Flaco by Shelley Randall 

First Place, Adult Non-Fiction

I parked my campervan between two fruit trees and looked around. According to the loverlander App, I was supposed to be at an old boys and girls camp at the headwaters of a river in Veracruz, Mexico. I had traveled down miles of dirt roads and finally a winding cobblestone road to get here, hoping to swim in a crystalline pool at the headwaters of a river that fed into the Gulf of Mexico. I opened my window and heard pulsing music coming across the orchard from a couple of open air bungalows. I rolled up the window against the humidity and looked at my faithful four legged companion, Louise, in the co-pilot seat. She was a fifteen pound Cocker Spaniel, always up for an adventure. Though not such a good watch dog; she loved everyone.

“Ready Louise?” I hoisted her down onto the thick dewy grass and immediately I felt the sensation of biting around my ankles. I hated these tropical flies that seemingly took great chunks of flesh out of my tender ankles, embedding a poison in my skin that compelled me to scratch mercilessly for days afterward. It was because of these nasty insects that i had confined my campervan travels in Mexico to the dryer central region. But I wanted to see the Gulf of Mexico and so I made my way to low lying Veracruz, a place of heat, extreme humidity and biting bugs. I speeded up my pace a bit reluctantly towards the open air bungalow with a thatched roof. The music blared ever louder as I approached. Sitting at an old wooden table were two men, one skinny and shirtless and the other paunchy of indeterminate age, sporting a well worn straw hat, numerous empty beer bottles set out before them. The stench of beer, tobacco and sweat hung like a cloud around them suspended in the moisture laden air.

“Hola”, I greeted them. “Can I park here for the night?” I gestured to my van across the orchard.

“Of course! Welcome." The paunchy one stood to pull a chair over to the table for me and gestured for me to sit. Reluctantly, I sat, Louise at my feet. I began scratching at my itchy ankles, the thought of swimming in cool water brought relief. I was anxious to find that crystalline pool I had read about.

And here I was, seated in a plastic chair under a thatched roof with the skinny one, named Flaco, and Don Miguel, the caretaker of the property. They grinned at me wildly as they pulled great gulps of beer from the bottles and sucked on the cigarettes. I counted eight empties in front of them and it was early afternoon.

“Where's the swimming hole?” I shouted above the blaring music, feeling all the alert systems in my body rise. I was anxious to get away from this seemingly unstable situation.

Flaco waved his arm towards an opening in the trees along the stream banks and said the pool was a short distance up the path.

I got up abruptly saying something about the bugs and needing bug spray and ran across the orchard towards my van. Sliding the door open I jumped in and quickly changed into my bathing suit, put my shorts and t-shirt on again and grabbed my daypack always filled with towel and water bottle for swimming excursions.

I had to walk past the bungalow to get to the trail head and waved to Flaco and Don Miguel, despite feeling some unease about alerting them. But I wasn't sure where I was going and maybe they needed to know where I was if something hung me up while swimming alone out in the tropical forest.

The path along the stream bed was slightly muddy and through the density of the trees I caught glimpses of flowing turquoise blue and green water. A cacophony of bird songs accompanied me as I walked. And then, there it was, a clearing and a twenty by forty-foot pool of water ringed by volcanic rock. A small waterfall poured down from the jagged headwall splashing and singing its song as it fell onto the rocks and into the pool. I was at the headwaters, the birthing of a river that would grow in width and force as it made its way along the valley and into the ocean. The pool was azure and so clear I could see the sand and smaller rock formations on the bottom. The tree branches hanging over the pool cast patches of sparkling sunlight and darker shadows upon the still waters.

I sat down in a bit of mud, letting my legs dangle over a rock at the edge of the pool, stunned at the beauty. It was warm and humid. I couldn't believe my good luck at having found this hidden sanctuary. Thoughts of snakes or alligators floated in the recesses of my brain causing a rise in my heartbeat. But the clear waters were so inviting I overrode those fears and slowly lowered myself into the pool. My body soothed and tingled as the pool enveloped me. I floated out into the middle and closed my eyes, fully swathed and held by the healing waters.

I scrambled back up the rock to my towel and rested. I thought I heard some rustling behind me and turned to look into the dense thicket of trees. I figured birds were searching around for bugs in the undergrowth. I made my way over the craggy rocks to the waterfall to duck my head under and then slid back into the pool, reveling in this cleansing rite. I contemplated taking off my bathing suit, my soul crying out for nakedness in this primeval oasis. But I remembered the two men who had greeted me at the “campground” seated at the table under the open air bungalow, music blaring, empty beer bottles set out on the table between them and thought better of exposing myself further.

I tread water in the middle of the pool, making sure to kick hard to alert any underwater creatures of my dominance. I swam the several strokes back to my rock and hefted myself up out of the water and sat, my towel wrapped around me to gaze out over this isolated, tropical utopia.

Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me. I looked around as Flaco alighted next to me on the rock. I could smell his salty, sharp sweat and feel the heat emanating from his body. His machete clattered down next to him on the rock. His torso was almost concave, his rib cage clearly defined, like a featherless baby bird.

“Hola, this is a beautiful place isn't it?” he said. The sweet, cloying smell of beer misting from his mouth hung in the dense air.

I tried to think as the hair on my arms and neck stood up and my heart began to pound. Machete, remote, alone, tropical forest, were the words that came to mind as my breathing quickened to shallow.

“Yes, it's magnificent,” I agreed, noticing my jaw tensing, my stomach muscles contracting, my entire body on high alert. I might have prayed silently too.

Flaco readjusted himself on the rock. He had been squatting but now sat with his legs outstretched, I could see his sinewy muscles; his bare feet were dirty and calloused. I shivered and pulled my towel tighter around me. My shoes, shirt and shorts were balled up in my daypack. I waited, unsure, searching for options.

And then he began to talk. He talked about the magic of Mother Earth and how we humans had been poisoning and pillaging her for hundreds of years. He said he prayed to her every day and prayed for the humans to mend their ways and begin to treat her with the honor and respect she deserved.

And as he talked I could see the animation in his face, the gaps in his mouth where teeth should have been and the leather texture of his brown skin, His eyes were glassy with a far away look as he launched into his big idea. He wanted to start an earth-centered sustainable community, like the way his ancestors had lived, and teach others how to live in respectful reciprocity with “La Madre”, Mother Earth.

He barely paused for breath. I could feel the tender energy radiate from his thin body and heard his voice stretch and become more urgent as he spoke. I began to relax. And I also thanked God I wasn't sitting next to someone with more nefarious intentions. I felt blessed as I looked out over the shimmering pool and the afternoon sun sank lower.