanos and beyond them Agua, Acatenango and Fuego Volcanos, the latter trailing a flat plume of smoke for miles.
Climb down was a bitch cuz of all the slippery dirt but I made good time. Kevin fell behind I waited for him at this place called La Meseta and he showed up about 20 min. later. I left just after Kevin arrived and he said he'd not be long in following. The climb down to the road was a lot further than I recollected and I was bummin' by the time I reached it and a warm soda pop.
Further down the road I waited for the bus for 30 min. and still no Kevin. When the bus left so did I; I didn't feel like waiting around forever. Tired and bedraggled and filthy I got to the Radar 99. Took a hot shower first thing and dropped my dirty clothes off at a laundry. Kevin made it to the hotel an hour after I did. I thought he'd be all pissed off but he wasn't. He said he'd fallen asleep once while resting and another time came to while wandering about on some trail.
Just before 6 in the evening there was a big rainstorm with hail and high winds. Ate spaghetti by candlelight at our favorite place, the Pizza Rica.
Tues.-March 31 Woke fairly early and wandered around just checking out shit. Kevin was still woozy and a bit nauseous from his exertions yesterday. Bought a toy tin-litho tank from China and some little dinosaurs.
Wed.-April 1 Woke bright and early. Took a cab to the bus terminal and off we went to the Thur. and Sat. market town of Chichcastenango. Hadn't been there since '79. Wanted to go to check out the market and do some photography. The market in Chichi is famous and has lots of incredible textiles. Really beautiful countryside up there in the highlands. Clear air and warm, spring like weather during the day with cool nights. A fantastic cultural experience and a market tradition that predates the Conquistadors.
Thur.-April 2 Spent the day shooting the market when the light was good and buying presents for friends otherwise. Bought textile fabrics for Winnie, Ben, Deb, Leah, Gale, DeeDee and Terry and Sue. Really enjoyable day.
(Some 20 years later as I write this I don't even know any of those people anymore. Winnie and I were very close but my drug problems created friction in our relationship that was totally my fault. Ironically we stayed friends til after I'd cleaned up my act and started once again being a world traveler, getting my shit together and doing some extraordinary things. However, Winnie copped some attitude over something or other I wasn't certain of, moved to Canada and made it some weird point of honor to not keep in touch with me. Oh, well.
Ben and I were partners in crime for a few more years. Had known him since I was 16 or so. It was a fine ride for awhile. We had the friggin' luck of the Irish cuz we were always tooling around in his pick up truck loaded up with drugs, doing drop-offs. Never once got stopped by the police. Later, when I had some problems with the police we didn't see each other any more.
Deb was a lovely women who was an occasional lover who had once been married to a guy named Raymond I'd known since I was a kid. When they got divorced we got together. There were a lot of women in my life then; too many and our relationship just petered out. We didn't stay in touch.
DeeDee of course was the sweet person who let Andy and I stay at her condo in midtown Manhattan during my infamous run up raising the money to be in Guatemala and climb Pacaya Volcano. She eventually moved to Paris and I lost touch with her.
Terry and Sue were a married couple I'd known for about 10 years. Really lovely people. A year after this trip to Guatemala they got divorced and Sue moved out to Philadelphia with the 2 kids and we eventually lost touch. Terry and his new girlfriend moved to New Orleans some years later. I visited them a few times but by 1999 Terry had sank into alcoholism, divorced his wife and lost his job. He pretty much wrecked his life and we lost touch. I had an affair with his wife after they broke up and totally fell in love with her down in New Orleans but I was just coming from 4 months in Rio de Janerio and on my way to 4 1/2 months in SE Asia but we spent a beautiful month together. When I came back the shine had worn of for her and I came back to Minneapolis. Guess it just wasn't meant to be.
Weird how you lose touch with people. Not a good thing.
Leah was another beauty of a woman who was a part time lover but not a lovely person. She attracted the wrong type of guys who'd fall madly in love with her and one of them started leaving weird messages on her phone machine. For some odd reason she thought it was me and would not let go of the idea no matter what I said. I'm not that type of person and got tired of her shit so I told her to fuck off and never saw her again. Thinking a person is a liar is no basis for a friendship; what else could I do?
Gale was the owner of the first gallery I was ever associated with that was located in downtown Minnepolis. She did some good sales for me but eventually closed the gallery and moved out to California and we lost touch.)
Fri.-April 3 Got up early and using a few busses, made our way back to Guatemala City. Dropped off our shit and I right away went out and bought some more of those vintage Japanese watch boards. I just thought they were cooler than shit, rare and probably worth some dough. That night Kevin and I went to see Platoon.
Sat.-April 4 I spent the day searching out and buying more weird Chinese and Japanese toys. Bought this cool robot toy called a Space Tank for a few bucks. Sold it years later for $100. Later in the afternoon Kevin and I went to this Kung Fu movie called The 10 Brothers of Shao Lin. We just love those films. Kevin actually went out to see another movie later, Pale Rider while I slept and hung out in the room.
Sun.-Apr.5 Got in a big argument with Kevin today. Brought up stuff that's been bothering me for awhile. He's always trying to get over on me without giving shit in return. Gave him plenty of hell; didn't want to do it but it had to come out if our friendship was to continue. I've made so much money for that guy it's pitiful but when I want to buy an old paperback from him he'll charge me full price guide like I was some guy from Texas. We're only talking about a $7 paperback but it's not right that I should find him these vintage toys and comics here that he makes hundreds if not thousands of dollars on and me not asking for dollar one. We're like brotheres who argue with each other from time to time, human nature I guess. No on likes being taken advantage of. I didn't want a fee for finding him these collectables, just to me give me break once in a while back home when I wanted to buy some frickin' $5 item from him.
