A Salty Piece of Land
Like any good remote island, Ben told me, Minola has a history. Stories of pirates, whalers, cannibals, treasures, and UFO crashes abound—and then there are the war stories. Minola was the site of a Navy air-and-seaplane base along the supply route from Hawaii to the Pacific theater. It is loosely and distantly attached to the state of Hawaii, but it is privately owned. If you have a globe, or an atlas, you will have to look hard to find it.
The island lies about a thousand miles south of Honolulu and about five degrees north of the equator in that tropical convergence zone known as the doldrums; thus light breezes, surf breaks, lots of birds, and—are you ready?—a lagoon full of giant bonefish. Well, six Hinanos later, Ben told me that the catch to getting the fuel was for him to be able to fly there in the Pearl. I immediately anointed him “fuel procurement officer” and gave him a hat and T-shirt to make it official. The one problem with the fuel at Minola was that it took us far from our original flight plan, so we got out the charts and redrew our course from Minola to Hong Kong. The weather is perfect, and we are leaving in the morning. I will let you know about the fish when I get there.
Meanwhile, keep your nose into the wind, and watch your six for bandits. Give my best to the boys, and I will say hi to Sammy Raye when I see him in Tahiti. Well, the supply plane is leaving for your neck of the woods in an hour, and I want to get this letter on board.
Your friend,
Willie Singer
24
Some Days There’s Just Magic in the Air
The ride up the river was the perfect setting in which to read Willie’s letter of his already amazing exploits, as we glided along under a canopy of red mangroves and a cacophony of shrieks and whistles by the local population of kingfishers, herons, and egrets. I would write to both him and Cleopatra when we got back to Lost Boys. I was glad he was on the case. I was jealous about the fish.
“News from home?” Archie asked.
“No, just a mission accomplished,” I replied.
“Those always feel good.” Pointing up at several small hawks banking in circles over the water, Archie commented, “I call this stretch of the creek Appetizer Alley. Those big holes in the mud are homes to the blue crabs of Belize—quite tasty little buggers.”
We came out of the mangrove tunnel at an intersection in the waterway that Archie told us was Burdon Canal, a man-made, arrow-straight passage built in the 1920s as a safe inland route to market. Turkey vultures, pelicans, and frigate birds rode the thermals in the open sky above the jungle canopy. Archie pointed out monkeys and iguanas in the overhanging trees along the shore, and several crocodiles sunned themselves on the mud banks.
The creek gave way to the wider expanse of the Belize River, and at one point, the dinghy was surrounded by a giant squadron of brown butterflies with big orange spots. “They are called mangrove skippers,” Archie informed us.
Ix-Nay listened attentively to Archie, as fascinated by his manner as by his tour.
“This is a fine little country, a fine little country,” Archie pronounced as he guided the dinghy upstream. “There’s rum, women, fertile soil, a pirate history, a Mayan past, mountains, and water aplenty. Kind of place a man can settle down in unless something better comes along.”
“Covering the bases,” I interjected.
Archie paused, seeming to ponder the metaphor. “Suppose you could call it that. It is just that I have seen heaven turn into hell more than once on these trips around the sun. A man has to be ready to go on a moment’s notice, no matter how comfortable the moment might be.”
“So how did you end up here?” Ix-Nay asked.
“Courtesy of Her Majesty, the Queen of England, by way of the Third Commando Brigade Royal Marines, son. After the Falklands War and a stint in Iraq and Pakistan, I was stationed here as an instructor at the jungle warfare training camp at Mountain Pine Ridge.”
“I love the pine forest and the waterfalls up there,” Ix-Nay said. “We have no pine trees or rivers in the Yucatán. Only cenotes.”
“Ah, the pines.” Archie sighed. “When it was time to re-up or re-tire, I’d had my fill of soldiering. I had seen the world, been shot at and missed, from Belfast to Kafiristan.”
“I thought Kafiristan wasn’t real,” Ix-Nay said, interrupting.
“It’s as real as you want it to be. Kind of like your netherworld,” Archie added.
