John Hopkins - The South American Diaries

While writing a novel set in South America, John Hopkins travelled back there to reacquaint himself with the scene. In 19723, he travelled by train, bus and boat from Mexico City to the centre of the continent, through Belize, Guatemala and Nicaragua and on to Brazil, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay and Argentina. Hopkins travelled slowly, deliberately, savouring every experience along the way. But the journey was fraught with his angst-ridden strivings to write his novel and with the troubled love he had for Madeleine, his travelling companion. In these heat-scorched, tequila-infused pages, Hopkins paints a sultry, exquisite portrait of South America and in so doing masters an art that he believed would forever elude him."

John Hopkins lived for many years in Tangier and was a centralfigure in the bohemian literary crowd of the 60s and 70s. He haswritten several novels, among them Tangier Buzzless Flies and TheFlight of the Pelican . His latest books, The White Nile Diaries and The Tangier Diaries , are also published by I.B.Tauris. He lives inOxford.

THE SOUTH AMERICAN DIARIES

JOHN HOPKINS

New paperback edition published in 2016 by Tauris Parke Paperbacks
An imprint of I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd
LondonNewYork
www.ibtauris.com

real adventures do not happen to people who remain at home; they must be sought abroad. James Joyce, Dubliners

Tequila and lemon and salt, with a mariachi group serenading us while wewaited for the train to depart. Offering one free drink after another, theMexicans wouldnt let us out of the place.

All friends, grinned the man on my left, as he lit my cigarette. All myfriends, therefore all your friends. All Mexicans are your friends.

A simple logic, and one which I was almost prepared to accept. Oncethat border is crossed, one encounters a looseness, a shoulder-shruggingidleness and fatality which I had missed since leaving Morocco. (Limescrushed against my teeth exploded juice inside my mouth.) I liked his logicand I liked his food beans, tortillas and the hot chillies. What we liked alsohappens to be cheapest.

My newly won friends in Cantina Washington didnt realize what a giftthey were handing across, nor could they have understood my gratitude. Abrown-skinned woman entered with a bucket and began to hand out tacos.The musicians moved on to Adios Amor and other sad numbers. Theopenness of those faces so easily displaying a vulnerable cowboy-hattedconviviality as they became drunker and drunker. La Negra, RanchoGrande, Cielito Lindo, etc. The high-pitched whining nasal male voice is aspopular here in Mexico as it is in North Africa an Arab import brought tothe Americas by the recently Christianized conquistadors 500 yearsago.

On the train from Mexicali to Empalme ($35.00 first class sleeper for two),suffering from a delicious case of the hangover hots.

We have just finished breakfast in this rattling old American dining car. Huevos fritos with guacamole, refried beans, warm soft tortillas, black coffeeand orange juice that I have had to lace with a shot of white rum to stir thetequila blues from last nights excesses.

Beside me, my travelling companion, Madeleine van Breugel, alreadycoifed and made-up, Herms scarf knotted loosely around her neck, dolled-uplike shes going to a party, decked out in expensive jewelry I tell her not towear south of the border.

Her face-framing mane of just-brushed auburn hair thatswhere I should be snuggling, on her shoulder, in that fragrantnest. But I am not snuggling, because another is snuggling there Chula, the miniature green parrot I bought for her in Guatemalatwo years ago. Thats where he snuggles, and where he has beensmuggled, under her hair, past many a customs inspector from JFK toMarrakesh.

Each time I draw near, to give my sweetheart a peck on the cheek, thelittle nipper emerges from the veil of hair to defend his lair, to return myaffection peck for peck. And he has a nasty bite.

Now moving swiftly southwards through thorn and cactus country cattlecountry towards real heat and, perhaps, renewed creativity. Black vulturesin the tree-tops the sight of their hunched black forms fills me with namelessdesire

We have checked into the Hotel Miramar, reputedly the second best in town,and soon found it is a distant second. Two beds for $20.80. We pushed themtogether. Lizards roam the room, big ones. They chase the roaches. Not much of a beach and no waves, and the beach is fenced off due to sharkfear.

Sunset. The saguaro or sentinel cactus stands tall and solitary, not like theothers. They prefer high rocky ground and ridge crests, where they are seendarkly silhouetted against the evening sky. My eye is drawn to these erectsentinels who keep lonely vigil over arid lands, as my spirit is in thrall to theperfect stillness of the desert scene.

In the distance across the water, a row of pointy, spire-like mountains,aptly named Cerro Tetas de Cabra (Goat Tits Mountains).

Painted Mexican boys lounging in the Bar Sonora, the pool hall cantinaacross the street from the hotel, are drunk on beer at eleven oclock in themorning. They have dyed their hair orange, have curled it, have had theirears pierced and inserted large, gold, dangly earrings, and assume thelanguid poses of a geisha. We seem to have landed on the skid row ofGuaymas.

Part of the dialogue from the bar: Say, those men grabbed that fellow didyou see that? Just as he was about to go out the door. There theyrehitting him. Why? Is it fair so many against one man? But look, hesgiving it back caught one of the coppers right on the chops and sent himsprawling. Oh dear, guns now. Ow! dont do that! Right across the face withthe gun barrel and down he goes theyre kicking him. Blood whos goingto be next? Keep your paws off me, you dirty old man! Dont you see whattheyre doing?

Limes pressed against my teeth explode juice into my mouth. Never ahangover from tequila? Dehydration from alcohol. The large quantityof salt taken with excessive shots of tequila conserves the moisturein the body. Tequila, I have learned, brings on fears, bad dreams,paranoia.