(Kevin is a huge Tarzan collector and I helped him print up hundreds up copies of some fake Tarzan magazine by acting as an interpreter in Indonesia and here in Guatemala. Kevin charged collector's $250 each for those shills and I never asked for a dollar and he never offered one. He buried them in the ground to age them and told people they were old. When I found a store with a bunch of rare Tarzan toys here in the city I simply told him where the store was; I could have bought them myself and sold them to Kevin for a huge profit but I'm a friend and don't think like that. There was too much of a double standard going on and I had to say something about it. I didn't want a piece of the action but I didn't want to be treated like a chump either. I'm perfectly willing to help people make some dough on something without asking for a cut if it's not my thing but some people push it too far.
In 1986 when we were together in SE Asia, I had a knack for ferreting out stores with rare toys that Kevin simply didn't have and I spoke Indonesian which Kevin didn't. Between that and that first set of fake Tarzan mags I helped him print he easily made well over ten thousand dollars; without my help he never would have made that money. Kevin actually had the gall to try and charge me for half of the long distance phone bills he incurred by keeping in touch with me when I was in Sumatra so we could coordinate meeting up. Hell, I was fine with him joining me but I wasn't going to pay for the privilege; I was having a fine time on my own. On top of that it cost me $200 waiting for him to arrive in Singapore when he was a week late and I had to eat that. It went on and on. Money shouldn't get between friends but neither should I be looked at as facilitator and interpreter on a trip where every day was precious. I was in SE Asia to do some hiking and photography, not sit around some dingy print shop and post office for hours making sure his phony Tarzan mags got back to the States. Christ I was pissed off. What really did it for me though was at the end of that Asia trip, when I wanted to borrow just $10 dollars to buy a couple rolls of film Kevin wouldn't do it. A few years later he forgot all about it and admitted to me that he'd bought a ton of collectibles in Hong Kong on the way back to the states. Hard to believe someone could do that kind of thing to a friend.)
We put it behind us like brothers do I guess and took a cab up to this arena to check out a wrestling match happening tonight we saw advertised in the paper. Kevin was a huge wrestling fan so it was right back to being an interpreter and going that extra mile for him doing something I wasn't particularly interested in and which once again would make Kevin money on weird collectibles he'd sell in the states to wrestling fans he was hooked up with.
His attitude was more appreciative so I didn't mind; I just don't like being used like some servant. I tried to make the best of it by hoping to get some interesting documentary photos. By luck we ran into the promoter, a guy named Edgar Echeverria, outside the arena and he gave us permission to go into the dressing room and photograph the wrestlers before the matches.
Guatemalan Wrestlers
Didn't take long to win these wrestlers over since they were such nice guys in the first place. Shot 6 rolls of 120 film with my Pentax 6x7 of these guys in their crazy costumes posing and sitting, dressing and talking. The funny part was that I wasn't allowed to photograph the champion, Spider-Man, with his mask off; like I or anyone outside of Guatemala gave a shit. During the main event Spider-Man was finally unmasked only to reveal he had another identical mask on underneath the first one; his opponent was named The Daughter of Madame Xandu. That's professional wrestling. All in all it was pretty nuts. We divided our time between being out in the arena and talking in the office to Sr. Echeverria who was a great guy.
Afterwards, a block down from the arena we ran into a procession related to Easter which was coming up soon. A giant wooden box with lighted figures on top was being carried by 25-30 men on a side who were flanked by guys dressed as Roman soldiers. The whole thing was followed by a band with tubas 'n' shit. Pretty cool. We ended a long day by having spaghetti at Pizza Hut. Tomorrow would be a big day - Pacaya Volcano at long last.
Mon.- Apr. 6 Woke before 7 to an overcast day. Since some Guatemalan guys around the hotel guessed the overcast would last the day I decided to postpone the climb up Pacaya til tomorrow. Dumb move; half an hour later the sun came out but we'd lost our chance for an early start. It takes all day to get to the summit of Pacaya before sundown.
I took a shower and walked down to the almacen where I'd found the Space Man watches and other stuff and bought even more. I was sure loaded up with rare Asian toys which 20 years later would find their way to Ebay.
Right after that Kevin showed up at the store and we went down the street to the printers to so I could act as interpreter while Kevin had his "Lost Tales of Tarzan" pamphlets made up. What a shill. Kevin actually buried some of them in the ground back in the states and sold them to avid die hard Edgar Rice Burroughs collectors as vintage pamphlets that had been lost for years and at $250 a crack. Ironically Kevin got all pissed off when some collectors made xeroxes of the pamphlet, which is all the originals were, and sold them for $10 each. It's like getting pissed off when the bicycle you stole from someone gets stolen from you. Some of the Tarzan collectors around the country knew these pamphlets were fake from the start and were really pissed off at Kevin who was pretty much universally hated by Tarzan collectors anyway. I never made a dollar from them and didn't give a shit about the whole thing one way or another; it was Kevin's thing. Didn't realize at the time that Kevin was committing mail fraud; just never really occurred to me, not that I was some kind of an angel. I'd spent my entire adult life outside the law.
Took the opportunity of a down day to go to Antigua and get a reservation on some rooms for Easter which was coming up and was a huge deal there. It was only about 40 min. away by bus. I went by myself cuz I could move faster without Kevin and get it done.
