The Unintentional Healing of Soul

By Lindsay Boyd

Steve Casey, a forty-five-year-old divorcee with one son visits his ageing parents on the eve of his departure for Central America. He is about to commence his third trip to the region in the space of five years. All have been undertaken in the hope of finding out something about the fate of a younger brother, Kenny, who went to Central America years before only to lose contact with the family.

After visiting Mexico City for several days, Steve travels to Managua, the Nicaraguan capital, where he begins to recall the course of his relationship with his ex-wife and much else about his earlier life. He goes on to make inquiries in regions that Kenny spent time in but encounters a series of dead ends, as in the past. He then takes his search to Honduras where he decides to help out a voluntary group in Tegcigalpa for nearly a month before moving on to El Salvador.

In San Salvador, he meets an Australian aid worker who suggests that an expatriate living in the town of Suchitoto might have met Kenny. Steve calls on this man and learns that they were acquainted. The expatriate last had news of Kenny when the latter was about to enter Guatemala with the intention of taking some formal Spanish tuition.

In the course of his wanderings, Steve recalls the time when his brother returned to Australia in February 1989, following a two-year spell in Central America. He remembers how he established himself in a bed-sit in Melbourne but being unable to find paid employment made do with voluntary work. Despite his efforts, however, Kenny quickly became disillusioned with the Australian way of life and within the space of approximately a year saved sufficient funds to make his way back to Central America.

Steve travels to Guatemala. He visits several language schools in Antigua and Quetzaltenango but no one recalls Kenny. On the spur of the moment, he decides to enroll in classes at one of the schools in Quetzaltenango. During the course of a month's tuition, his fourth and last teacher at the school tells him about a community of internal refugees based in the Petn jungle. Several foreigners have helped the group in the past, he is informed.

He calls at the Guatemala City office of the refugee group and decides that he will journey to the jungle. On the long trip, Steve avidly listens as Olga, a young member of the group, relates her story. As a result he makes some shattering discoveries. In addition, he is finally able to come to terms with the failure of his marriage and many of the other disappointments that have plagued his life to date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 7, 2003
• ISBN: 9781412253116

Book preview

Part One Latin America

Chapter One

I must admit I undertake last minute preparations for my third trip to the region in the space of little more than five years with reluctance. In the middle of the day tomorrow I fly down to Sydney and proceed from there to Los Angeles, where I’ve an onward flight to Mexico a couple of hours later. I should reach Mexico City about mid-evening, all being well.

I plan a stopover of four days before continuing on to Managua in Nicaragua, as good a disembarkation point in the region as any given the raison d’être of this voyage, one I’d be happy to postpone or cancel outright.

Anyone would be circumspect faced with the prospect of a trip lacking a clear destination to speak of, irrespective of the details printed in red on the wafer-thin paper of my airline ticket. How long I will stay in the Nicaraguan capital, what direction I will take from there, I haven’t decided.

I’ll invent an itinerary as I go along. My initial two trips to Central America smacked of improvisation but on those occasions I had leads to go on. This time I have nothing new at hand. For instance, no stray letter or card has come to light. Thus, I’m apprehensive about the futility I will doubtless feel when the soles of my shoes touch the Latin world again.

More than anything I’m once more in this position out of a desire to placate my mother. I had no one but her in mind when I agreed, without a second thought, to make a third trip. My father, James, floated the idea three months ago and I supposed, as I’d done in 1993 and again in 1996, the onus fell on me being the oldest sibling.

I gathered with my sister Denise and my brother Rene and his family at James and Gillian’s one oppressive afternoon in the week leading up to Christmas. We had been talking about Kenny in a roundabout way when James came to the point. For a split second I held out hope of Rene’s volunteering to go in my stead this time. But I realised the forlornness of the wish in more or less the same instant.

Only two years have elapsed since my second spell in Latin America but to judge by the lassitude of my preparations this time I’ve learnt little from then or the experience before. I knew deep down leaving everything to the end would give rise to problems. The consequences had made themselves felt over the hectic past two weeks.