“Xibalba. I see your point,” Ix-Nay said.
“Have you been to the Khyber Pass?” I asked.
“I have. I carved my name right up there with the best of them on those bloody cliffs. But, junior, you are interrupting the story of my life here.”
“Sorry,” I said. One of the things I’ve learned in my travels is never to interrupt a storyteller once he gets rolling. I put on my listening hat, and Archie continued. “So, after exploring some of the more interesting parts of the planet, I figured it was simply time to try my hand at something. People were starting to make a bundle with the ecotourism racket all over Belize, and I wanted to join the parade. I knew every jungle trail, waterfall, stalagmite, and stalactite in the bush, but I had no experience in the tourist trade. This country was created by pirates, and that still counts for a lot of how things are down here. It is a good place to fuck up and start over again. So I figured this: If you want to learn how to survive in the jungle, you train in Belize. If you want to learn how to survive in the tourist business, you train in Orlando. I wanted my own theme park. It’s amazing what you can get people to buy if you package it right.”
“Did you go to Disney World?” Ix-Nay asked.
“You can read the future, can’t you?” Archie said in a strange voice. “I believe in visions myself. Disney World was where I had my vision of financial success. It was in Disney World where I determined how I would make my bloody fortune.”
“And what was your vision?” Ix-Nay asked.
“The first time I went to the Magic Kingdom, I was shocked at the number of grumpy adults and crying children I saw coming out of the place. The children were overloaded with sugar and going off like Guatemalan volcanoes, and the parents were fifty pounds overweight. They were sweating and shouting like drill sergeants. It didn’t look like any Magic Kingdom to me. And that’s how I got the idea for Cat World.”
“Cat World?” Ix-Nay and I repeated at the same time.
The words brought a roar of laughter from Archie. “Well, I got my hands on a piece of property just off Buena Vista Drive, and that is where I built Cat World. It was really pretty simple. We dressed little lab rats in tiny mouse sweaters and ears, and then we let our customers feed them to a pack of very hungry alley cats.
“We kept the cats in a jungle setting we constructed. It looked very authentic, I might say. Even had a couple of pythons wiggling around in the dirt and a talking toucan perched up on a mango bush.
“It worked. We had lines around the building. You should have seen the happy smiles on those faces that walked out of my place. I called it post-traumatic-theme-park-stress-release therapy. They did a feature in the local paper, and we even got on the cover of one of those grocery-store tabloids. We were making a bundle until a scum-sucking, spineless lawyer and a sheriff’s deputy showed up with a cease and desist order from the county.
“They didn’t just shut me down—they kicked me out of the bloody country. Booted out of the land of the free! You don’t fuck with that little rat in America, I can tell you. So, it was back to Belize I came, but my time in Orlando was time well spent. It got me thinking in another direction, and that’s how I came up with the safari idea.
“My fortune was in my own backyard. I bought a couple of old Land Rovers from the training camp, fixed ’em up, painted ’em with leopard spots and tiger stripes. I spend my days in the bush; I still get to carry a gun, and nobody shoots back. It’s adventure with a safety net. I take people around in the bush as they click away with their cameras at trees, snakes, and wildlife, and at the end of the day, I tell them war stories over a cool o
ne at our tiki bar. You can’t beat that.”
“You certainly can’t,” Ix-Nay said.
“No, you can’t, Danny,” I added. I immediately tried to pull the words back into my mouth, but it was too late.
Archie was staring at me with an odd look on his face. He sat silent for a moment, and then he barked, “God’s holy trousers! Tickets again?” and he burst out laughing.
“Is your name Dravot, sir? I’m to say that Peachy has gone south for the week,” I spouted.
Ix-Nay studied us intensely as Archie and I looked at each other. As if on cue, we simultaneously said, “For the sake of the widow’s son.” Archie held out his hand, and I grasped it.
“But the raja is an independent ruler. He answers to nobody,” I said. “How do you hope to put the screw on him?”