I was off to Antigua by noon. Took me awhile but eventually I got us rooms for the 16th to the 18th of April. When I got back to the Hotel Espana I rousted Kevin out cuz I'd spotted some store that had a bunch of Tarzan toys which was money in the bank for Kevin. First we visited a bookstore where Kevin had bought an absolute ton of Mexican comics to sell back home when I'd been getting the room reservations in Antigua. I fould a bunch of tin-litho Japanese toy cars that the owner said had been sitting there since 1958 when some lady had the place; I bought them all for 5 cents each. A real good score for a collector.
Kevin and I spent the rest of the day finding and buying even more Chinese and Japanese toys. I eventually sold all that stuff some 20 years later on Ebay for some good money considering I was paying 75 cents and $1 for the stuff. Alot of that stuff was kinda rare even at the time and I held on to the toys all those years cuz I loved them.
That night we sat on the floor of the lobby of the Hotel Espana and watched the classic Hagler-Leonard boxing match on TV. Leonard was a 4-1 underdog and I thought Hagler would kill him but I scored the fight as Leonard winning almost every round. Couldn't believe one of the judges gave the match to Hagler but Leonard won that split decision in one of the all-time classics.
Tues.-Apr.7 Here's what I wrote in my journal, "Well, here was the day that had started really, back on the last days of Jan. when news reached me via the Minneapolis Tribune that Pacaya Volcano had erupted on Jan. 21st and 25th. Finally the day had arrived that I had anticipated for so long. This is what it's all about. Today Kevin and I were off to climb Pacaya. I wished with all my heart that it hadn't quieted down too much.
I woke at 6 - if I'd been alone I'd have been gone by 6:15 but because of Kevin's fucking around we didn't leave the hotel til about 7:30. Fuck! Got worse. Sure enough when I'd gotten the last food and drink and reached the spot where the San Vincente bus left from we found it'd left 15 min. ago.
Fuck was I pissed off. We walked back and forth til I coulda tore someone's head off - getting the run around. Finally we decided to take an Escuintla bus that would get us to the crossing.
We walked about 300 meters along the dirt road from the highway. Waited in the shade for about 40 min. til at last we got us a bus that took us as far as the San Vincente cruz. From there we walked about 2 km. up to El Cedro. I was finishing my 2nd ice cold Crush Naranja when Kevin came ambling along. Ate a couple of bags of some Fritos-like shit and we were off again.
Made pretty good time up the rocky trail to San Francisco; stopped there for only a short time. Felt pretty good going up from San Francisco. Kept to a slow, steady pace that I could have kept almost without resting. Had to wait for Kevin at forks. Only drank one jugo to La Meseta.
I strained my ears listening for any sign of activity from the cone and when at last I heard sounds from the crater I was full of joy for then I knew our chances for a display this night were decent. I could not keep myself to a slow pace as I neared La Meseta because of my great curiosity and anticipation. I was surprised at how far big chunks of lava had been thrown some 10 weeks ago.
When I finally reached La Meseta I witnessed a scene of great devastation. Many trees were burnt down and there was almost no trace of the ground. All was covered by chunks of lava which must have descended in a virtual rain; a killer rain for any living thing on the Meseta at that time.
My excitement grew as I neared the cone because of the peculiar splashing eruption sounds exactly like those that accompanied the fine displays I'd seen in 1983.
The noise became much less frequent as I neared the precipice in front of the cone. Fog mostly hid the crater, providing only momentary glimpses from time to time. I felt pretty happy and let out some whoops.
Kevin came up as I sat at the edge of the precipice. At first I was somewhat leery of going to the top of the cone looming in front of me, but if I wanted this to be the fullest experience then I knew that I would have to chance it. I quickly decided to go. It was growing late so I found Kevin a little campsite right on the edge of the drop-off down towards Cerro Chino. I started off immediately, knowing that I'd be racing darkness to the top of Pacaya.
Since the old trail had mostly disappeared during the great eruption I took a brand new and much steeper trail around towards the other side of the cone. Towards the top I ran into some tricky spots that might make the descent in the morning kind of a bitch.
Lucky for Kevin that he hadn't felt up to making the final climb cuz his fear of heights would have been worse on this path than the old one but more importantly, he wouldn't have made the top before dark.
As it was, dusk was coming on as I reached the old crater's rim. The flat bottom of this crater where I'd slept before was a jumble of new chunks of lava - there'd be no pitching a tent down there. Fumes were leaking out in many places along the exposed rim I was on and for awhile I was scared that the smoke was coming from huge pieces of slag that were cooling off after having just been thrown up to the rim. Closer inspection in the rapidly fading light however, revealed that these big pieces were most likely at least 10 weeks old and that the fumes were in fact seeping up through the ground itself.
Like the bottom of the old crater, the rim I was on was a similar jumble of lava rocks with no flat areas that I could see in the dimness. My prospects for sleeping seemed to offer nothing better than huddling among the rocks in my sleeping bag as best I could. I wasn't real enthused about that.
I went to this hump a little way along the rim from where I could see Kevin's position far below me when pointed his flashlight towards me. Let out some war-whoops to get his attention.
The crater had begun to blow in earnest, right there in front of me. It spat long founts of orange flame high into the cloudy moonlit sky.