Prior to then, towards the end of February, I discovered I needed a new passport. No more than five months’ validity remained on my old one. I rushed straight to the passport office on Ann Street and set about renewing the document.

The uncomplicated process took a week. On the day in question I left work-I had a job on in Coorparoo at the time-and dropped into the office half an hour before closing time. I flicked through the blank pages with conflicting emotions while riding the four flights to the ground level.

Why, I asked myself, had I requested a sixty-four page document? Why had I gone to the expense of ordering something twice the regular size, as if considering exchanging my staid existence in Brisbane for the lifestyle of a wanderer? Nothing could’ve been further from the truth, I told myself.

Did it amount to a subconscious acknowledgement of my feeling of despondency in the face of this trip, a concession to a vague fear, sensed somewhere within, this journey would turn out different to the first two I’d made? In any case, how could I know what would ensue when I put my native shores behind me one more time?

After acquiring the new passport I sent it and a visa application form I had never used to the Nicaraguan embassy. But days later they called to say I had omitted to enclose the fee. As soon as I forwarded them x amount of dollars they would process my application. I did their bidding and received the visaed passport in the post yesterday.

Someone, I forget whom, once pointed out a person never has greater possession of a journey than when caught up in departure preparations. The business of the trip itself then must come as a letdown.

I can empathise with the sentiment and indeed at the moment, with frenzied preparation behind me and yet to come, I feel in possession of my trip. Tomorrow, when I board the aircraft, things will be different. I don’t doubt it.

Six o’clock has struck. Tim, my son, reappeared from university in the middle of the afternoon but went on his way again before long. I am not sure where he planned to go. Since he returned from Cambodia we’ve communicated less than ever.

Around an hour ago, convinced I had everything in hand, I lay down to catch my breath. But I began skirting too close to sleep for comfort and dragged my frame off the couch and into a straight-backed chair. I had no wish to take a nap given all I had to do.

For the past thirty minutes or so I’ve been listening to the rain. Since it started to fall on a daily basis in the first week of last month the summer has been moderate. It helps take the edge off the unrelenting conditions common at this time of the year.

The city’s parks and gardens will look lush and green this winter if it keeps up, in stark contrast to their appearance following drier than average summers. According to the calendar, summer has segued into autumn. But here in the subtropics little differentiates the two. Children in these parts grow up associating the four seasons with the southern regions of the country and wonder what the climate down there must be like.

Already, be it in Nicaragua or elsewhere, I can see myself in the coming weeks, picking up foreign newspapers and leafing through to the pages detailing the weather around the globe on the off chance Brisbane might rate a mention. As if the weather, or anything occurring in my hometown, could be of importance from a distance of thousands of miles.

On my previous trips I’d adopted the same thing in an attempt to feel less removed from the tried-and-true, the familiar and, by its familiarity, unthreatening. But this fruitless endeavour intensified my homesickness. I found myself dwelling on this again in the evening on the drive across town to Ferny Hills.

Prior to setting off I spent minutes on the phone. First, I dialled Denise’s number though I had to be content with leaving a message on her answering machine. I had my doubts I would hear from her before my departure in the morning. I found Rene in, however, and we yarned at length about one thing or another.

Someone overhearing the conversation could’ve been forgiven for thinking I had a trifling excursion ahead of me. It rated no more than a passing reference and this at the tail-end of the call. I ought not have taken this as an affront for I knew as well as anyone Rene’s thoughts on the subject of our younger brother. He had given me a better you than me look when I had expressed my willingness at the pre-Christmas rendezvous.

Late in 1982, after Denise moved into a place of her own, my parents sold their Camp Hill Queenslander and acquired a plot of land in Ferny Hills, on the other side of the city. Both appeared happy to exchange the house and suburb where they’d raised five children for the quieter ambience of Ferny Hills. I helped with the planning and building of the new abode.

