But unlike Candide, Javier won't put up with any sh*t from anyone: "Javier explained good-naturedly that, while he understood that the cops were simply doing their job, both they and the coronavirus could chingar a su madre." This is a man you can spend many hours getting faced with.
They became good pals quickly, he almost teary at times: "Javier would dispense gracias upon gracias for bringing to mind memories he hadn't thought of in decades." He tells her of a soccer career he put aside for mushrooms; he tells of a time his car flipped on the highway and he was rescued by a woman ("an angel") waiting at a bus stop. She writes,
The same buoyant optimism applied to his recounting of other episodes, such as the one in which he had sustained a severe head injury falling off a Zipolite rooftop while urinating in the middle of the night.
Suddenly, and welcomely, we're at the edge of a lapping magical realism, sticking in our toe.
Their conversations run the gamut from anecdotes and pedestrian chit chat to more feisty exchanges on politics and economics. In a world of limited fight-or-flight, Ferna'ndez has shown her mettle by running (what are you gonna do, she's a jogger and blogger), but the cadgy old Javier thinks he's f*cking Santa Ana. She writes,
Now, the coronavirus constituted another opportunity for human improvement, and Javier foresaw the cultivation of a better, more just and equitable post-pandemic world that was not managed by hijos de la chingada, although it annoyed him when I asked for the details of how maladies like capitalism and climate change were to be suddenly rectified when capitalism thrived on mass suffering in the first place. Sometimes, his annoyance would abate, and he would admit that our sitting and staring at the sea was perhaps not the most hands-on approach to revolution.
It's another sobering reality they face together, and it's endearing. Javier is the star of her show.
Later, she meets up with other characters of delight and her observations; shtick continues. After Javier finally leaves the scene, returning home, hundred of kilometers a way to his sociologist wife, the dramatic tension rescues the narrative in the form of an earthquake. Ferna'ndez commences the day:
At 10:29, I had been settling into my chair in the corner for some article-writing, congratulating myself on having resisted the temptation to have wine for breakfast-a clear sign I was getting my life in order.
Her flat rumbles, she runs to the door, sees the power lines sparking, police mobilizing, and she stands there playing "the role of Gringa in Doorway Having Flashbacks to TV Coverage of Indian Ocean Tsunami of 2004." Suddenly, a quiet morning becomes Dylan's "Black Diamond Bay." Good stuff. Then she's off to higher ground and reminiscing about tsunamis she has seen, earthquakes that almost swallowed her, hurricanes to die for.
One of the really wonderful things about Ferna'ndez's writing, aside from its mirth and ironic observation, is its humanity. Early on she considers the Emmanuel Iduma (quote above) about the mosque men, but adds to it, touchingly, "This is pretty much the story of my life- except that, not only do I want to be the Mauritanian mosque men, I want to be everyone everywhere at all times."
While Checkpoint Zipolite is a travelogue, not a memoir, so more radiant with character and place than heavy with rumination on the human condition, Ferna'ndez brings a vibrancy to her gringa-hood that lacks the despondency you'd expect from one who has "rejected" American Exceptionalism and been on the road for almost 20 years. She doesn't rue it; in fact, she brings what's best about liberated Americans -- freedom of thought and an ease dealing with the Other. She is the Other, who, as she says, wants to be "everyone everywhere at all times." Special stuff.
Checkpoint Zipolite is available at OR Books (Paper $1, E-book $10)
Her travel writings can be further accessed at her blog: BELÃ"degreesN FERNÃ NDEZ
First appeared in Counterpunch magazine on 04/23/2021
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
1
1
1
