Memories Mummies México Read online

  Memories, Mummies, Mexico

  By Ivan C. Browning

  Text Copyright © 2015 Ivan C. Browning

  All Rights Reserved

  For my daughter Briana, a great travel companion.

  Te amo siempre.

  Chapter 1: Mike

  Standing on the edge of a little plaza, people in the crowd crane their necks to get better looks at the skeletons parading down the street. I wonder if Ellen is enjoying similar sights and sounds.in San Miguel. It’s only an hour away but she might as well be in St Augustine. The occasional emails, phone calls, and texts I get from her make me hungry for the kind of connection we have in person.

  The sights and sounds of the Day of the Dead celebration in Guanajuato are amazing and fantastic. The parade is wild. There are women dressed in long gowns and fancy hats, their faces painted to look like skeletons. They’re called “Catrinas,” and there are prizes for the best costumes. Some are wearing bridal gowns. I wonder what the macabre faces say about marriage.

  Tall paper maché puppets, also with skeletal faces, walk with care in the parade. They loom high above the other participants and occasionally twirl in place. It’s a spectacular scene.

  The breeze is chilly and brisk, making the intricate decorative paper cut-out designs hanging from cords strung across the plaza flutter parallel to the pavement. There’s a stage set up at the edge of the Jardin. Two gringa women with long blond hair begin playing music. One plays the violin, the other, wearing gloves, strokes long wires coming from what’s been advertised as an “Earth Harp”. The wires stretch up into the facade of the cathedral. The music is free-form and somehow unearthly, yet pleasant. The Mexicans and I don’t know what to think. We just listen open-mouthed to the eerie music celebrating the Day of the Dead--Dia de los Muertos.

  It’ll be good to remember these key impressions later when my stomach stops distracting me from enjoying the festivities. It’s rolling, rumbling, and churning a prelude to digestive disaster. I try to keep it together the best I can. The drugs I bought from the confident young pharmacist in the farmacia are having a calming effect, so I can enjoy myself tonight during the celebrations without worrying too much about bathrooms.

  Tom is somewhere in this chaotic crowd. What a guy--I've known him since college days at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. He was a wild guy then, and he's not much different now. Having a trust fund to fuel his global passions for fast cars and fast women makes his life much different than mine. His latest passion is a Tesla Roadster he drove down the Pan American Highway from San Diego.

  Our plan for the evening is to meet up at the plaza on the edge of the Jardin at 9. This is my first ever Day of the Dead celebration here in this small Mexican town that dates back to colonial times. It seems like everyone is concentrated in one spot--all the people of the town, the residents of the surrounding countryside, and a smattering of gringos like me.

  Tom has probably decided to avoid the crowds and to stay comfortably ensconced on the rooftop of the One Bar. What a place! It’s located on top of the 1850 Hotel next to the Jardin--great views of the city and the huge overlooking statue of Pípila. The lights inside the white translucent cube tables create a sophisticated ambience--unusual in this quaint town.

  I’ll bet he’s enjoying the company of his latest female friend--most likely a chance encounter--and another cause for celebration. I’ve met her once and am trying to give her a break, but she strikes me as being long on looks and short on brains. Shortage of brains is not a problem for Tom because he values and appreciates all women. He manages to assemble a collection of gorgeous women in various parts of the globe. He doesn’t let a woman’s beauty or her lack of a Phi Beta Kappa key disqualify her as a companion.

  It’s impossible to ignore sights and sounds of the fiesta that's in progress and to compartmentalize the ever-present call of my stomach. But I catch myself thinking, what am I doing here? I'm supposed to be working. I’m a computer hardware and software consultant, mostly seeing to the computer needs of the well-paying expatriates who live here permanently or seasonally. It’s always surprising that people who have plenty of money to spend on computers are so unwilling to invest a little time and money learning how to use them. When it comes to them learning the basics of a Windows or Mac operating system, forget about it.

