IN THE STYLE OF MARUATA
A repeating theme in this ‘narrative of the voyage of the bloody, snake chariot’ (www.libbyhome.blogspot.com) is being really low on money, taking refuge on a tropical beach, where I live as cheaply as is possible, go native, take life as it comes, as I try to figure out how to get to the next place I need to be.
Its happened to me at Nama Beach at the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, on the Red Sea, in 1979-80. It happened to me in Tulum in the Yucatan in 1997. It happened to me in Miami, Honduras in 2005.
Now it is happening in Maruata, Michoacan, Mexico.
Every time I have been stranded on a tropical beach there has been the invitation to go ‘native’, to take on the color, culture, style and consciousness of where I am.
I have never refused this invitation.
These times on the beach have defined who I became, who I am.
This being stranded on the beach is an experience I share with Herman Melville
And yet, Melville refused the invitation to go native.
Melville coined the word, ‘beachcomber’ in his first book ‘Typee’, published in 1846. The word describes Europeans and Americans, who became resident on South Pacific Islands, who ‘combed’ the beach for anything they could use and trade.
When a beachcomber had ‘gone native’, gone renegade, abandoned their original culture, and that culture’s values - they were, in Melville’s eyes, despicable outcasts.
In Typee, Melville deserts a whaling ship and is given the invitation to go native on the island of Nukuheva in the South Pacific.
This became a terrifying thing for Melville. He feared he would be forced to have a tatoo on his face. He feared he would be cannibalized.
Something went terribly wrong with a leg. It began to rot and stink.
When the Polynesian who was his friend, who had been only kind to him, who most directly gave the invitation to be in the community of the beach, to go native - when this man tried to stop him from escaping Nukuheva, Melville stabbed him in the throat with a boat hook..
In his immaculate soul Melville was a wild man’s wild man. He was a PROPHET.
And yet, he writhed, and suffered, impaled on the pin of Victorian morality and conventionality, the expectations of ‘society’, the expectations of others.
I read and study what people regard as HOLY SCRIPTURE, as literature. And yet, there is LITERATURE I read as holy scripture.
This is how I read ‘MOBY DICK’.
The book tells of the acceptance or rejection of the invitation of the ‘WONDER WORLD’. It tells of the posture to hold in the face of MYSTERY.
And when I read ‘MOBY DICK’ I can’t help but to wonder what comes after the ‘Pequod’ is rammed, staved-in, sunk by the monstrous, mutant, albino sperm whale, with the loss of all aboard - except for one Ishmael?
And what happens to Steelkilt and his Mutiny after, “a certain wondrous inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of God which at times are said to overtake some men”, that took the form of MOBY DICK?
The answers are in Chapter 54, ‘The Town-Ho. The only part of the book that takes place after the ‘Pequod’ has gone down.
Melville came to understand his inability to accept the invitation to go native was a serious failing.
On the thick-gilt-tiled piazza of The Golden Inn, in the city of Lima, Peru, one saint’s eve, we see a much changed Ishmael, two years after the MOBY DICK APOCALYPSE.
He’s smoking really good cannabis, and drinking the best chicha, (Inca corn beer), with his particularly close friends and associates Don Pedro, and Don Sebastian.
They are described as ‘Spanish Grandees’. And yet, they are Peruvian Creole Aristocracy, who probably have Royal Incan ancestry - whose mandate to be aristocracy is more based on their Incan ancestry rather than their Spanish ancestry.
They have come into a precarious control of the new/old country 20 years after the Simon Bolivar War of South American Independence.
The new/old country is trying to invent/re-invent itself. And yet, the people are more oppressed then they were under Spanish Colonialism.
The rule of the government, the rule of law is weak.
It is all dynamic uncertainty.
And there is much money to be made from, coastal, guano deposits which are being transported to Europe and the United States for the manufacture of explosives and fertilizer.
And there is much money to be made from the burgeoning export of coca leaf. And chemists have figured out how to make cocaine.