Rain continued to tumble out of the sky when I reached their doorstep. The air carried the aroma of freshly sprinkled flowers, grass and leaves. Beyond the locked screen door at the front of the house, I made out the dim light emanating from a television set, operating at a volume not low enough to be indistinct.

I brought my face close to the tightly meshed wire of the screen and called out. I had to repeat myself three or four times before I succeeded in rousing Gillian. Blinking her eyes, she advanced towards me out of the shadows and unlocked the door. James had retired more than an hour ago, she explained.

I could not have stated the exact ages of my parents. In their late seventies, I would’ve answered had anyone inquired. For me, they had been more or less the same age for years. The grimness in Gillian’s expression had been there as long as I could recall. It had waxed and waned with the passing time. James’ difficulty walking also formed a benchmark in my memory.

Sitting with my mother, I reiterated the point I had made over and over again since the decisive family gathering of the previous December: the moment I had news of Kenny I would be in touch.

Noting the look on her face, I sensed the impossibility of returning home empty-handed on this occasion. If I did, she’d never reconcile his loss in her mind. I believed this to be her sole aim in life now, having long ago abandoned hope of regaining him.

How fitting to have found her in one part of the house and my father in another. For years they had spent more time apart than together, while residing under the same roof. I’m not one to judge but once, not long ago, I suggested to my mother she could try speaking to her husband. In a cutting tone, she remarked on the hopelessness of conversing with a post.

On uncertain legs, James manoeuvred his way into the room and joined us. My exchanges with him never veered away from practical concerns. Despite the countless precedents, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. I sat subdued before the ailing couple, the ones at whose behest I would be winging my way out of the country in little more than half a day.

Chapter Two

I heard Tim return home last night though I’d drifted into semiconsciousness by then. He rose not long after I did this morning, ready to give me the lift to the airport I had requested. We set off from Carindale around ten o’clock, turning straight on to the Gateway Arterial Road.

Tim and I conversed in monosyllables during the twenty to twenty-five minute drive. I kept glancing at my nineteen-year-old son’s profile though he did not consent to return my look. Taking in his posture, the way he gripped the wheel, I again noticed a resemblance to my late brother Doug.

As a matter of course, my mind drifted back to the middle of the preceding year when our respective roles had been reversed. Then, I had been the one in the driver’s seat, chauffeuring him to the airport, where a flight to a foreign clime awaited. The objections I had voiced then now struck me as unreasonable and Tim must’ve been tired to death of hearing them

I suppose he remembered too. Hence, the lack of heed to my scrutiny of his long, dark hair and the fair complexion it framed. Deep down I understood why he wanted to put up with a couple of mates in a flat in bayside Wynnum upon returning home from his six-month long trip. But when one of his friends backed out of the deal at the last moment he returned to Carindale. To resume his studies-a move I concurred with-he had no choice.

We bid each other a stilted farewell in front of the domestic terminal. He couldn’t stay with me, he explained. He had a class to attend. I recognised in the tone of the valediction another echo of the previous year. Tim had looked at me then as if in the hope I might bring a note of congeniality into my manner. I could run him to the airport, assist him with his luggage and other things but I could not uncover graciousness within.

Months later my flight lifted off into a murky grey sky on schedule. Leaning forward in my window seat, I watched the city recede. I glimpsed the discoloured waters of Moreton Bay when the aircraft banked east and then turned towards the south. A sodden green-brown land lay below and I distinguished Manly, Thornside, Capalaba, Alexandra Hills and the indented coastline.

I endured a wait of two hours in the international terminal in Sydney. I overheard airport staff remark on the intensity of the heat on the fine afternoon, its unseasonableness in the context of a March well under way.

In the downstairs foyer, I mused over the white departure card, in particular the question asking the length of time I would be away. How could I know? The fact of my being scheduled to return on such and such a date meant nothing. I left the space blank. However, when the female immigration officer to whom I brought the card insisted I write something I scribbled down three months.