  I wonder when a Mexican looks at me what he or she sees besides a tall gringo. They might be able to estimate my age--currently 34. But they wouldn’t be able to tell by my inexpensive casual clothes my consulting business with corporations and individuals is a real money-maker. It’s given me healthy bank account balances in the Bahamas and in Geneva as well as a funky fishing shack in St Augustine, Florida. They can tell I’m in good shape. I still have the trim build of the basketball player I once was. I work out and eat a low-calorie vegetarian diet. I swim laps in a pool when I can find one and regularly engage the exercise equipment in local gyms.

  When I look in the mirror, the guy, Mike Sullivan, who stares back at me is lanky, tall enough to stand out in an elevator. Not tall enough to play center on the basketball team. My hair is brownish blonde and short. It sticks out pointing in different directions. I don't bother with a hairbrush, hair dryer, or styling gel. I just rough up my hair with my fingers and give myself a scalp massage at the same time. I won't win any hairstyle awards with my low--maintenance credo. My forehead is perpetually wrinkled, and my eyebrows look like I’ve raised them with a skeptical look. My eyes are blue. Ellen tells me they’re my best facial feature. Who am I to argue? My eyebrows are slightly bushy. My nose has a bump halfway down the slope—a souvenir from an elbow in the face during basketball practice. I have a full beard and mustache I let grow out a bit. I’m not one of those guys with cultivated beard stubble. I think I have a friendly face. It looks like I’m always slightly amused. I guess that’s pretty true. I have a half smile naturally. It’s easy to turn up the wattage into a full smile when I’m with friends or in a business situation where I want to come on as especially friendly, open, and approachable. My skin is slightly fair with a ruddy touch. It looks like I have a tan even though I don't go out of my way to get one.

  It’s just chance Ellen is on assignment nearby. I first met her in Nairobi, Kenya, where she was doing freelance work that took her on frequent safaris into the bush to meet with tribal medicine men. I was there consulting with the Kenyan government. I’d always loved Africa in general and Kenya in particular since I served two years there as a Peace Corps volunteer. My work these days brings me to Kenya frequently. It’s interesting working with the Africans and keeping our work relations cordial using my basic Swahili. Using computers for daily business and personal tasks is even more of a challenge in third world countries than it is in America and in Europe. Keeping office networks working is especially difficult.

  Ellen was working on a story about the practice of traditional medicine--how traditional tribal healers use knowledge passed down from generation to generation. How they use plants and psychology to heal the ills of members of the tribe. I can't say it was love at first sight, but when our eyes first met there was a spark of attraction. And electricity when we kissed. We spent passionate nights safari-camping in a tent, trying to ignore the growls of hyenas and the screams of rock hyraxes nearby. They were frightening. I imagined someone screaming in terror. Ellen and I grew close against this backdrop of sounds in the night and bright blue African skies in the day.

  We make a striking couple, though not because of my good looks. She’s gorgeous and could easily be center stage on a national television news desk. Her eyes are dark chocolate--maybe she has Indian blood somewhere in her heritage. They’re set a little far apart, leaving her face
just short of perfectly proportioned. Still, she’s beautiful to me and she always turns heads wherever she goes. Her hair is brown and fine. She keeps it short so it’s easier to manage when she’s on the go. If she were to let it grow out, I think her hair would have natural waves and body.

  I have to gaze intently into her dark brown eyes to tell the difference between the pupil and the iris. Gazing intently into her eyes is something I like to do. Behind those eyes is a quick mind and a saucy attitude. Her nose is finely shaped, her nostrils having just enough of a tiny flare to make her nose a little short of purely perky and perfect. Her lips are sensuous, especially when she flashes me a smile. She rarely uses lipstick. Her almost-perfect features are set in an oval face with nicely defined cheekbones, a slightly pointed chin, and smooth unblemished skin on her neck and all points south.

  Her combination of intelligence and flat-out beauty would make her a prize catch for any TV news organization. But she prefers to investigate things that interest her--stories she can stretch out and explore at length in print. For the last couple of years she’s written about drugs derived from plants that could possibly be used in the treatment or prevention of Alzheimer's disease. She has a powerful motivation for her interest in memory disorders-- her mother, Grace, appears to be experiencing the early stages of Alzheimer's.

