If you haven’t read the first two articles in this La Paz series, visit the first aqui e here»
I’m back in my refuge: my beautiful, safe room at Posada LunaSol, with my sandwiches, apple, water and pink (I hope) treat. The heat did não kill me today. The Sun did não hunt me down—though it had its eye on me—I felt it!
So I’m safe for the long night ahead. I have no idea what I’ll do. I know, however, that one task awaiting me is to apply my mind and spirit to the logistical problems that I’ve perceived will assail me in this sojourn, mostly due to my initial mistaking where I was going for another place with the same name.
Even had I not found food—sustenance—I would survive here. I’m glad to have found something to appease my appetite, though. It will make the night ahead more comfortable. And the bottled water is essential, of course.
So I’m safe for the long night ahead. I have no idea what I will do. I know, however, that one task awaiting me is to apply my mind and spirit to the logistical problems that I’ve perceived will assail me in this sojourn, mostly due to my initial mistaking where I was going for another place with the same name.
Metaphorical ropes
I feel like a sailor of some kind, a deckhand on a boat like the one I worked on in my twenties, towing barges on the Mississippi and Ohio rivers.
On several occasions in the wee hours of the morning, our towboat would silently drift into one of the canal locks on the upper Mississippi, and I’d hold the rope at the front end of the tow. Then, at the proper time, I’d throw it to a man on shore. He’d quickly secure us to a thick post there to steady us while we were in the lock, until its exit gate opened and we could proceed, having been lowered or raised a number of feet. This was necessary because of shallow places or rough water in the main channels of that stretch of the river.
The memory came up because, although I always completed this task carefully and safely, I heard horror stories from veteran workers. They would tell of deckhands being torn in half by those somewhat elastic ropes, which occasionally snapped due to the pressure from the almost inconceivable weight of the dozen or more barges in the tow that they were holding in place.
Now, I imagined something related, also dealing with vast quantities of matter and the potential force of the Sun, the Earth, and the human body and mind. A vast scale. Up against the forces of Nature that themselves were almost like gods, and may have been what the ancients personified as actual gods.
of the sun. Right: A bull, sacred in the Minoan civilization of ancient Crete.
The image I got was that there foi rope—strong, resilient, thick rope with a bit of elasticity—that I had to hold onto now, that trued my course here in this unaccustomed place, and kept me safe on a path along the straight and narrow, the middle way. But it was more challenging. There was não one single, whole rope to hold to now. There were several long strands of rope, coming from different directions, and I had to somehow bring them together and hold them all in place, at the same time, in order to stabilize my journey here.
The strongest, the most dangerous of these metaphorical ropes was the all but unbearable heat from the sun, beginning in mid-morning and lasting until after 6 p.m. A person my age could easily succumb to heat stroke from too much exertion or overestimating his capacity.
But there were other daunting and as yet unsolved matters, some related to the heat and some not. The matter of transportation. The matter of procuring food in a neighbourhood that had no real food stores. The fact that I was in a city where half the population understood little or no English. And perhaps some lurking difficulties that hadn’t yet even hinted at their presence. How could I, a mere mortal, hold all these strands in place? Would they snap me in two?
There had been no change in the weather of La Paz. It was what it always had been! Only my perception of that weather had changed. The joke was on me, but I realized, after first walking out under southern Mexico’s summer sun at the bus station, that this wasn’t yet the time to laugh.
It felt as if problems were gathering. They were like a tribe of giants after me. Not a renegade tribe, maybe. That might be just my projection. But they were, at best, indifferent to me. I might be exaggerating the dangers, but the very fact of a sky and an atmosphere conducting the force of 100 degrees Fahrenheit (about 38 degrees Celsius) with 90 percent humidity over every molecule that was exposed, through most of every day, added gravitas to everything I did here. Was this “just the vacation I needed”—in order to keep me on my toes?
As far as transportation, I supposed I could regularly take a taxi back from downtown, as I’d done earlier today. The fare of $4.50 wasn’t that much. But how often was it practical to go back and forth? How often might I need to? Or should I indeed consider a car rental? Mexicans drive on the same side of the street as Americans, but would the traffic signs be a problem?
I recognized that I was starting to worry. Neither my reason nor my intuition was giving me answers to the vital questions that had arisen.
A night in limbo
Amid my worried thoughts, sitting at my table, I opened my laptop and perused the emails, posts and a few of the headlines of the past day. Then I reached for my ham and cheese sandwich and ripped off the cellophane. At least I knew what this one was. It wasn’t particularly tasty, but it was edible.
Finished, I unscrewed the top of one of my bottles of water and took several deep swigs. Then I turned to the other sandwich: The big, unknown one. A bun, with a thick slice of something in the middle. I bit into it. Yes, it might be spam, which I’d never actually tasted before, or something like it. It had a pleasant, slightly sweet taste. Not, by any means, prime rib or filet mignon … the making of it, probably like the proverbial making of sausage. But it satisfied me, in a certain way. I ate more than half, put it aside, and finished it with another big bite every now and then for the next couple of hours.
The pink liquid I’d bought, wanting something sweet and thinking it might bring at least some semblance of a dessert, did taste sweet—but kind of sickly sweet. Not like Pepto-Bismol, whose pinkness it reminded me of, but too many artificial chemicals, perhaps. Something. I took a small sip now and then but never did finish the little bottle.
I’d drawn the curtains over the window in my room earlier, but now I saw darkness in the crack of sky that was visible and opened them again. It was only 9 p.m., but I’d gotten up at 4 a.m. Time to sleep. Or try to.
Unfortunately, all I could accomplish were hours of nearly continual tosses and turns. For some reason, it was hard to stay in one position for more than a couple of minutes. I also lived up to my usual habit of drinking so much liquid that I had to get up to use the bathroom every 15 minutes or so, for a while.