When I moved off the hump back to where I'd left my pack I saw another hump on the other side of my pack. I went up this and to my grateful surprise I saw that some beautiful Guatemalans had erected a low, square wall of rocks just big enough to enclose my tent. Fuck, was I happy at my swell luck. The enclosure was on a perfect vantage point for viewing the erupting crater only 60 or 70 yards away. I set up my tent with the help of the very last of twilight and the wan glow of the rising moon. The weather was fairly clear now and I could make out the lights of towns far under me.
I returned to the rise from where I could see Kevin's light and we were in touch as we both viewed the big bursts of lava that thrilled my soul and made me catch my breath. I watched for awhile from that hump, screaming like a madman and swinging my light around at every large eruption and sat watching in my tent for awhile. I walked way over to the left end of the rim's half circle and sat on a boulder at the edge of a drop-off. I was much closer to the crater from there and could easily feel the heat of the larger eruptions on my face. The blasts, big and small never took more than a minute in between and the crater erupted every 30 seconds or less.
Wide angle shot of the eruption
The eruptions were coming faster and faster now, at times going almost non-stop and I relished being so close to such a ferocious display of restrained power.
I went to my tent and sat in the entrance and watched for a long while, unable to hold the reality of what I was seeing in my mind as the night sky was constantly rent by thousands of orange embers following slow-motion trajectories that blended together and fell apart.
The ground beneath my tent was warm and I began to feel a lethargy creep upon me when a fog suddenly rolled in some 3 hours or so after I'd reached the top.
My view of the crater was quickly cut off although there was a huge glow lighting the entire area bright orange during every eruption. With nothing to see but bright glows I decided to try and get some sleep not long after the fog rolled in. The problem with that was that a strong wind had come up, flapping my tent so violently that the noise almost drowned out the sound of the eruptions which had gradually changed from tremendous hissings to violent and thunderous explosions as the crater became more frenzied by the minute.
About this time I started to become concerned about my nearness to the crater, but darkness and fog dictated that I must stay. A descent under those conditions would be too dangerous.
The eruptions were thunderous and constant - the crater was whipping itself into a frenzy. The explosions sucked air out of my tent as the sky flared a misty, brilliant orange. I couldn't see how far material was being thrown out of the crater but the sounds of falling lava seemed closer than before. After each great eruption I half expected to see streaks of fire descending on my campsite but the fog revealed nothing; all I'd see is a sudden glow blossoming instantly into orange daylight which would be accompanied by a heart stopping explosion.
I was worried but calmed myself by remembering that probably no lava had reached the old crater. (Where I was.)
I dropped off to sleep for awhile but several huge eruptions stirred me and the lava sounded like it had fallen closer than ever. This brought me to full wakefulness and I felt that my position was more untenable. Each time I rejected the idea of descending the cone in the fog and darkness it seemed like it was less dangerous to contemplate. I was not enamoured of the idea of one explosion, just one, huger than all the rest, wiping my ass off of that crater rim. All of a sudden 70 yards didn't seem like a very great distance from such fury. Anyway, it didn't look like the wind and eruptions would let me get any sleep. After several great eruptions that seemed to be the greatest of the night I finally decided on the better part of valor.
I hurriedly started packing up stuff and taking down my tent as explosions greater than any previous stopped my heart again and again. Finally I was ready and I felt a sense of relief at getting some distance between me and that lava spitter. But there was no sense of relief accompanying that which I was about to undertake - a blind climb down a steep ash cone. By dumb luck I found a safe way down the first 40 meters, the most dangerous part.
My mouth was dry with fear and behind me the entire sky lit up with every eruption as I stumbled in the fog and dark, weaving this way and that to find the least dangerous way down. I kept thinking how strange it all was. Curiously, some trick of sound made the crater's explosions indistinct almost immediately after I placed the old crater rim between myself and the active crater. Because of the increasing distance in the fog, only the largest eruptions would show and I now turned my attention wholly to the descent.
Oddly enough and despite the difficult conditions, I made it to the bottom of the cone pretty easily.
As I reached the bottom of the cone and started to grope my way towards the caldera rim, my flashlight batteries gave out. When I was standing there in the dark changing batteries the bulb fell among the lava rocks and I used my last several matches looking for it with no luck. Feeling around produced nothing. Now I was fucked - even with the flashlight I wasn't sure I would've discovered the path to the Meseta - without it I couldn't move. Even if I had been on the path it would've meant groping my way along it with almost sheer drop-offs to either side and at one point only 3 feet of path to walk on. No way.
I felt among the rocks having a nic fit until I despaired of finding the bulb. Luckily for me there was a little cleared area only a few feet away with smooth sand on the bottom. I got in my bag and huddled up to sleep - like, what the fuck else could I do. To top off everything it almost immediately began to rain. Inured to my fate, I pulled out my rain poncho, draped it over me, said, "Fuck you." and slept. Figured it was around midnight.
What a weird fucking day - what a great fucking day.
Wed.- April 8 Woke a couple of times with the fog clearing and the sun shining warm on my face. All things considered I'd slept pretty damn well.
I found the flashlight bulb as soon as I glanced toward the spot it had fallen. In looking around where I was I saw that I certainly would not have found my way back to the Meseta with the flashlight. It would've been dangerous and it's possible I was better off having lost the bulb.
With no ado I left and made my way back to Kevin's tent and roused him out.
Me the next morning on Las Meseta. The left peak is where my tent was, the right the active crater.
I decided that I wanted to stay up on the Meseta another night. Kevin said he still felt shitty and wanted to split so I left him to take down his tent and found a nice, green area near the precipice and also a guy chopping wood in the trees behind me who had a full book of matches.