In the departure lounge I browsed in retail outlets like a tourist on the verge of commencing a holiday at a destination bound to weave the spell of a tan and poolside relaxation. I listened to boarding calls for other flights, scrutinised people sauntering to their respective gates and could not help wondering whether any of them knew the measure of misgiving and uncertainty I did.

With minutes to spare I picked up a phone. Denise had not returned my call of the evening before and why I bothered to try and reach her again I don’t know. In any event, my bid failed. She could not come to the phone, one of her colleagues advised me. I dialled her home number and mumbled a farewell into her machine. Then, I called Don, my business partner, and chatted with him about inconsequentials.

Resuming the wait, I studied my boarding pass. I ran the tip of my finger over my name-Casey, Steve-and read From: Sydney, To: Los Angeles. I noted the carrier’s name and code, the number of the flight, the date, expected departure time and more until a female voice crackled over the speakers to announce the commencement of boarding.

If I had been a better traveller-I mean someone more adept at dealing with the morass of long voyages-I might have held a less jaundiced attitude. When Kenny mentioned years ago the number of hours it took to fly to Latin America I inquired what he did with himself to pass the time.

His answer shouldn’t have surprised in the way it did. He neither slept nor bothered with the movies or assorted short items shown during the time the aircraft glided at an altitude of in excess of thirty-five thousand feet. Rather, he meditated, with as much depth as he could inthe cramped confines of the cabin.

In glaring contrast, I rued the prospect of flying. I’m six foot two inches and possessed of a solid build. No matter how I tried I could not find a comfortable sitting position. To the consternation of those next to me, I would shift my legs first here, then there, never content for long with the outcome.

Sleep came in small draughts and no form of the in-flight entertainment held my attention for more than a few minutes at a time. In 1996, I made the grave mistake of drinking too much alcohol, coming to the end of the transit of the Pacific feeling as dried out as a sponge forgotten on a window sill.

Midway through the journey the voice of the flight service director returned. By then we had traversed the International Date Line and flown above a number of islands in the South Pacific, islands whose existence I had been ignorant of prior to November 1993. He made a general announcement requesting any doctor among the passengers to alert one of the cabin crew.

One of the passengers had taken ill and required medical attention. Lifting my head, I sighted two female attendants hovering around someone on the other side of the cabin, close to the exit nearest the left wing.

With the western seaboard of the United States far to the east, I had a presentiment we would divert to Hawaii to enable the sick woman to be hospitalised. We had altered course with this in mind when the flight service director confirmed the fact.

My window seat afforded a peerless sighting of Waikiki Beach on our descent into Honolulu. But I took no solace in the view. The moment the aircraft drew to a stop the doors nearest the sick passenger opened to reveal a team of medical personnel. In no time the woman had been lifted on to a stretcher and wheeled away, accompanied by a travelling companion.

Resigned to a protracted wait, I observed with envy those among my fellow passengers who appeared fresh and unperturbed. I appraised again a young woman with a book cradled on her lap. Hours after I had first set eyes on her she continued to turn the pages with exemplary concentration.

The all clear to resume the journey came two hours after the enforced layover began. We backed away from the gate and took to the skies minutes later. The remainder of the transit passed in a thickheaded daze.

Disembarking in Los Angeles, I had the feeling, familiar from my previous trips, of scarcity of breath. I suspected the effort of putting a handful of sentences together would drain the remainder of my fast dwindling energy. Waiting to go through Immigration, I glanced at my watch every minute or so.

When it came my turn to approach one of the counters, I nodded a greeting at the immigration officer but didn’t elaborate on my plans until he remarked on the newness of my passport. My old one had been about to expire, I hastened to point out. When he turned to the page bearing my Nicaraguan visa, I explained I had an onward flight pressing, if by some miracle I managed to make the connection.

Are you a seaman, sir, he went on to inquire. Smiling, I answered no. For form’s sake, he stamped one of the first pages of my passport. Aware of the time but with no idea where to proceed, I retrieved my luggage and dashed through customs.

