“Sounds good to me.” Caroline stretched tiredly.
“This is where í have to rely on your aboriginal expertise, Ross.”
“I’d feel more at home in Austin,” the Texan confessed as they started down the steep stairway, “but we’ll do the best we can.”
Breaking out of the rain forest and back onto the sand, he and Caroline debated whether to head north or south. Without knowing their position relative to the tourist towns of Cancún and Cozumel, they had little to go on. So when Caroline voted for the south, Ross had no reason to object. They walked for miles before he used a sharp rock to crack a couple of coconuts. The water within was deliciously refreshing, the meat cool and savory. Having no need of sustenance either liquid or solid, Jed perceived their actions with indifference. Sometimes being dead had its advantages.
Caroline sipped from her indigenous wooden chalice. “I always thought a real jungle would be very romantic.” Her left hand brushed continuously back and forth in front of her face. “It’s not. It’s hot, sweaty, buggy, and dangerous.”
“They usually are,” Jed observed. “A mana Five is entirely covered in jungle and the ‘bugs’ there are so big and vicious that—”
She cut him off. “Never mind. What I’d really like to find is a shower.”
“Wouldn’t matter if we did,” Ross Ed pointed out. “We don’t have any money.”
“Says you.” From her omnipresent fanny pack she removed the credit card she’d alluded to back in Los Angeles, when they’d first discussed fleeing Tealeaf’s hospitality for San Diego.
Her companion eyed it speculatively. “That’s swell, provided anyone around here takes plastic.”
“Where’ve you been, Ross Ed? Everybody takes plastic these days.”
“In the jungle? I wouldn’t count on it.”
• • •
“Visa, MasterCard, Diner’s Card, American Express. Sumitomo. Barclay’s, and Banco Vera Cruz, señor. Any of those are acceptable. I was offered a Harrod’s card once but could not figure out how to process it.”
They’d met a couple of kids fishing from a point of rocks. The boys had shown them a trail which led through the rain forest, past newly cleared cornfields, to a dirt road, and thence to the village of Santa Luisa del Mar. There they had found the cantina, with its outdoor tables, Dos Equis umbrellas, and freshly painted stucco.
Santa Luisa was a boomtown, barely a few years old, which explained why its inhabitants had not yet found the temple complex hidden in the jungle to the north. Or perhaps they had, Ross Ed reflected, and were keeping its location a secret while they pillaged its passageways and tombs. In their covert search for gold and jade artifacts, acquisitive locals wouldn’t pay much attention to a tree stump.
After inhaling a couple of cold Coronas apiece, the weary travelers consented to order food. High up on a wall a radio was blasting out a melange of Argentinian rock, Mexican pop, and American country-western. Ross Ed put his feet up on an empty chair and felt almost at home. With the backpack scooted beneath the heavy table, Jed remained comfortably out of sight.
The proprietor wore a bright, flowery shin, jeans, and a white apron. His wide forehead, bulging cheeks, and enormous mustache framed a pleasant disposition.
“I’ll bet you don’t get many tourists here.” Caroline swigged her Corona directly from the bottle.
“That is changing rapidly, señora. Ever since the start of something called eco-tourism, crazy people from all over the world are coming to the Yucatán. They bash their way through the jungle, frightening away the animals and birds, getting bitten by bugs and stung by scorpions and wasps, and then leave saying what a fine time it was they had. Some even bring their own drinks, which they sip all day long.” His brown forehead creased. “What are lomotil and imodium, anyway? Some kind of milk drink?”
“But you still do business.” Ross Ed saluted with his bottle.
The man smiled. “Enough, and it is getting better every month. They drink my beer and cat my food and some days my wife and daughters cannot make tortillas fast enough. Life is good, eh, señor?”
Ross glanced under the table. “It’s interesting, anyway.”
“Besides touristas we get archaeologists, oilmen, scientists, and surfers. You would be surprised, my friends, at the number of people who come this way.”
“Your beer’s very good,” Ross Ed told him. “I hope your tamales, burritos, and frijoles are its equal.”
The proprietor wagged a finger at him. “I know your accent, señor. You are from Texas, yes?” Ross nodded and the man smiled. “Then you are almost a Mexican.”
“And you’re almost a Texan.”
“I will make sure the food is hot enough for you.”
“I’d appreciate that. I like it hot … so long as there’s enough cold beer.”
While they waited for their food he and Caroline watched children brown as nuts roll hoops up and down the dusty street. Occasionally a donkey cart would trundle past, and less often, an old car or truck held together with bailing wire and prayers. The village was still sleepy, but like so much of southern Mexico, in the process of waking up.
There would be a telephone, he surmised. They’d make it safely back to Texas yet.
“Hey, haven’t you kids got anything else to do? Vamos!’ He sat up in his chair and waved at a couple of teenagers who were leaning on the railing and staring. When he started to rise, they fled. Had they noticed Jed? He couldn’t be sure.
They were nearly through with their excellent meal when two of the three teens Ross had chased off returned. Three men accompanied them; lean, intense, no-nonsense-looking fellows. Two of them had weapons slung over their shoulders. M-16s, Ross noted even as he doubted they were used for hunting monkeys.
“Maybe they’re just coming in for a drink.”
“I don’t like guns,” Caroline announced.
“Then you wouldn’t feel at home in Texas. Let’s just ignore them.”
This proved difficult to do when the new arrivals entered the patio via the swinging gate, turned sharply to their left, and marched straight up to the Americans’ table. One of the teens immediately started jabbering away in a mixture of Spanish and a language Ross didn’t recognize. As he rambled he pointed not at the Texan or his companion, but under their table.
“I don’t like it,” Ross whispered. “What do they want?”
“I’ll get the owner.” She started to rise.
Her effort was premature. Having taking note of the confrontation, the proprietor was already on is way over. Slinging the towel he’d been carrying over his shoulder, he engaged the newcomers in conversation. As they talked looks and fingers ‹occasionally flew in the travelers’ direction.