Again, we both answered jointly, “By telling him we’re correspondents for the Northern Star.” At that point, Archie Mercer and I nearly tipped the dinghy over, belly laughing so hard.
“I have got to see this movie,” Ix-Nay said dryly.
“That can be arranged,” Archie told him. “I have a copy at the camp.”
We all fell silent after that as the boat moved up the river. As I sat there, I had one of those moments where you just have to stop and look around at where you are and wonder how in the hell you got there. After having gone through this ritual a few times, my only answer to the question seems to be this: some days, there is just magic in the air.
25
Shackletons or Magellans They Are Not
I guess it is the isolation of living by yourself that makes it such an exciting thing when you find another human being who shares your interests. Archie and I had known each other for less than an hour, yet we were carrying on like a couple of amateurs at a vaudeville show.
“It’s just around the bend,” Archie finally said, and a few minutes later, he was tying the dinghy to the dock. I immediately wanted to take a swim. “Any large reptiles to worry about here?” I asked.
“Crocs don’t hang out on this bank of the river for some strange reason.”
I pulled off my T-shirt and fell backward, frogman style, into the refreshing waters of the river. I bobbed around like a manatee for a few minutes and then waded ashore near a red clay path that cut through a grassy hill on the riverbank. A young Indian wearing a Kafiri Safari T-shirt handed me a towel. Several bright yellow canoes rested on a small sand beach, and they bore the same logo as the boy’s shirt.
“Welcome to the Kafiristan of Central America,” Archie said as I walked into the main building. He held out a glass of fresh papaya juice, which went down easily in the heat.
“Why didn’t you call it Cat World Deux?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Archie said. “I left all that behind me in Orlando. We don’t sacrifice mice out here. Times have changed. Today, it’s ecotourism. Here in Belize, everyone is fascinated with the bloomin’ jaguar. Truth is, we rarely see them, but it doesn’t matter a bit. Kafiri Safari conjures up a vision, and that sells just as well as the real thing. Do you think sane people would spend the kind of money your fishing clients do to trek to the jungle in search of fish that they catch and throw back?”
“I’m not sure I get the comparison,” I said as we sat in a pair of wooden deck chairs on the porch.
“There is no comparison. It is just that the world is really not the cannibal-populated, yellow-fever-infested, lion-in-the-jungle place it once was. It’s not that we have made the world a safer place—quite the contrary, in my opinion—but we have gained knowledge, and that separates myth from reality.”
“You are starting to sound like a shaman,” Ix-Nay said.
Archie laughed that laugh of his. “No, no, no. It’s not that complicated. We simply learned that there are no sea monsters or dragons to contend with—just natural events like hurricanes and volcanoes. This lets the average Joe feel safer to venture out without really having to contend with getting squeezed to death by an anaconda or eaten by a lion. We have reduced the risks considerably. So some of the Joes go to catch your bonefish, and some come to my jungle in hopes of catching a glimpse of a jaguar. Our visitors aren’t Shackletons or Magellans, except in their own minds, and that isn’t such a bad thing for us, is it?”
“I get your point, Archie,” Ix-Nay said with a slight smile.
Camp Kafiri had the look of a deserted Army outpost, which is exactly what it was. Archie told us he had bought it from the Brits when they began downsizing their presence in Central America. Several small cottages were perched on the hill above the river where overnight guests stayed, and an old Quonset hut stood next to a grass landing strip.
“So, gents, what’ll it be? Lunch or shopping?” Archie asked as a small Mayan lady refilled our glasses of papaya juice.
Ix-Nay spoke to her in Mayan, and she smiled.
“I think we’d like to take a look at the truck,” I said.
“Excellent.”
We walked down the runway to the maintenance shed. “Do you have a plane?” I asked.
“I have a collection of used parts that appear to be a plane, but as you know, the jungle takes a heavy toll on flying machines—and just about everything else.” He opened the hangar door. An old plane sat in the corner, along with a tractor and an assortment of canoes, old outboard motors, bicycles, and a Land Rover in a serious state of disrepair. The hood was up, and a collection of engine parts was stacked on the fender.
