While in the Mystic I spoke Selassie with Peter - The Shack.
We spoke of the posture that comes when you recognize mystery, the
posture of leaping into the wild blue yonder.
These leaps transcend physical geography. They are possible in every
circumstance, experience, observation, vocation in the human
condition.
I'm styling in this leap. I am living La Vida Larga.
I flew from J.F.K. to Gee Dub in Houston. Then I flew to Caracas,
Venezuela.
I had been warned repeatly about Caracas. The day I left Mystic I met
up with two friends, Johnny 'Chumula' Henson, and Geof Jones. They
advised that the first thing I should do at the airport was buy a
large caliber hand-gun.
But Caracas was good to me.
I found Luis. And Luis found me at the airport. He is in all ways a
kind and generous grandfather.
He drove me in his taxi to the main bus station in Caracas. He waited
in line to buy my ticket to Merida. He bought me coffee, water, maps.
And he got me in the next available bus seat to Merida which wasn't
leaving for another eight hours.
It was good to be generous in return.
In the next eight hours I had only good, amiable things happen with
the people of Caracas.
I arrived in Merida around 10 a.m. the next morning.
Everyone had always recommended Merida to me. I was told it was a
safe, peaceful, beautiful place.
Around 10:45 I was re-united with mi hermano, the Chief Rollin' Rock.
Around 12:30 p.m. we were eating breakfasts Americano in an outdoor
cafe a block away from the posada we are staying at. We were telling
war stories of our encounters with El Senor Diablo in
Latino America.
As we told stories a tall, 20-something citizen of
the Merida underworld asked the chief for a cigarette. He spoke
English. He said his name was Rafael. He told me I looked
like someone who really likes ganja. He said he had some really good
stuff.
I told him in a noncomital way, Me Gusto...
My full beard is back. I kind of look like the guy on the Zig Zag
Cigarette Paper Pack.
When I run out of herb - I quit. You gotz some? I don't go out of my
way to get it. But if it comes to me, I take it
as a kind of providence.
But there were things about Rafael I couldn't help but to observe.
When I reached to shake his right hand I observed that his right hand
was swollen, perhaps broken, possibly because he had just punched a
wall. He looked like he could have an issue with the coca.
He said he had just punched a cop.
He left the outdoor cafe table we were seated at to retrieve a sweat
shirt he had left there. He returned with a sweat shirt and a bottle
of Polar Ice Beer. He asked for 1,000 Bolivars (about 33 cents
Americano).
I said I'd be glad to give him some money, could he give us some herb?
He said he would be back in half-an-hour. He left the beer bottle.
He was back in about 10 minutes, pretending that he had run from a
great distance. He then in a theatrically covert way produced two gum
wrappers with some small particles of swag. He said he wanted 10,000
b's (about $3.33 Americano).
I said it was swag, and I did not want it.
He did not know what swag was and started to become very angry.
I reached into my pocket, took out all my change (at least 1,000 b's)
and said ''take this for your trouble, but I do not want what you
have.''
There was a moment when it seemed like he was going to take the
change and then go away. But instead he did a wind up and threw the
coins in my face.
He then began spewing the historic Venezuelan resentment. He called
me a fucking white, rich, oligarch asshole. He insisted that I give
him 10,000 b's immediately.
Instead I took the gum wrappers and threw them into his face.
He was furious. He began reaching into the gutter where the gum
wrappers had fallen, but then he broke the empty beer bottle on the
curb, and started threatening me with the stub of the bottle.
He insisted I take the gum wrappers and give him the money.
I told him - ''no lo quiero.''
He then went around the corner and pretended he was calling for his
gang to come. He then went down the street as if there was someone
down there who would come to help him fuck us up.
He returned alone.
Again he insisted I give him the money. Again I
said -''no lo quiero.''
He charged with the stub of the bottle, extended in his swollen right
hand. He kept the broken glass level with my stomach.
I never stopped looking into his eyes. I did not blink. I saw that he
was not going to stab me. I raised my arms, and although I did not
say it, I communicated to him ''Bring it on bee-otch.''
I saw when he blinked.
The broken glass stopped an inch short of my stomach. Raphael then
noticed the Chief coming at him with a raised chair.
He quickly retreated. He continued the diatribe of the historical
resentment from a distance. He picked up some broken glass and threw
it at me, hitting me in the chest.
The Chief again started to go at him with the chair.
He threw the stub of the bottle at The Chief. Then he went away
saying he would be back, with others.
We leisurely left the street. And when we were indoors we spoke of
how it felt to be more alive in life when you are in the presence of
that bee-otch El Senor El Diablo in La Vida Larga.