I pitched my tent, spread out all my shit to dry and laid under a partly cloudy sky watching the crater above me wildly vent itself. Kevin came along shortly and soon split. I fell into a fitful doze.
It began to rain ever so lightly and I crawled into my tent and read for awhile. I still had 5 jugos, 2 bags of Frito-things and some cookies. I slept til dusk at which time I was able to view the cone. Dimming light brought out 2 bright orange lines of lava that ran from top to bottom of the cone. Up top the crater gave off it's fireworks display.
To my chagrin fog quickly moved in and that was that for the night. Guess we'd been pretty lucky the night before. I listened to music on my Walkman and slept, waking up twice to use my last 2 matches for a smoke.
Thur.- April 9 Woke around 9, took down the tent and split without much ado. Went back up via La Meseta to snap photos of the devastation and went on down. Had a nice walk down, felt strong. I was surprised at how fast I came down. Stopped in El Cedro to drink Orange Crushes, one of which I got along with some Fritos and matches by trading my jar of honey.
Walked the 2 kilos to the crossing and got a bus after a half an hour wait. The bus took me on a god damn tour of Lake Amatitlan before arriving at the terminal, dirty and bad tempered. Walked over a few blocks and caught a Red 5 to novena avenida.
Showered ever so gratefully, brought my dirty ass shit to the lavanderia and we were off to Mc's. "
That ends the 2 days of word by word entries in my journal written immediately after the events took place.
I didn't learn til I rejoined Kevin after my night up on top of the ash cone that right after I'd left him the night before to climb to the top, a Guatemalan guide had shown up with a tourist in tow. They stood with Kevin and watched me climbing up the ash cone. The tourist told the guide that they wanted to climb up the ash cone and the guide said no way. The tourist pointed to me climbing up and said why not, that guy's going up. The guide replied that he, meaning me, was a dead man. Nice.
Kevin wanted to go see "Ben-Hur" that night but I was in no mood for a 3 and a half hour epic. Thirstier than a fucker and still bloated from all the pop I'd drank, we went to this burger joint Kevin had run across last night and I ate some more. We went back to the hotel and I read some science-fiction, "Chanur's Venture". I wrote in my journal, "18th day down here - feels like a lot more. Feels good. We've sure done a lot."
Fri.- April 10 Kevin got up before me to go out and do some shit. I didn't get up til about 10:30. When Kevin came back he told me how crazy the local university students were acting downtown. Today was the traditional "Huelga de Dolores". That translates into a "strike of sorrows". The students go nuts every year, throwing feces and water on people, damaging buildings and extorting money from people. They act more or less like anarchists at a Republican Convention in the States. They stop motorists for money and I met a hotel owner who said they'd defaced the front of his hotel because he wouldn't give over with the dough. Saw that for myself; they did a job with graffitti and wrecking his plastic light sign which was big.
When I went down to Centro to check it out there was a big crowd watching a satirical parade in front of the National Palace which is on a huge square. Everyone was in a good mood. Some students came up to me, my 6 feet, 2 inches of stature marking me for a gringo for sure. They were all set to start throwing shit on me when I told them in Portugese that I was from Brazil and suddenly I was like a brother. All that time in Rio came in handy right then.
I took a city bus out to the airport to reconfirm our reservations back to the states. That evening Kevin and I went out to see "Beverly Hills Cop" and "Temple of Shao Lin". Love that kung-fu, yesiree. Kevin loves the part where Eddie Murphy puts bananas up a car's tail-pipe. He claims he did it to someone he was pissed off at and it worked like a charm.
Sat.- April 11 Didn't get up early and bought some more toy tin-litho Japanese cars before we checked out of the Espana at noon. Today we were off to Solola above one of the most fantastic lakes in the world, the beautiful Lake Atitlan with it's 3 perfect massive cones of volcanos on the shore making an incredible sight unique in the world. The bus ride was entertaining as I had a passed out drunk next to me who would roll onto me every time the bus took a curve and I sang out loud for the Guatemalans on that crowded bus when I was listening to Led Zeppelin on my Walkman. Kevin and I were always goofin' on people like that.
At Los Encuentros which is the turnoff from the main Pan-American highway to the lake they stuffed our tall selves into a tiny mini-van which amazingly never turned down a fare. They somehow always managed to stuff them in. For a poor people, Guatemalans are great travelers; they are forever going somewhere and the roads are constantly full of old American school busses which are the main mode of travel and incredibly cheap. Probably cost up less than $2 to go from Guatemala City to Solola.
We got a room for about $1.50 for a double and ravenous, we went out for some fried chicken with french fries, out staple fair in Guatemala; delicious with tortillas. These folks really know how to fry up a chicken. Afterwards, we wandered about in the strangely beautiful weird, greenish half-light created by dusk and fog.
At night the electricity in the town went out and Kevin and I, still hungry, had scrambled eggs and frijoles by candlelight. We sat at opposite ends of a long table and shined our flashlights at each other. We've been in a silly mood all day. Read some in the room by candlelight and listened to some Grand Funk before I went to sleep.
Sunday - April 12 Had a diabolically cold shower after I woke around 8 AM and Kevin and I breakfasted on scrambled eggs and frijoles once again. Then we went off for one of the coolest things to do in Guatemala and that is to walk down the steep road that goes from Solola to Panajachel, or Gringotenango as some people call it from all the hippies that started hanging out there in the '70's. Panajachel is at the lake's edge so during the walk from Solola which is way up top you see stupendous views out over the lake towards the 3 volcanos on the other side. I had climbed the highest of the 3, the 11,660 ft. Atitlan Volcano, back in 1979 with my best friend Joe and his brother Chris. Really beautiful cloud forests on the way up.