“God’s holy trousers!” Archie barked. “It’s gone. What the blazes?”
Before I could ask what was gone, Archie spun around on his heel and left us in the dust as he charged out of the shed.
A few minutes later, he reappeared. “Gents, the jungle has struck again. It seems this truck took a mahogany log to the crankcase, and the boys had to put your truck into service. This all happened after I left to pick you up. Nobody told me anything about it, and I am terribly sorry.”
“When will they get back?” I asked.
Archie let out a frustrated sigh. “Not until day after tomorrow.”
This was not good news. We were due back at Lost Boys on Monday, and with no vehicle, we now found ourselves deep in the quicksand of third world transportation.
“So what do we do?” Ix-Nay asked.
“What do you say to a nice lunch, and we can discuss options?” Archie asked.
The way I see it, you never, ever pass up a free meal. In my way of thinking, you eat before you attempt to solve a problem. But I did say a little prayer that the iguana lady I’d run into that morning hadn’t made a delivery to Kafiri.
“Lunch sounds good,” I said.
We sat on the porch and dined on grilled chicken, fresh frog legs, rice and beans, and sliced avocados. Archie offered us wine, and though it was the middle of the day, Ix-Nay and I joined him in a glass of cold rosé.
As we ate, a small ocelot came out from under the table and climbed on Archie’s lap. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Except for that,” he said as he lifted her back right leg, which was only half there. “Bloodly poachers. I tell you, I haven’t killed any humans in quite a while, but if I were to run across one of these bloomin’ cat poachers out here, I would stake ’em to an anthill, I would.” The big cat took in every stroke of Archie’s attention as she lay draped across his lap.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Tripod.”
Archie cruised along on the rosé, which fueled his stories as well as his salesmanship. At one point, he leaped up and ran inside the lodge, returning immediately with a stack of 8 x 10 color shots of the Land Rover. “Ain’t she a beaut? And because of the inconvenience, I’m going to give you a significant discount,” he said, beaming.
The Land Rover in the photo was all Archie. It had been painted mustard yellow with large black spots. The hood featured a very bad airbrushed jaguar head, fangs and all. It must have been painted by someone in a body shop who had inhaled way too many toxic fumes.
&n
bsp; “Nice art, eh?” Archie asked. “I hate to part with her.”
Ix-Nay pointed at the photo. “Why are the machine-gun mounts still there?”
“You never know when you might have to shoot your way out of a bad situation.” Archie paused. Then he burst out laughing. “Just kidding, Billy Fish. The kids get a kick out of them, that’s all.”
The ceiling fans on the shaded porch and a cool breeze coming off the river were holding their own against the afternoon heat as the waiter brought coffee.
“Well, I think I have come up with a plan,” Archie said. “Tully, I thought you sounded disappointed that you missed your visit to San Pedro. It just so happens that a party of folks is leaving us tomorrow for San Pedro. They have a charter flight picking them up first thing in the morning, and they have a couple of extra seats. I have a cozy little time-share bungalow at a local resort called Renaldo’s. My bungalow is empty this weekend, and it’s at your disposal, free of charge. Then you can catch the ferry to Belize City, and I will meet you in town with the Rover. I’ll take you for a test drive, and if you like her, you can be on your way home. What do you say?”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I said, “but I have to call our boss to see if we can stay the extra days.”
Archie bolted from the table and returned with a large satellite phone. He handed it to me and said, “Be my guest. Just point her at the sky and dial away.”
Minutes later I was linked up from one jungle lodge to another. Bucky answered the phone. Captain Kirk had just pulled into port, and the two of them could cover for us until we got back. He also told us to have a good time in San Pedro. You couldn’t ask for a better boss than that.
“We’re in,” I said, grinning.
Shortly after dinner, the paying guests returned from their safari, and we met our fellow passengers for the trip the next morning. It was a family from South Carolina whom Archie introduced as the Clemsons. Dad called himself Big C, Mom was Liz, and their three teenage children looked as if they actually enjoyed one another’s company.