What I’m Blogging

Word Count: 911

The mid morning sun raditated blistering heat on the dirt road from La Paz to San Miguel. The kerchief hung around my neck Gringo style, soaked in a river of sweat. I wiped my mouth dry and took a long draught from my canteen. The water was stale and warm but any refreshment in this heat was a blessing. I capped the canteen and leaned out the side of the jeep. The wind rushed by, evaporating the moisture on my face and gave some small cooling comfort. I had always thought that dogs were stupid creatures for doing this same act, but now I had more appreciation for their apparent wisdom.

…I’d like to eat my shoe wrapped in a tortilla with lots of salsa…

“She’s a some hot eh?” the driver said nudging me with his elbow.

“Si Juan. She’s a hot.” I replied, “If it ain’t the heat it’s the humidity.”

“Que?” Jaun’s face was blank.

I made a mental note to add silly heat clichés to the list of useless English phrases I was teaching Juan.

“She’s a mucho hot,” I corrected. Juan grinned in comprehension.

I asked Juan in my mangled Spanish how long it would take to get to San Miguel. At least I think that’s what I asked him. For all I know I could have said something like “How long is San Miguel?” or “Is San Miguel short?” From the expression of mirth on his face, however, I believe it was closer to Juan, when we get to San Miguel I’d like to eat my shoe wrapped in a tortilla with lots of salsa. Other than communicating the fact that I no hablez Español, I am at a complete loss when it comes to speaking Spanish.

“Two hour we there,” he smiled.

Juan’s English was no better than my Spanish. Communication between us has been mostly through use of clichés, in either language, or shared cultural phenomena. Juan is a great lover of American films and if I want to indicate that I like something a lot, for example, the phrase Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up, with proper inflection and accompanied by the required hand gestures, produces exuberant laughter and understanding in Juan. The words themselves are meaningless but, between two linguistically challenged individuals, a communion of thought was formed.

The jeep drove on, kicking up a trail of dust as it went. Overhead the sky was a sea of bright blue cloudlessness. Back home such a day would be appreciated, desired, even sought after. On the road to San Miguel, in the heart of the equatorial pressure cooker, I found myself offering novenas for just a few clouds to filter the heat of the relentless sun.

The road crested over a small hill and flattened out again on a plateau clearing. The dirt road gave way to pavement for about a thousand yards. The pavement was black and hot and unusually wide for the middle of nowhere. It was four lanes across and the centre divide marker was at least as thick as our jeep. I had seen this before when I arrived at La Paz. The government had built air strips on top of jungle roads making it convenient to land troop transports at strategic sites. Up until now, the drive had been pleasant, if you could ignore the heat, and I had almost forgotten about the war.

At the end of the runway a squad of government troops was marching. Their officer positioned himself out and to the side of the formation, calling cadence. As we passed by he brought his arm up quickley in a salute. Juan looked frightened and he kept his gaze forward along the road. I nodded back as it seemed the most polite thing to do, and I wished to avoid anything that might anger the officer. My common sense told me that angry military types and flashy automatic weapons did not equal longevity for the subject of that anger. We passed by the troops none too quickly for my tastes.

With a clunk of the jeep’s suspension, the runway ended and the calm sanity of the dirt road returned. I looked at Juan with a questioning expression, and for good measure pointed my thumb, discretely, in the direction of the officer.

“You look John Wayne!” he said with a nervous grin.

I looked at him with some puzzlement but then examined the clothing I was wearing. Khaki shirt, with epaulets, khaki pants with lots of pockets, black hiking boots, dark aviator sunglasses, and a New York Mets baseball cap. Upon quick reflection I concurred with Juan. I did look like John Wayne and most definately like many of the unofficial American advisors in country. I took my cap and glasses off and tossed them in the back of the jeep and put on a straw hat I had picked up in La Paz. For good measure I rubbed some dust from the floor of the jeep on my shirt.

“Now I look Juan,” I said, indicating hat and dust with hand movements.

“Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up,” came Juan’s reply with a wry smile.

I made another mental note to not wear so much ‘Tilley Endurable’ safari gear in the future. I didn’t want to be mistaken again, by either side. Juan and I laughed heartily as our jeep sped down the road to San Miguel.

Today is Sunday. It is a normal day. It is a week before Thanksgiving. As a Canadian I like to add little tidbits like this, because it confuses the Americans, who don’t celebrate the holiday until well after they have gorged themselves on Halloween candy of all sorts. But rest assured, next week is Thanksgiving for Canadians.

…we like to refer to this latter event as treason…

We are thankful for many things; for the peace, order and good government of the Dominion, the return of hockey, and perhaps most of all, our decision in the American Revolution to become Canadians. Incidently we like to refer to this latter event as “treason” when the Yanks are out of earshot.

One other thing I am thankful for is American Public Media. Yes to be fair, I feel the Americans have something quite grand there. I am specifically thankful for the ability to catch such wonderful shows like A Prairie Home Companion. I get a great deal of pleasure listening to Garrison Keillor and the tales of life in Lake Wobegon Minnesota. They lift the spirit, warm the heart and make me feel like having some powdermilk biscuits, they “give the strength to do what must be done”.

So I will remain steadfastly Canadian, however, there is a small part of me that resides in the center of Minnesota in a small geographically challenged town

It’s the birthday of King Richard III (1452) born in Northhamptonshire, England. He was the last English king to die in the battlefield. He reigned for only two years. He died in the Battle of Bosworth, which ended the War of the Roses.

From the Writer’s Almanac by Garrison Keillor
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