A Dream for an Insomniac

The Zocalo is crammed with people as we drive around it. There are street performers clothed in varying shades of tropical. Vendors
ply their wares on everyone. As we sit beneath the baroque stare of the Catedral de Juarez street-children wash our windshield with
dirty water and yesterday’s paper. All the trees in the central plaza are painted white. I remember learning about the tradition in
school but like most of the notes I receive in class it’s been folded away and forgotten and I’m just too tired to try and find it.
“Cuanto Peso?” (How many money?) asks my dad in pidgin Spanish as he leans out the window. He is trying to pay the street kids.
“Lo que sea.” (Whatever.) They respond. My dad hands them several bills. “Gracias. Vaya con Dios.” (Thank you. Go with God.)
“De nada.” (It’s nothing. You’re welcome.)
The mid-afternoon traffic is heavy so it takes us a while to get out of Veracruz. We finally get on the 18D and head North around two.
“How long until we get where we’re going?”
“Dave says it’s about an hour and a half drive North of Veracruz.”
Dave is an old friend of my dad’s. He played advisor to my dad’s student in college and saw him through his thesis. Dave has been
studying growth rates of certain East-Mexican plant species in waterlogged conditions. We are heading to his research station. It is a
three-hundred acre compound which sits five-hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean next to a tiny village which is populated mostly
of the research station’s maintenance staff.
The 18D (el Diez-y-Ocho) is a two lane highway that runs up the east coast of Mexico anywhere from fifteen miles inland to thirteen-
hundred feet off the water winding along the base of the Sierra Madre Oriental. The road itself seems like it has simply been placed
on top of the land. The vegetation on either side grows right up to the asphalt. The world whips by us; people would pass on the
shoulders if there were shoulders to pass on.
I take a map out of the glove compartment and trace my finger along the highways. The wind coming through the windows gives the
map wings for a moment and the roads on the paper look like a net, cast to tame a slumbering giant. After forty-five minutes my dad
and I cannot help but notice the sweet smell of the farmers’ fires. It is March and the planting will begin soon.
“I wonder what they grow up here,” says my dad. I do not know if he is actually looking for an answer or just speaking for the sake of
speaking. Either way I don’t know it. I’ve been quiet for a while now.

Dave and his English Bull Terrier, Gumbo, are waiting for us at the main gate when we arrive at the research station. The research
station is set up like your typical sleep away camp. All the buildings are organized around a large central patio made of the volcanic
rock which peppers the hillside like the brown in Gumbo’s coat. The dormitories and research labs edge three sides of the patio and
the other side abuts the sand. There is a stretch of black sand from the edge of the patio to the beach that is about five football
fields long. This stretch is dimpled with precipitation-tidal pools, including a massive one which could probably qualify as a small
lake. Dave says that different flocks of migrating birds use the tidal pools as stopover points on their journeys. Only a couple of
birds speckle the waters at the moment.
“Dave, this place is amazing,” says my dad.
“Beautiful, I know,” responds Dave in his lilting southern accent.
We are—with the exception of the small village a five minutes walk down the beach—completely cut off from the world, surrounded by
tropical forest, at a research station on Mexico’s Costa de Oro, in the shadow of a trans-volcanic mountain chain. Gumbo and I
chase geckos and other small lizards around the compound.

Around six my dad and Dave and Gumbo and I head north along the beach. Dave tells us to wear pants because the No-see-ums
start to bite around dusk. Dave and my dad talk about Dave’s research as I throw driftwood and try to outrun Gumbo. I imagine that
this is what it must be like to go back in time, to go back to a place where all the big decisions have yet to be made. There is no way
to change the outcome of things anymore. I toss the piece of driftwood Gumbo’s been fetching as far as I can into the Atlantic. He
scuttles through the sand in hot pursuit. Wet sand stows away on my feet as I run towards the water. The water is a shock when I
strike through it—I have to remind myself to breathe. I get tired of swimming after Gumbo in all my clothes and drag myself out of the
water. My dad and Dave have been watching us; their conversation is still going when I reach them. I am dripping wet, quicksand is
forming at my feet, and they do not seem the least bit surprised.
“You hungry?” asks my dad.
“Famished.”
“Dave says there’s this great little shack in the village, right by the water, where we can get some food.”
When Dave said shack he really meant it. The shack consists of a concrete base, some uncut wooden poles, corrugated aluminum,
some plastic chairs around a wooden table, and a grill. Even though Dave’s Spanish is pretty good I do the ordering. We get maize
chips with salsa borracha, frijoles a la charra, fideo, and white-fish tacos.
“Que quieres beber?” (What do you want to drink?) asks the cook.
“Que tienes?” (What do you have?)
“Tecate, Dos Equis, Corona, Negra Modelo, y agua.” (Beer and water.)
“Dad, all they’ve got is beer and water to drink.”
“Bottled water?”
“Agua en una botella?” I ask.
“No,” replies the cook.
“Nope,” I tell my dad.
“So…all they’ve got is water and beer and I don’t trust the water. Looks like beer it is, kiddo. HAHA. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Who am I gonna tell?” I ask while sweeping my arm across the vista. There is no one left to tell.
“HA! Good point young man, good point,” says Dave. His southern accent leaves a trail behind his words.
I make my way back to the table with three open Tecates locked in my fingers. My dad and Dave take theirs from me. I have tasted
beer before so I’m prepared for the bitterness but still, I cannot wait for food to come out so that I have something to wash this down
with. Gumbo has folded himself up in the square of evening sun underneath my chair, his fur is still damp from the saltwater, and his
tongue lolls carelessly from the side of his mouth. Talk turns to my dad’s future plans.
“It sounds bad, but we’ve got enough money now where I can pretty much do anything I want.”
“Sounds bad?” asks Dave.
“Dave, how many more months of research do you have left?” I ask.
“Well, lets see, I’ve been here for seven months so far, so about another five and a half or so.”
“Maybe I’ll just get back into research,” says my dad.
“Yeah! Why not? Come work with me. We’ll write up some proposals, get some grants and you and the kid can live in places like this.”
“I, I think we’d have to stay state-side for a while. Remember, this guy needs to go to college.” He nudges my chair with his foot as he
says this. Gumbo’s head jerks up at the noise and he stretches like someone in prayer or deep meditation. Dave and my Dad
continue to talk. I give Gumbo some of my beer. The food is delicious.