I lay in bed talking to Meher Baba, through the photos of him to my side and straight ahead of me on the chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed. At one point I got up to say my evening prayers, realizing that I’d forgotten them, and then went back to bed.
Somehow, I passed the entire night in such limbo. I felt very insecure about everything beyond this hotel room. The room itself, though a nice refuge, did lack certain amenities like a small refrigerator and a coffee maker that we take for granted in American hotels. Had I made the right choice to come? Would I be able to do enough things right tomorrow, to make enough right, to gain a sense of stability here? What would the day bring?
I recognized again that I was worrying—I who had a framed poster at home (with a shining gold mat) of a smiling elderly Meher Baba, bearing the caption DON’T WORRY—BE HAPPY!
Towards dawn, I drifted off. When I woke, it was 7 a.m. Breakfast at the hotel was on the pool deck from 8 to 10, the concierge Antonio had informed me.
The invisible hands of beauty
One of the smaller problems I’d entertained and sought solutions to during the night was the fact that the breakfast that came with my room was “neither early nor late.” I would’ve preferred a breakfast at 6 a.m. so that I could walk downtown afterward with the morning still relatively cool. Or I could go out to an early-morning café somewhere nearby, get some reading and writing done over a cup of coffee there, and then come back for breakfast with that well-spent time already under my belt. Again, nothing seemed quite right.
At a little after 8, I organized my backpack, got dressed, tidied the room a bit and walked out to face whatever the day might bring. I wasn’t feeling particularly confident. The night hadn’t completely devoured me, but I hadn’t triumphed over the chimera of challenges, either. The situation remained beyond what I could problem-solve through thought, imagination and intuition. My sense of insecurity continued.
Locking my door behind me and proceeding along the walkway that led to the stairs going down to the pool area, I stopped in front of a delightful large wall tile depicting a man on a burro entering a Mexican village. Proceeding a few more feet, I came to the two main depictions in large wall tiles of the “Luna/Sol” hotel theme.
One featured and personified the Sun; the other, the Moon. Both were exquisite. Furthermore, they represented the union of opposites. The union or integration of the male and female principles had been one of the objectives of a series of courses in Jungian psychology that I’d recently completed. Meher Baba also spoke of this theme in his Discourses. Besides their thematic resonance, the tiles also radiated simple charm and beauty. I pulled out my phone and snapped photos of them, and another of the Mexican village tile.
I turned to go down the stairs, but the flora adjoining those stairs caught my eye before I could do so. I’d noticed the bougainvillea climbing up the wall the day before. Now, though, before the day heated up, I was able to get a more relaxed look. They were gorgeous! Nestling high above them, two tall fan palms completed the picture. I lifted my head and saw, a few feet in front of me, a coconut palm with green fruit nestling at the base of the fronds that waved fitfully in the morning breeze. The coconuts seemed to represent the eternal greenness and fertility of everything in o universo.
I descended the stairs, marvelling at more wall tiles. When my feet hit the ground and I walked onto the pool deck, my senses were bathed in multiple new sensations: the splashing of the little rock fountain at the far side of the pool, the mural of life in the sea along one wall, and a cool breeze against my skin. Yes, even here in La Paz, at this time in the morning: blessed sensations of the pleasure to be alive!
As I walked towards the tables, I tried to decide which one I’d leave my things at. I eventually chose one with red cushioned chairs near the side of the pool. I then laid down my backpack and walking stick and strode under the arches of the roofed-in part of the terrace, where coffee, cream, sweeteners, cereal, yogurt, bread and a toaster awaited anyone who wanted them.
A woman in a black skirt and smock smiled and spoke to me from behind a counter: “Si, help yourself to whatever you want.”
I was thinking, “They make a big deal of this breakfast on the hotel’s website, but is it just a ‘continental’ one?”
However, the woman continued, “Would you like eggs with ham or eggs with vegetables?”
“Oh, I ‘d love some with ham!” I said.
She smiled and set to work preparing my omelette. By the time I’d finished gathering my coffee, toast and yogurt and had carried them to my table, she’d arrived with a delicious-looking plate of ham and eggs, a small plate with what looked like two pieces each of papaya, cantaloupe and pineapple, and a nice-sized glass of orange juice.
I sat down to my feast. The wind’s fingers were still caressing my face and body. The fountain continued to sing its refreshing watersong.
I felt home! All the worry of the night had fled! I was a person in the right place at the right time, in the Eternal Present, caressed by the gods of Art and Beauty, restored to myself. I remembered my several helpless calls to Barbara during the night. If she could see me now!
I got out my phone and texted that thought, “I’m restored to myself!”
With the text, I sent a 30-second video of the sounds I was hearing, the bougainvillea and palms, the pool and the ocean mural, along with a photo of my breakfast.
My life was alternating between Heaven and … if not hell, at least purgatory. This Healing, though! By the invisible hands of beauty, the beauty of Nature, the beauty of Art!
Hotel Posada LunaSol, the entire complex—buildings, courtyards, walls, flora, rooms, breakfast: all functioned as a single, co-ordinated work of art! I thought, “All parts of this place are working on me, working with me! To stop Time and enable me to go forward—as I will now! This morning! This moment! And walk downtown along the malecon! It’s still cool enough!”
And I’d fully enjoy the wonders, as well as the challenges, of this sojourn. Of this holy day!
GO TO PART FOUR: A DAY IN TROPICAL HEAVEN: Coffee, coolness and scintillating art in La Paz, Mexico
image 1: Max Reif; image 2: Max Reif; image 3: Wikimedia Commons/Wikimedia Commons; image 4: Max Reif; image 5: Max Reif; image 6: Max Reif; image 7: Max Reif; image 8: Max Reif; image 9: Max Reif; video: Max Reif
