Alive in Mexico
Karl brought the wrong motorcycle to Mexico. It was too big, old and heavy. “The Tank,” he called it, was a 1976 Honda CB750. In it’s hay day known as the first super bike, a classic, but a poor choice for Mexico’s Swiss-cheese, gravel covered roads. A more nimble, modern, enduro style bike would have been more appropriate. But Karl reasoned, ‘that’s the bike I have’ and he liked how that sounded.
The accident occurred on the trip home while trying to navigate a gravely corner on the intercontinental highway north of San Cristobal de Las Casas. He was trying to make it all the way to Oaxaca. Sweat perspired from under the layers of his clothing, his fingernails were left uncut and dirty, his facebook status had been neglected for a week. His eyes were red and irritated from the dusty dry air, his ears rang from the constant battle of the four cylinders struggling over the agave covered mountains. At that point he didn’t even know if he was still in the state of Chiapas or if he already entered Oaxaca. He was tired and like most days still had a long way to drive. He wanted to be home in Chicago and was driving north like a madman.
The trip, although a thorough introduction to Mexico, had not been what he expected. The social aspect had greatly disappointed him. He spoke only menu-Spanish and found that almost everywhere he stopped there were only a few tourists. Most of the pasty snow-birds had been scared off by the weekly graphic reports of beheadings and shootings by narco-traffickers. And to Karl’s dismay it was just too hard to have a real conversation with the Mexicans that didn’t involve whether he wanted corn tortillas or flour tortillas. He had discovered what is known as travelers sadness; only observing, not participating in conversations. He was lonely and hadn’t really talked with anyone since meeting his firefighting friends in Antigua, Guatemala. The two night rendezvous with his fellow crewmates on new years was really the highlight and maybe even the whole point of the trip. His fantasy of finding a curvaceous, adventurous fellow traveler to ride on the back of his motorcycle never even came close to materializing.
The bike and Karl separated on a stretch of snakey highway in the Sierra del Sur mountain range. As he drove the highway seemed almost abandoned despite the occasional bus, but no other vehicles were involved in Karl’s accident. When his motorcycle’s tires lost traction on one of the many curves the reality of having to abandon ship, elevated his senses, and slowed the course of events, a slow motion, life-saving, human reaction. He seemed to float in the air above the motorcycle and like a kid leaping over a fire hydrant pushed down on the sweaty seat with his hands between his legs he was able lift his temporarily suspended body up and away from the trajectory of the monstrous, hot machine. He hit the ground upright, to the left of the motorcycle, standing on two legs. The whole accident looked almost graceful had he not been going twenty-five miles an hour, even his long powerful legs were not able to compete with the momentum of his two hundred and ten pound frame. His body slapped against the pavement.
The sound of a little girl singing and the comforting smell of disinfectant inspired his awakening. He didn’t move he just opened his eyes. In his line of sight sat little girl swinging her legs on a red wooden bench opposite his bed, across the cool tiles. She had big dark eyes, brown skin, and her long black hair was loosely braided. She wore a traditional white shirt embroidered with vibrant flowers and was occupied with an handmade ball and cup game. She continued to hum the pretty, but unfamiliar tune, seemingly unconcerned with Karl. Karl tried to burn off the fog that enveloped his mind, ‘where am I.’
“Tia! El Guero desperto!” The little girl yelled hoping up and off the bench running towards an open door.
Only Karl’s eyes moved across the room to the door where the nurse walked in. She was dressed in a crisp white uniform that demonstrated the pleasing shape of her body. She carried a plastic pitcher of water and a glass. With a big smile she looked at Karl and said, “hola.” He attempted a nod and his heart gave one pronounced thump and suddenly his whole body hurt. Not a pain that aspirin or ibuprofen can alleviate but a pain so intense that one rightly deserves a morphine drip. The nurse raised her eyebrows in concern as Karl grimaced. She said, in broken English.
“You need drink water. I help drink.”
She filled a glass with water and placed the pitcher with the filled glass on a piece of furniture next to the bed. She stroked Karl’s red hair, the gentle motherly touch lingered on Karl’s scalp relaxing him. She encouraged him to sit up with hand gestures. That’s when he noticed his left arm and the pain in his body suddenly had an awful focus.
It is a strange feeling to look at ones own arm and to see it so obviously broken. In Karl’s case an overwhelming sense of mortality flooded his mind turning quickly to nausea and utter disgust. He looked away. The young nurse leaned over him and put her hands in his armpits and proceeded to try and prop him up on the pillows against the headboard as if he were a six year old child. She had no hope of moving the large gringo. She gave a grunt trying to get Karl to help her help him. Karl used his right arm that seemed to be in a good state to push himself up. She exhaled, still holding her comforting smile, “eres grande” she said, and gave him the glass of water. Karl didn’t know that he was thirsty until the water hit his mouth and like a drought stricken desert receiving the first spring rain his mouth absorbed the water before it entered his throat. The nurse asked.
“Aspirina?”
She opened a small paper packet, handed him two aspirin, then refilled his water cup. He took the pills and gulped the water. The haze in his mind started to break, ‘the accident!’. He was skeptical about the effectiveness of the aspirin and started to realize where he was and the gravity of his situation, mortality and nausea again flooded his mind. Looking around for the first time, he noticed that there were no other beds in what he had thought was a hospital. It was a large room with cement walls and a high ceilings mostly empty except for stacks of folded chairs in one corner. To his left, through some rot-iron windows he could see outside where he saw an empty basketball court and an ambulance with the Cruz Roja insignia parked in the brilliant midday light.
He wanted to show the nurse the seriousness of his injuries. He lifted up his broken arm with his right arm, carefully avoided looking at the misshapen extremity. He held out the arm and asked for sympathy.
“Do you have something stronger? My arm hurts a lot, pain, ow horrible.” He spoke slow and clearly pronounced each word.
Yes, no te precupes, no worry el doctor ya viene, he come, she said with a casualness that was calming. She did not seem to be too disturbed by Karl’s misshapen arm.
“Mi motocicleta, where is my motorcycle?” asked Karl.
“Wit Joel, con Joel el mecanico”
“Wrecked?” Karl asked.
She looked puzzled so Karl tried another word.
“Destroyed?”
Her face showed recognition “No, destruida, no, Joel es un buen mecanico very good.
You talk tomorrow wit him, manana.” She spoke slowly nodding as she said each word.
“Now give medicine, medicina.” She squeezed her hand into a pocket on her uniform and pulled out a key. She then opened a padlocked cabinet door under the pitcher of water. As she knelt down Karl noticed the upper-part of a red tattoo that extended down from her clavicle disappearing under her uniform.
je je je..................not quite finished but tell me what you think.....please.....
Labels: cb750 CB honda 750, fiction, motorcycle Mexico, Oaxaca, Travel, writing
posted by 2Birds 1Stone Backyard Gardening and Living at
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