Clang Clang
Though clouds still threaten over the green mountains, the city and beaches are bathed in unending sunshine - browning skin, shimmering off hot metal car chassises, and drying the sea water off my body as I sunbathe on Playa Principal.
A loud engine growl pulls my attention over to a fishing boat hurtling onto the sand. From inside the beached boat, several fishermen haul out a long dead silver body, flopping it onto the shore with a gentle thud. They heave it up onto the dry sand, steely scales glinting in the sun. A group gathers and I see a man guiding a toddler up to the sleek spectacle. The man’s belly bulges from his red coca-cola t-shirt as he guides the little hand up to touch the very sword of the swordfish. Better be careful, even dead things can harm.
Which reminds me of a more deadly deadness - living deadness, from which hate-swords fly menacingly. Clang Clang they go, bouncing off my tingshas. Though looking closely, each blade carries the inscription - please help my heart be alive.
Thwack
A narrow balcony with window-doors runs the width of my second floor flat, where my beach things are now hanging from orange rope - my makeshift clothesline. I am sitting inside at a square wooden table gazing outside to the distant curves on the horizon, like the silhouette of a sleeping dragon, with puffs of white cloud rolling by.
Various body parts engage themselves seated here - hands grip mahogany, fingers tap keyboard, eyes watch screen, mouth munches sandwich, head drifts in the clouds. All the while lulled by the gentle stream of cars from the nearby road, and the sweet chirping of various birds. One such yellow breasted fellow perches on the balcony, most confused by seeing its reflection in the one-way mirror glass. It sees another sky and another bird it believes is real. Eventually it attempts to fly through to this other world - thwack. It doesn’t comprehend, swooping away in shock, coming to rest on a telephone wire across the road.
What a dumb animal. Yes, how stupid to take reflections of the world for the world itself. Says the animal that lives in a hall of mirrors.
Thump-Thump
What the f**k is going on out there! The hot evening has set in, and from nowhere, noise and boom is rapidly igniting on the streets below. From gentle hum to an insane bedlam of beeping, diabolical motorbike revving, thump-thump table-shaking club music, hollering, laughing, police sirens.
I step onto the balcony to investigate - around forty motorbikes have inexplicably descended upon the corner of my road, monstrous speakers in a car boot vibrate the very concrete, traffic is held up, beer cans aplenty, and the police car’s red and blue flashing lights do nothing but add to the club-like atmosphere.
Of course, I realise, seeing the horned ladies, the spectral faces, and ghoulish bride, it is Halloween tomorrow, and Dia de Los Muertos the day after… so this is just the beginning of a three day bender? God help my sanity!
Ahhh
The next day the dragon’s white puffs have become bruised purples and blues. All through the day they gather in numbers and strength, and finally, spurred on perhaps by it being Halloween, they arrive in town by the early evening, unleashing their watery fury with cracks of thunder that rattle my table.
I had been listening to the local school’s big band, whose trumpets, trombones, flutes and drums are easily heard from my flat, but were all but drowned out by the rain’s ferocity. I had also been contemplating the evening’s gameplan, in case the same motorbike mob invaded again - spend the night on the beach until the early hours? Watch films all night with noise-cancelling earbuds? Or, as a last resort, ‘go out’.
As the rain storm clears and the band has gone home, it is clear there will be no need to vacate my throne. Much to my delight, the street is a ghost town - the lone street lamp holds vigil to the occasional car, passing through the cool fresh night, with not a soul in sight. Where’s the party at? Not here, I think to myself, with an audible ahhh of relief.