  A sudden twirl of a Catrina’s long dress hauls me back from the grassy plains of the Kenyan highlands. I realize I’m worried about Ellen. I got an unusual email from her this afternoon. It made me worry she was on the trail of something dangerous. She’s here in San Miguel de Allende, a larger town than Guanajuato about an hour’s bus ride away. She’s chasing a story, of course.

  The email she sent began with her usual activity update. In the morning she and her student interpreter Blanca had visited the Mercado de Las Artesanias, where local artisans offer work for sale from small kiosks. She had visited the store of a Huichol Indian who worked with colored threads and needlepoint. His designs were psychedelic. When she asked how he got so many ideas, he pulled a small clay pot from a lower shelf of his store where a small cactus grew. He told her the cactus was peyote. When he chewed a button he got many good ideas. Surprise! No wonder his art was mind-blowing! She bought a couple of smaller pieces. On the back of one he had carefully printed a description of a mythological scene the artwork depicted.

  The artist told her he got his peyote from a shaman who lived alone in the desert. That led her to wonder if the medicine man could possibly know of other native plants and remedies, specifically one that might help her mother, Grace. She tried to get her interpreter to find out from the artist if there might be a chance that the medicine man would know about a drug that could help a person improve their memory. Ellen only speaks a little Spanish. In the rapid-fire exchanges between the artist and Blanca she heard the word catateca used several times.

  Ellen said in the email she intended to find out more about this medicine man and to pay him a visit. The prospect of her traveling into the desert to meet someone who may or may not have good intentions worried me. Of course, if there was a plant with medicinal properties that delayed or prevented memory loss, it could be a gold mine. She ended the email abruptly, as if she had been pulled away from the keyboard, without her customary closing. That made me even more concerned.

  Chapter 2: Mike

  I decide if Tom and I are ever going to meet up this wild fiesta night I have to go to the One Bar and find him. We discovered the rooftop bar a couple of nights ago. It looked like it had been built for Manhattan then moved to the top of the 1850 Hotel on Guanajuato’s main plaza, the Jardin Mayor. The bar has comfortable molded chairs with chrome frames and leather-padded cushions. Translucent tables that glow from lights within are definitely weird in this city with a Catholic church that is older than America. The contemporary decor doesn’t detract from the spectacular view of the relatively small downtown, El Centro. The residents of this historic city played an important role during colonial times when Mexico’s people first began to fight for independence from Spain. The giant statue of Pípila, a legendary town hero, is easily visible from the bar as it overlooks the town. The statue holds a torch high (reminding me of the Statue of Liberty) and is lit at night from the base by powerful lights. The colonial-style buildings of El Centro present a palette of bright pastels--all lit dramatically by sporadic street lights and spotlights.

  The One Bar is crowded as I get off the elevator and push through the people. That’s no big surprise. It’s the night of the Dia de Los Muertos. Mexicans don’t need much of an excuse to celebrate, drink, play music, and parade through the streets. Day of the Dead is one of the major holidays of the year. Both All Saints’ Day and All Souls Day on the Catholic calendar are celebrated on November 2. On this night many young affluent people are foregoing the parades in the streets and the mariachi bands in the plaza in favor of pricey shots of tequila, brandy in snifters, martinis, and other cocktails.

  I see Tom and his latest flame huddled together for warmth at a table in the corner. I move through the packed bar with care, leaning close to people as I pass so they can hear my excuse’s and perdon’s over the music. A DJ is set up on the Pípila end of the rooftop with a high-tech set of speakers and lights. The sounds coming from the speakers aren’t traditional. The mix is dance music with a thumping beat and Latin-flavored jazz. I don’t expect mariachi music in a place where you read the drinks menu by the gentle glow from the light inside your table.

  Tom and I met when we were playing freshman basketball at the USC. He comes from a family whose fortune flourished in the fertile soil of the San Fernando Valley. His family traces its California roots back to the Gold Rush in the mid-1800s. His forebears weren’t prospectors. His great grandfather owned a general store and sold supplies to the miners. The business grew as California became more and more prosperous through the years. It morphed into a chain of supermarkets. Tom’s father sold the business to a large chain and then retired, the family fortune secure.