In Panajachel we got some info about what times the boats went to the villages across the lake and had a couple of chocolate malts. Lake Atitlan has 13 villages around the lake, 12 of them named for the 1 apostles. Charming.
We caught a mini-van back up to Solola and visited their colorful cemetary that has views out over the lake. Hung out.
Monday - April 13 We got up at 7 AM and caught a mini-van down to Panajachel. Our boat left at 9 and I like to be plenty early. Not Kevin's favorite thing. We were going to the opposite side of the lake to Santiago Atitlan, named after St. James the Apostle and I spent the ride on a bench in the back of the boat next to some baskets of escape minded chickens. Took about 40 min. on a bright, sunny and warm day.
We got a really cool and very large, airy room - nicest one in the place. Expensive at $3.50 a night but we liked it. We immediately went out trucking around exploring. This was my 3rd time in Atitlan and it's a little village I like quite a bit. Great view of the massive cone of San Pedro Volcano across the bay; looks like it's right on top of you. The slopes of San Pedro go right down into the water.
Later in the afternoon I wanted to go hiking up the paths in the cloud forest above town but Kevin had had enough exercise on this trip and wanted to go back to the room. Funny thing was that he got all turned around and lost in the crazy little back lanes of the village with it's waist high rock walls and I went up for a nice hike and got back to the room before Kevin did. That was amazing cuz I'd had a very long hike up there and also stopped in the market on the way back for some flash shots and was just sitting down to dinner when Kevin showed up.
At night I met a young, skinny Canuck chick named Sylvia when I was up front in the lobby getting a soda. She was real friendly and we sat on a bench outside the room and talked far, far into the night.
Tuesday - April 14 Woke early and and had breakfast with Sylvia and then took her around the market and made a date to climb up into the hills later.
That day I heard some sordid stories about strange events taking place around Santiago Atitlan. A guy was stabbed to death in the market place yesterday just before I'd passed through it on the way back from my hike and just before our arrival, a guy had been shot to death in the night, also at the market. About that same time, some leftist had lobbed a grenage into the nearby army compound, killing or wounding 5 men. Also that same night, some soldier had lost a leg to a land mine planted in those very paths above the lake I had gone hiking on.
The had been virtual civil was in Guatemala since 1980. When I passed through in 1983, the worst had just passed but there were a lot of sad faces in Guatemala as you moved about the country and a lot of army checkpoints.
At this time, in 1987, the leftists were rumored to be holding up in a kind of no-man's land on the far side of the volcanos from us. Even when I came back in 1998 to San Pedro across the bay, they were still sending ranger patrols up into the hills to keep the peace.
It was rumored that some people wouldn't arrive to Santiago Atitlan by private car as they were liable to be taken out and shot. It was hard to tell what was bullshit and what stuff you didn't hear about. Certainly these stories were heard by me every time I was in Guatemala and they weren't all bullshit as I personally ran into an American in 1998 in Panajachel only 2 hours after he'd been robbed at machine gun point while coming down from Solola in a mini-van. I'd walked down that same road doing photography the day before. And during that same 1998 stay in Panajachel there had been rumors of robberies in an area above the lake I wanted to go to to do some photography. So I had someone from the tourist offfice call someone in that area and it turned out there had been a robbery just the day before. I went the next day anyway but it shows that Guatemala can be a dicey place and sometimes you need a little luck.
Tourists have been shot and killed atop Pacaya, even in groups with armed guides; just check out a Lonely Planet guide book to see. The first time I spent the night atop Pacaya by myself in 1983, a Guatemalan up there on a day trip begged me to come back to Guatemala City with him before dark cuz I'd be robbed. I stayed.
Anyway, Sylvia and I went up for a hike in the hills that afternoon and had a nice chat.
When I got back I met this guy from Colorado who'd been to Guatemala 13 times he said. His name was Paul and he was a very cool guy. He told me about this important ceremony that was to take place that very night involving an idol named Maximon. It was a rather famous ceremony actually that I'd read about before in a magazine I had in the states called Geo, a short-lived competitor to National Geographic and I'd totally forgotten about it and hadn't troubled to look at the Santiago Atitlan section in my guide book cuz I'd been there twice before. Lucky for me I ran into Paul.
The ceremony was put on by an organization called the Confradia de San Simon. Paul didn't know if I could take photos and said it might cost dough to witness. The whole thing was some blending of Christianity and pre-Columbian folk worship I knew nothing about.
Sylvia and I had dinner together and then went to the hotel for awhile. Later, Kevin, myself, Sylvia and some chick named Heather that Kevin had been hanging out with went up to the house where tonight's ceremony was to take place.
Some psychodelic cowboys were hanging out in front of this small, private dwelling and somebody was swinging around these huge noisemakers. We ran into Paul when we entered the yard and followed his lead since he'd attended this ceremony before.
Inside the crowded little one room house were some gentlemen seated at a table, the big-wigs apparently. All was lit by a single bare bulb and some candles beneath a decorated ceiling. There were some people in a corner making music with drum and guitar.
It took quite awhile for the little statue of Maximon to be brought down from the attic. At that time all lights were extinguished save for a single candle by the musicians. The intervening bodies would make sure that the traditional dressing of the idol would take place in near total darkness.