Ishmael/Don Marinero (Sir Sailor), as he is called, has a narrative style different from the rest of the book. It is a style in which Ishmael is trying to convey he not only speaks Spanish, he is eloquent in Spanish. He is drunkenly glib in Spanish.
He calls this ‘The Style of Lima’.
The masculine is overwhelming in the book. There is almost nothing of woman. But even though there is no female character in Chapter 54, The Golden Inn, this place which dispenses very fine, very powerful chicha - feels like its a very elegant, female space.
Perhaps, the Golden Inn is a brothel. And yet, it definitely wouldn’t be a business-as-usual brothel. Perhaps a kind of temple of the Chosen Incan Priestesses - the Akolona.
The outcast who starts the book by enlisting on a whaling ship rather than blowing his brains out - the lowest ranked whaler, with the smallest share of the Pequod’s profits, is now a - LORD OF CREATION.
And there is no doubt he has gone native.
What is this going native that I’m speaking of? What does it mean to go native in Lima, Peru in the mid-19th Century. What does it mean to go native on the Michoacan Coast in the early 21st Century?
It is the breaking of the containers of personal identity. It is the breaking of our containers of culture, nationality, opinion, race, prejudice, religion. It is the realization that we are not our containers, but the free flowing essence within the containers.
It is the vibrating with the world Columbus found.
It is the coming into more life in life.
Maruata in the early 21st Century is much like Lima in the mid-19th Century.
In Maruata, I live/sleep in a hammock in the open, thatched, sand-floored, house of Don Chimmy.
Chimmy is A RIGHTEOUS FISHERMAN of 50 years.
Also living there is his lovely bride, Simona, their youngest daughter, Lupita, and her puppy, Killer.
Chimmy and I have become good friends.
He is a leader of the fishermen. He is a leader of the about 2,000 souls of the Pueblo.
The men gather at his house and smoke the best motor/weed in Michoacan.
Chimmy lives where a very small river meets the sea. It is where the launchers (the 22 - 26 foot, heavy fiberglass, fishing boats, with large outboard engines) are. We do a lot of pushing these boats across the sand, to get them in and out of the sea. We push them out-of-the-way of the boats we are pushing in and out of the sea.
There are also many old trucks that need to be clutch started. There is much pushing of trucks.
We talk about women, life, diving 100 feet down and hunting octopus/pulpo, cannabis, growing cannabis, and recent history.
Between 2005 and 2013 the evil cult/cartel The Knights Templars ruled Michoacan.
It was a rein of blood and terror, of extortion, kidnapping and murder. No one’s property was safe. No one was safe.
And yet, as a testament to the magical reality of Maruata , it was a free zone. It was ‘libre’. Things remained chido/cool.
Maruata got a special deal.
Perhaps The Knight Templars wanted to nurture cannabis tourism in Michoacan before they seized and extorted it?
Miraculously, the moment-to-moment of Maruata was little effected. It remained a really cool place - a kind of Mexican Jamaica, better than a Mexican Jamaica because Maruata is not an angry place.
Chimmy played a big part in this.
And then in 2013 the people of Michoacan rose up and overthrew the evil cult of death/cartel, and the police who were employees of the Knight Templars. The people seized control of cannabis production, distribution. The people became the police.
The Government of Mexico - being rotten with corruption - had done nothing to help the people of Michoacan. The police and the government were in the evil cult/cartel’s pocket.
And yet, after The Knight Templars had been driven out of Michoacan the government made a show of embracing the vigilantes.
They deputized some. Officially made them into Mexican police.
And yet, the government was mostly about disarming the vigilantes as quickly as possible - a very dangerous proposition for the vigilantes in their on-going life or death struggle with the cartels.
The vigilantes who became deputized, who became police, in some cases gave up good, automatic assault rifles, M-16’s. In return they got weapons that are jokingly/seriously said to be the same weapons used by Pancho Villa, 100 years ago.
They have the shirts but they don’t have the pants of a police uniform.