Chapter Three

I sought the assistance of a young man whose jacket insignia identified him as an employee of the airline I had flown with. We boarded a bus in front of the building and while I waged a battle with my possessions I heard him radio through to another part of the airport. We discovered we had no need of haste. My connecting flight had closed for boarding.

I refrained from giving vent to the curse rising in my throat when he assured me I would be able to switch to a flight with another carrier. After seeing to the check-in procedure, I entered a restroom and doused water on my face and neck.

I made surreptitious efforts to avoid my reflection while I ran wet hands through my thinning hair. But something compelled me to inspect the lines the journey had accentuated as well as the marked silvery tinge around the temples. The closer I drew to the landmark of fifty the more defined it became.

I discarded the unflattering portrait in the glass and sunk into a chair in the departure lounge. Not for the first time I dwelt on the incongruity of having arrived in North America on the afternoon I had left home. Long ago I had needed someone to sit down and decipher the conundrum.

Hours later, touching down in Mexico City, I felt adrift. I might never have set foot in a Spanish speaking land for all the good my basic grounding in the tongue did. It had accumulated rust with lack of practice. I could understand most of the signs but failed to comprehend a word of what the customs officer, an attractive woman, said when I strolled over to her, pack slung over my left shoulder.

I should have guessed what she wanted but I needed her to spell it out. With the flicker of a smile, she gestured for me to lower my luggage on to the platform between us. I then made feckless attempts to unlock my pack.

After the fifth or sixth failed try she brought a piece of metal from her pocket and inserted the narrow, pointed end in the zipper lining. In this way she prized open the bag and rummaged amongst my belongings. Satisfied, she zipped up the pack and bid me adelante.

Passing through the main foyer of the terminal, I had the uneasy feeling multiple pairs of furtive, dark eyespursued me. At a booth near one of the exits, I paid in advance to take a taxi to the centre of the city.

The drive ought to have rung a host of bells but did not. In spite of my past visits, I had never come to grips with Mexico City’s layout and geography. I failed to see incontrovertible signs I had been here before.

A short distance from my destination we negotiated a rundown area notable for its paucity of light. In the shadows either side of the street, ladies of the night plied their age-old trade. Leaving the district we drove for five more minutes before stopping at my hotel.

Here in Mexico City Sunday had begun though my wristwatch remained on Eastern Australian time. Thirty hours had elapsed since my Sydney bound plane had lifted off the tarmac in Brisbane. The passage of time had robbed me of all sense of possession of my journey.

From my outdoor table at a restaurant near the corner of Madero, the street where I’m staying, and Brasil, I have an unhindered view of the Zócalo, or Plaza Mayor. The greater part of the twin-towered cathedral and the adjacent Sagrario Metropolitano, with its standout Churrigueresque façade, lies obscured but I’ve a better sighting of the National Palace, on the eastern side of the square, and Jesus of Nazareth Hospital on the southern flank.

Before pausing to eat, I strolled to the centre of the square and appraised the cathedral façade and its smaller but no less noteworthy neighbour in the near distance. Closer, erected in the middle of an elevated area, stood a Mexican flag. The immense green, white and red folds hung limp on a light breeze. Not a cloud could be seen but the sky bore a pale, anemic aspect, forbidding reminder of the distance I had travelled from home.

The night before, I had fallen asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. But I roused in the middle of a vivid dream two or three times. Not until later in the morning did I sleep uninterrupted for an interval. I knew full well I would experience the capricious slumber of a jet-lagged traveller for days to come.

Rene once told me sunshine, fresh air and exercise amounted to the best antidote to jet lag. He swore by the strategy, motivated by a determination to adhere to the new time zone without delay. But travelling no further than Asia he never had to cope with dramatic time shifts.

Nevertheless, having no grounds to doubt the advice, I dragged myself out of bed around ten o’clock, ignoring