The air was close and warm with the bodies packed into that little house and the air was heavy with incense. Kevin passed out but couldn't fall down cuz of the close press of the bodies. I was really worried for awhile but he soon came around.
Outside the house, people were banging on the doors and walls and swinging around those giant noisemakers. The doors had been locked but I think the banging was part of the ceremony.
Strange little ceremony there in the sweltering darkness. I was drenched in sweat. Felt very much a stranger but it was mellow all the same. The locals were very welcoming considering the privacy and evident seriousness with which they took the ceremony. Guatemalans have always been cool with me. They're very friendly people.
When at long last the idol was dressed and displayed I got permission for a few photos but the light was very low. Guatemalans were kneeling in front of the idol, praying to it, talking to it. Soon the big-wigs left for some party at another house and I was invited. Kevin and I went to the party for a short time but I didn't feel like dancing without some women. The girls had stayed at the house to watch the idol.
Kevin and I split back throught the silent and nighted streets, only the sounds of the dance calling through the darkness from somewhere above.
Wed. - April 15 The next morning Kevin and I went up to the dressing house at 9 but found that the next stage of the ceremony wouldn't happen til 11. We went back on down and breakfasted on delicious fried fish and then went back up to the house where there were a bunch of gringos and Guatemalans waiting about for something to happen. Soon, Maximon was brought out and rushed through the streets. They hustled the idol down to the market and into some central building and that was that.
Kevin and I just hung out the rest of the day, taking a turn up to the Maximon house once to see what was going on. Later on we went to the lakeside and watched some Guatemalan tourists play baseball with some of the local kids as a nice dusk came on. We ate dinner while the electricity went out on us. Packed my stuff so I'd be ready to leave in the morning.
Thursday - April 16 Woke about 9 and laid around awhile. I went to have scrambled eggs with frijoles and tortillas. Man that stuff is good. After that we split on the boat. Very warm and sunny so I laid on the front of the boat listening to Van Morrison; burnt the fuck out of my stomach.
When the boat arrived in Panajachel we walked to the main road and caught a bus on it's way to Guatemala City which took us to the Antigua cut-off, 13 km from town. It was Easter time and hard to get a ride. Soldiers were stopping busses and making the men get off so they could search them. The next 2 busses were full so finally a soldier kindly flagged down a truck for Kevin and I and I laid on my back staring up at the sky as we made out way into Antigua.
When I think of those cool, cool, sour-pusses Andy and I had met in Manhattan and some of the same disenfranchising types you'd meet in Minneapolis and then thought of how cool these Guatemalans were it made me sick to think of going back.
Lots and lots of people in the really cool colonial town of Antigua where they reputedly had the largest Easter celebration in the new world. We had a little trouble getting our room cuz the old bag had plum forgot about our reservations. They ended up putting together a bed in a tiny little room that only had room for us to walk in and sit on the bed. I didn't mind but they had charged me quite a bit for Easter and then screwed us.
Left right away and spent the rest of the day doing photography. Fell asleep that night pretty quick considering the awful disco music being played next door.
Good Friday - April 17 Woke myself as planned at 5 AM so I could shoot photos mixing the dawn light with flash using my Pentax 6x7. They do a really cool thing with these Easter processions; they make the most fantastic designs using colored sawdust in the streets which then get totally destroyed as the processions pass over them. Once again I spent most of the day doing photography.
Guatemala had been super cheap up to that point. I figured out that so far I'd spent $10.50 a day not counting the $115 I'd spent on vintage toys. You can't do that nowadays in Guatemala althought it's still fairly cheap as of this writing in 2008. You'd probably spend $30 a day doing the same stuff Kevin and I did.
Had some good fondue for dinner. Later we marveled at how many people were trying to leave town from the terminal; basically just a giant field that is very busy at all times of the year. Like I said, Guatemalans are great travelers.
Sat. - April 18 Not much to do today. We visited the market on a beautifully clear day. You could see Agua, Acatenango and Fuego volcanos, which are close to Antigua, very clearly. Fuego looks to be active as it often is, has been for years. Kevin later went to see a movie and I hung around the room. Been on the run a long time now. Don't know where I get the energy.
Easter Sunday - April 19 Woke around 9 and by 10 we were on a bus for the short 40 min ride to Guatemala City. Went out to eat at Mc's after getting a room at the good ol' Espana. Streets as quiet as I've ever seen them in the Capital. Hung out in the room and packed all my toys which we had allowed the Espana to store for us. Didn't want to be lugging those around. Later on we went to see "The Fly". Nice to take it easy after our whirlwind tour through the highlands of Guatemala. Not a good night for sleep. Kevin woke me in the middle of the night with his obnoxious habit of sucking air out of big plastic water bottles when he's drinking it so that it's pops inward with a loud sound; guess he never learned how to let it run down his throat. Then some guys were pounding on something across the street and I had a cold come on.
Monday - April 20 Last full day in Guatemala. Cold in my throat seemed a little better. In the morning Kevin and I made the rounds and bought some more toys after breakfast at Mc's. After that we went to the printers to get Kevin's phoney "Lost Tales of Tarzan" pamphlets, 75 fucking pounds worth. He's fucking crazy. I wish I could be there too see him check all that shit in at the airlines. He made thousands of dollars ripping people off with that shit though. Never even offered me a buck. If it wasn't for my Spanish he wouldn't have gotten to square one with a printer. Stuff like that and the stuff at the beginning and end of our SE Asia trip eventually ended our friendship. He kept trying to shill me out of money with weird schemes he'd pull when I was broke. Then he would offer to buy my collectibles at rock bottom prices pretending it was someone else who wanted to buy them. It was just a coincidence that they were the very collectibles he most wanted for himself. You think he'd offer to borrow me the money to get out of trouble but that wasn't in the cards with Kevin. It's not like he was always like that. He let me stay at his house rent free for a year when I was coming off of my drug problems which, thank God, never returned.