  Here’s how I’d describe Tom: he has reddish hair and a high forehead. His ears are tiny and close to his head. His eyes are closely-set and greenish-brown. He, unlike me, was lucky during basketball scrimmages and avoided getting a broken nose from an accidental or malicious elbow. His patrician nose is still regular with an unbroken slope. His mouth is small and his lips are full. His attractive facial features are framed by a face that’s oval and slightly elongated. My buddy is 6 feet 3 inches tall and nicely proportioned. He spends time in the weight room at the gym but no one would say that he’s pumped up like a bodybuilder. He moves with a sleek and cat-like grace. His natural agility and speed served him well in his basketball days.

  My history is a big contrast to Tom’s. My family comes from subsistence farming and sharecropping in the Florida panhandle east of Tallahassee near the Georgia border. Family assets were of the bootstrap variety. I attended college on a basketball scholarship.

  Tom and I were matched up as dorm roommates by the basketball coaching staff. We clicked immediately and we stood out like sore thumbs on the team--we had the unusual attitude (for jocks) we were there to get an education, not just to play basketball. Tom shared my passion for reading and we had similar tastes in music. Our favorite band was the Dave Matthews Band. We also liked the LA rock of the 60s and 70s like the Eagles, the Doors, and Jimi Hendrix. An eclectic blend of music flowed from our bare-bones dorm room stereo when we weren’t in class or at practice.

  Time for musing over, I reach the table at last and Tom waves me into a chair. I had met the young woman once before. She looks fabulous. Her slurred “Hola, buenas noches” tells me she’s two or three margaritas into the wind and feeling no pain. Tom has a twinkle in his eye as we bump fists in greeting. One of his most endearing traits is the ability to retain his wry sense of humor no matter what the social situation or the state of his sobriety. He never shows any signs of being drunk.

  The waiter promptly appears and I order a margarita
--on the rocks with no salt on the rim. I haven’t had a chance to talk with Tom since I got the email from Ellen. We’re both staying at the Hotel Antiguo Vapor, overlooking the Mercado Hidalgo. It’s a boutique hotel and probably more expensive than most of the city’s residents can afford. It’s tastefully decorated with art and rustic furniture. Its patrons are traveling business people and wealthy tourists. The literal translation of the name is “antique steam”. I think of it as having all the modern hotel conveniences with the flavor of old Mexico. It’s a short walk uphill from the Mercado. Both our rooms have panoramic views of the town.

  I use my hotel room as an office and make house calls to rescue hapless computer owners. Tom drives his Tesla roadster around the countryside visiting historic smaller towns like Dolores Hidalgo. He enjoys competing with Mexican drivers in cars, trucks, taxis, and buses for limited highway space. Considering his experience repairing, customizing, and driving fast cars the Mexican highways give him a pleasant diversion. Driving here is slightly risky but there are no serious challenges to his skills behind the wheel.

  When I catch a break in the cacophony I tell him, “I’m worried about Ellen.”

  Chapter 3: Ellen

  My consciousness slowly swims to the surface as I awake in another strange hotel room. My first thought—dang, I miss Mike! He’s in Guanajuato; I’m in the Hotel Posadita on Cuna de Allende in San Miguel de Allende. The yellow-orange color showing through my closed eyelids tells my languid brain that it’s no longer night--the sun is up.

  I stretch and do a damage assessment on my brain. The hangover from the margaritas I drank last night in the hotel’s rooftop bar (was it 2, 3, 4?--no, it could not have been four!) is making it hard to rise, shine, and face another day of freelance journalism. I missed the celebration of Dia de Los Muertos last night in Guanajuato with Mike. I’ll bet he and Tom had a big time. Another thing Mike and I have in common is that we both like rooftop bars. Here I go upstairs to La Posadita’s bar. Ironically in Guanajuato, a smaller town, there’s a much fancier bar, the One Bar.