The vigilants who didn’t give up their weapons are said by the government to be in alliance with rival cartels. Or the government says the vigilante organizations are now cartels. Or the government says the vigilants have been infiltrated by cartel members.
These vigilantes remain at war with the federal police.
It is the War for Michoacan. It is Michoacan re-inventing itself. It is the on-going War for the Americas.
The Federal Police drive through/patrol Maruata in big, black pick-up trucks. There are six to nine men in these trucks. All the men are packing machine guns, and M-16’s.
They can kill a lot of people - quickly.
On the third day I was in Maruata, I found all the police in Maruata in Chimmy’s house.
The front of Chimmy’s house is Simona’s Restaurant. The police had taken this space over. There were eight men and a pretty young woman. Some of the men, had stripped to their underwear and had gone swimming at the near-by beach. Others were searching Chimmy’s property
Chimmy wasn’t there, nor was anyone in his family.
I went into the house to watch the police.
The leader/commandante of the police is Carlos. He is in his 30’s. He has his charisma. He is ambitious. He is dangerous to the people under his command. He is dangerous to the people he ‘polices’. He is dangerous to himself.
Carlos was showing his physical agility by attempting to climb one of Chimmy’s trees, laden with ripe coconuts.
It was impressive. He almost made it to the coconuts. And yet, in the end they drove the police truck to the tree, and harvested Chimmy’s coconuts from the roof of the truck .
When I walked into Simona’s Restaurant, I immediately became the center of attention.
I was, no doubt, a person of interest.
Carlos asked if I spoke Spanish.
‘Muy poco’ (very little), I lied.
He then asked if I smoked motor (weed).
“Si, Mon,” I declared.
I explained, in very bad Spanish, that I smoked medical cannabis. I explained it was legal.
The police searching Chimmy’s property returned to Simona’s Restaurant with a wild, small, immature cannabis plant.
It was on the edge of Chimmy’s property. Probably not on Chimmy’s property.
The police passed it around.
And the way it was handled, the comments made about the plant - it was obvious, all the cops smoked weed.
It was then that Chimmy returned.
He was immediately confronted with the plant.
He chuckled.
“Its springtime” he said. “There’s many plants like this - all over the place.”
Carlos accused Chimmy of having fields of weed, nearby (there aren’t).
Then he began speaking of Chimmy’s brother.
Carlos said he knew, was good friends with, the cop Chimmy’s brother shot.
He said that cop was never going to walk again.
Chimmy’s brother, one of his eight siblings, and yet, a brother who was closest in age to Chimmy, a brother who had a wife and four children, this brother had his cannabis grow raided.
There was a gunfight. A cop was wounded. Chimmy’s brother was killed.
In a voice that cracked with emotion, Chimmy spoke of how close he was to his brother. Yet, Chimmy said he had nothing to do with what his brother was doing.
The police didn’t believe him.
And yet, they were moved.
To lighten the mood, Carlos began calling me “Papa.”
Carlos joked that one of the cops looked a lot like me.
He asked if I was the cop’s father.
I walked up to the cop and looked at him with interest. I looked at him closely. I looked at him for awhile.
Finally I lifted up my arms, shrugged my shoulders and said, Quien Sabe/Who Knows?
There was this beautiful sound of mirthful, Mexican belly laugh.
Carlos began speaking of Trump. He said if Trump doesn’t want Mexicans in the United States. He doesn’t want gringos in Mexico.
“PINCHE, CABRON, GRINGOS!!!”, I said in enthusiastic agreement.
Again there was that beautiful sound of mirthful, Mexican belly laugh.
Carlos asked me why I had medical cannabis.
I showed him my right ankle that has a metal plate and two screws.
A cop came forward and said he had a metal plate and two screws in his left leg. Other cops came up to me to show me their wounds.
I told them they should smoke more motor/weed.
Before he left Carlos said he wanted to spend his vacation in Chimmy’s house - like I was doing.
Chimmy said he was free to rent a cabana or camping space from him, just like everybody else.
Lima in the middle of the 19th Century is like Maruata.