Eventually, by the late '90's, I came back better than ever and started doing some really extraordinary things while traveling. By then Kevin and I weren't talking. I never let him find out how well things were going for me cuz I felt it would be sticking it in his face. Kevin unhappily passed away right after I came back from a great trip to Brazil and Europe for 9 months. I only heard about it by chance.
But at that time, despite some bumps in the road, Kevin and I were having some very good times. Anyway, after the visit to the printer, we later made the rounds again and spent our left over money on even more toys. By this end of our 30 days in Guatemala I'd spent only $280 on living, about $9 a day, and $190 on toys and other kitsch. Christ what a deal. I eventually sold about half of those toys on Ebay 20 years later for about $1,000 and still have the other half. I knew just what I was doing.
Later that evening I went out to play some pinball which was a sometimes addiction I had in Minneapolis which had started in Brazil playing Eight Ball, always Eight Ball. I kicked the shit out of that machine. I used to play for hours on 1 quarter and did everything you can do on that machine. Never got tired of that weird dull clicking sound those old machines made when you won a game. After the pins I went to see "The Mission" with Robert de Niro by myself.
I wrote this entry in my journal: "Now it's about 11 PM and the street noise is there, busses making an incredible racket as they rumble by. Juke box battling radio with accordians and bass - shouts, laughter. Time to leave it all behind once again. Been one hell of a time. Hard to believe it's only been 30 days. We sure packed in a lot of living and it couldn't have been better if I'd have scripted it myself. Feel good - never got sick or had diaria once. Lost a lot of weight but I'm still way up there - guess about 190. Oh, well, it's coming on jump rope time. Now I'll read into my last Guatemalan night and sleep peacefully."
Tues - April 21 Kevin, miracle of miracle was up before me and I was up at 5:30. He hustled pretty good for a change and the cab got us to the airport at 6:30. Got into check-in just before the line became enormous. Amazingly, Pan Am took all of Kevin's shit with no surcharge or anything. Had to open my big yellow bag full of toys at customs cuz of the toy ray guns they saw on the x-ray. Flight was boring and uneventful. Customs in Miami was a breeze cuz they were so busy. Off I went for my Northwest flight which left at 3 PM.
Had $22 left when I breezed into Minneapolis and spent $17 on a cab to Winnie's. Winnie was home and we blabbed and I showed her all my weird shit I'd bought. She didn't seem to mind at all that I'd be staying with her again.
THE END
Just another crazy episode in a life where crazy episodes blended one into the other from the time I was 14 til I finally slowed down when I was 49; otherwise there wasn't much down time. Never thought much about that shit at the time, I was too busy doing those things. Some people say I'm an adrenaline junkie but I never saw it like that at all. I was young and full of life and wanted my piece of that life of which I was hyperaware I only had one of.
I did so much crazy shit that much of it is a blur and if I didn't have journals I wouldn't have been able to remember most of it. I only kept journals when I traveled for some reason; guess I felt there was more to write about although in retrospect there was plenty going on in Minneapolis. Anyway, that's my story of heroin and volcanos. Hope you don't think I made it up.
Pacaya volcano is still active and groups of tourists go up there all the time from nearby Antigua though they make sure they bring armed men with them because of the trouble with bandits in the past. Me, I can't handle going in a group and I always spend the night anyway which the groups don't do so there's no point. I like the solitude up there. So, if you go make sure you dodge the bandits and lava and try and find another way to fund the trip than I did. My hair isn't gray but it could be. I could have ended up dead or in prison although I was way too much of a positive thinker to ever think of such things as a real possibility. I guess I thought I could will my way to success though I should point out that if I thought a thing was truly a risk I probably wouldn't have done it.
And so that was that. What a weird, wild, wonderful ride. Just par for the course in my life. I dunno, maybe something's wrong with me. I don't know that it's that uplifting. Sometimes I'm a prick, sometimes I'm generous, sometimes I'm vulgar; it's my legacy as a human being. It's just something that happened to me.
STAYED TUNED FOR MORE ESSAYS
GRADUATION AND TRAVEL: MINNEAPOLIS TO SOUTH AMERICA, 1980-83
DEALING AND ROAD TRIPS: SOUTH AMERICA, 1984-85
A CRAZY ATTITUDE: MINNEAPOLIS TO SE ASIA, 1985-86
A DESCENT INTO ADDICTION: MINNEAPOLIS TO RIO DE JANEIRO AND BACK, 1987-1990
THE ROAD BACK: MINNEAPOLIS, 1991-97
REDEMPTION: MINNEAPOLIS TO GUATEMALA, 1997-98
TRIUMPH: GUATEMALA AND BALI, 1998-99
MORE TRIUMPHS: RIO DE JANEIRO TO BALI, 1999-2000
THE MAN I MEANT TO BE: MINNEAPOLIS TO EUROPE, 2000-02
WORKING THE WAREHOUSE: BEING A TEAMSTER IN MINNEAPOLIS 2002-07
BACK TO COLLEGE AND INDIA, EGYPT AND EUROPE: 2007-11