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The Women at Posada del
Angel
By WOODY REHANEK
The women at Posada del Angel take good
care of my emotional & linguistic needs.
Dona Flor is a friendly mother hen type,
a benign, fish-faced Pisces with gold-capped
teeth. Her eyes seem sad & heavy-lidded. She
advises me on "affairs of the heart"; her
husband's a Scorpio, too, born November 4th.
Basilia is 26, somewhat moody & large-
hipped, with beautiful dark chocolate skin
& sharper Indian features, as though her
ancestors were not Maya. She lives with her
3 brothers near a cemetery. They have no
drinking water, their mother's dead, their
father lives in Progreso but apparently has
nothing to do with them.
Basilia is interested in me; Dona Flor has
suggested Basilia as my "guide" on excur-
sions, but I'm not romantically interested
in Basilia & have explained to Dona Flor
that I don't want to complicate my life
with a love affair in Merida. Kay has
promised non-involvement with others
***
(sexually) in my absence; I will do the
same during our trial separation, to keep
things simpler & clearer, until she & I
decide our mutual fate--& that of our
our girls: Yava, 12; Yuvia, 8; Estrella, 4.
Sweet girls. So much hangs in the balance...
Dona Flor thinks I am sad & lonely for
lack of female companionship. She is very
perceptive! I try to hide & overcome it,
but it's hard with all these dark-skinned
beauties, some of whom would like nothing
more than to marry a norteamericano &
ride off into the sunset. Dona Flor proudly
told me of just such a scenario. He was
from CALIFORNIA, which here is regarded
as Shangri-La. Even Los Angeles sounds
glamorous here.
So I go to the Posada del Angel nightly to
shoot the breeze in Spanish & drink a local
beer, such as Leon Negro. Sometimes I eat
dinner or munch on a crema de cacahuate,
Mexican-style peanut butter halvah. They
are addicting...
***
Dona Julia is giggling this morning, a good
sign. Right now, she is sweeping the
concrete floor of the open-air kitchen. Nights
have been cool, maybe in the upper 50s,
which is absolutely cold to the Maya fam-
ilies here. DONA JULIA HAD NO BLANKET,
only a few old clothes to heap on herself.
Maybe her good spirits this morning
indicate that she has slept well. I gave
her money to buy a blanket, knowing that
I cannot sleep well in my cozy sleeping
bag if she is shivering all night long! She
is a second mother to me. With this
"cold-spell," the blanket vendors have
raised their prices, & Dona Julia has
shied away from buying one at inflated
prices. Instead, she bought an embroidered
huipil—something she will treasure...
For a while, a guest like me enjoys
"privileged status," which keeps things
airy & impersonal. After living with
people, you lose that distance & begin
to absorb their joys & sorrows, their
hardships & triumphs—& they, in turn,
absorb yours. Your mutual sharing reaches
***
a more profound (if less idyllic) depth;
the interplay is more crests & valleys
than a steady stream of alegria, y asi
es la vida!
Basilia wants "a blanket that they don't
sell in the market," meaning a husband.
Sixto has been remote & preoccupied ever
since our visit to Izamal, where I told
him that I really couldn't smuggle him
across the border with me. Dona Julia is
trying to make it through the cold snap
in one piece. Dona Flor & Basilia often
play to an empty house; for hours on end,
I'm the only cliente in the Posada del
Angel, which is surprising because it's
clean & nice, but looks ersatz-American
& therefore EXPENSIVE. Street vendors
avoid it except to sell things to the
owners; vacationing Mexican business-
men with families order sodas & club
sandwiches here.
Meanwhile, I got Dona Flor telling me
about her brother, who fell in love with
***
a dark-skinned Negra. Her father was un-
happy about it and bought a concoction
for 10 pesos from a brujo: 3 doses & her
brother would forget about the Negra.
Literally, that's what happened. Her
brother no longer recognized the Negra
& became totally disinterested in her
alarmed entreaties! Love dissolved,
dispersed, evaporated, vanished.
Merida, Yucatan, MX
Jan. Feb, 1987
******
"Caribbean reality resembles
the wildest imagination."
--Gabriel Garcia Marquez
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