Ishmael’s/Marinero’s friendship with Pedro and Sebastian is like my friendship with Chimmy.
They stand together in the midst of the police.
And when Ishmael/Marinero is telling the story of Steelkilt and his Mutiny, he speaks of the mariners of that great, inland sea, the Great Lakes of North America, the outlaw Erie Canal Men, the distrusted men of Sydney, Australia.
Pedro and Sebastian interrupt the narrative to get more information about these people. Because this is the kind of humanity Pedro, Sebastian, and Ishmael/Marinero stand in the midst of.
And they stand together.
Together, they conclude, the rest of the world is much like Lima.
Pedro and Sebastian have not heard the story of Ahab and the MOBY DICK APOCALYPSE - yet.
Ishmael/Marinero is introducing MOBY DICK in the telling of the story of the Steelkilt Mutiny.
And what is the point of the story of the Steelkilt Mutiny?
Ishmael/ Marinero is talking gospel.
He is telling the GOOD NEWS.
He’s talking REVOLUTION.
He’s talking ULTIMATE HERESY.
He’s telling Sebastian, Pedro - all those drinking chicha at the Golden Inn - that ugly, tyrants can’t help themselves. They will try to keep you down. They will oppress the Human for no other reason than its shining with DIVINITY.
Ugly, tyrants will whip you to within an inch of your life.
And yet, there is no keeping DIVINITY down.
When Humans stand up for their rights, are true to their DIVINITY, when you let IT shine - MOBY DICK, “a very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster”, is all for IT - he has your back.
Those listening to the story are rightfully concerned about the Inquisition.
When Ishmael/Marinero is asked to swear on a copy of the holy evangelists (the bible) to the veracity of his story/heresy, he raises the stakes by asking that the priest who has the book, be produced.
He swears to the Truth of the story, and adds he has seen and spoken to Steelkilt since Radney was killed.
Which means he has seen and spoken to Steelkilt since after THE MOBY DICK APOCALYPSE.
Which means that Steelkilt could be in South America, too.
What comes after the ‘Pequod’ is rammed, staved-in, sunk?
And what comes after the Steelkilt Mutiny and “a certain wondrous inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of God which at times are said to overtake some men”, that took the form of MOBY DICK?
There is the traveling of the world. There is the breaking of containers. There is going native. There is the seeking and finding of the the home of a Righteous Person(s). There is the finding of a place like The Golden Inn.
And in a place like the Golden Inn, there is the telling of THE GOOD NEWS, there are MIRACLES, there is HEALING, there is MORE LIFE IN LIFE, there is the WONDER WORLD that covers the earth if only you have eyes to see.
May 5, 2017
Playa Llorona
I’m up the Michoacan Coast at Playa Llorona.
The population here is said to be 44.
And yet, I’m not sure if its accurate. It could include some of the beach’s more notable dogs
It’s the place I need to be.
I live, sleep in my hammock in the house of a RIGHTEOUS FISHERMAN, Don Seraphim, a friend of Chimmy’s.
Here thunderous, huge, wild, crashing waves pound the beach.
There are no surfers here.
And yet, there are interludes when its possible to boogie board, to body surf.
Here at Llorona I am coming into my 62-and-a-half year.
I am, no doubt, broke-ass.
And yet, I delight in my life, this imaging of what comes after. I delight in this blazing, glorious Indian Summer.
For it is an Indian Summer in that it follows hard-frosts of mortality.
The other day I saw a very endangered, about three-foot-long Pacific black sea turtle crossing the beach to get back to the sea.
After traveling thousands of nautical miles, she had returned to the place her mother had deposited the egg from which she hatched. She had just dug a nest (she may have dug several before she dug the right one), laid and buried her eggs in the sand at the edge of the beach.
And she was now crossing a wide expanse of burning sand under a hot sun.
She was exhausted, struggling.
I did not interfere with this.
I walked beside her and made sure the beach’s dogs did not bother her.
And I looked into her eyes, watched her exaltation, as we walked into the surf and were swept by the waves.
And I know I will get to the next place I need to be.