The Lucky Kangaroo

By Gregg Albert Herman

The author has mostly written about people whose lives are a constant uphill struggle in an unforgiving world.
These tales and poems relate to some good and some bad elements of human abilities and values. In some cases, it is a gentle story and in others, harsh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669844075

Gregg Albert Herman

The author, early in life, chose travel and study over possessions and position. After graduating in 1976 from Concordia University in Montreal, Canada the voracious reader hit the road. The author has earned a living working as a butcher, taxi driver, and manager of a health food store to name just a few. He spent several years in Mexico traveling and teaching business English to executives. In 2002 the author moved to Santiago, Chile where he lived for over ten years teaching English to medical professionals. In 2013 he returned to Montreal with his three rescue dogs.

Book preview

Introduction

A Writer in Mexico City

The Secondary Gringo at Large

I’m comfortably parked at a cheap, semi-clean hotel for a stay of unknown duration. The idea is for me to scratch out some of the static noise from my brain onto paper. So, I get more comfortable. I rearrange the furniture in my hotel room putting the table in front of the window. I can only hope the cucarachas don’t retaliate.

Anyway, now while I dithered with my pen, I could stare out past the smog stunted trees and ponder the wide range of people as they walked past. I had an unobstructed view from my observation post on the second floor of the old hotel. But, more often than not, I abandoned my post.

First thing in the morning, I like to head out into the cool, fresh smog. On my way out I pass the room key through the tiny slot at the bottom of the two-inch thick bullet-proof glass. The barricaded desk clerk cannot hear very well from his protective cubicle, so he takes the key and we exchange a hello/goodbye wave. Later in the day we’ll do it again, but in reverse.

My first stop is to buy a newspaper. The elderly vendor sits at the street corner on a small box. He is wedged in amongst four small towers of different newspapers. On the pavement in front of him are numerous coins lying on a dirty cloth. Magazines and comics spread out tantalizingly in both directions on the sidewalk. This gentleman rules a peaceful, five square-foot print-paper domain.

I go down the stairs into the 24 hour café two blocks from my hotel. In the half basement the fluorescent light makes everyone look pale. The nondescript cafeteria has booths along two walls and tables in the middle. If you can get a booth, that’s the best place to sit at 3AM to watch the ebb and flow of Humanity. Although, I don’t recommend it in this neighborhood, not without a personal body guard.

This morning, the hustling waitress comes over and plunks down the basket of various sweet rolls. Then, she deftly fills my cup, the coffee and hot milk coming from two separate metal pots and she spins away.

Sipping coffee, reading the news used to be a pleasant start to the day. But, today’s headlines tell the grisly story of violent fires in Australia. The koala bears are unable to flee and are burning in their trees. That’s a bit overwhelming first thing in the morning.

Anyway, many of my days are spent out on the streets. I pick my way slowly, attentively. You never know what colonial church or other historic building you’ll stumble onto or what human scenes you’ll encounter. Mexico City is the opposite of an ivory tower. The reality has sharper edges, the rounding, smoothing process has so far been unable to plane everything down evenly.

The inhabitants of this city are hard as nails. They have to be. It is testing to survive among a population upwards of twenty-five million. Mexico City sprawls over a high plateau at 2,380 meters. Its history contains a long list of turmoil caused by: invasions, occupations, revolutions, civil wars, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions.

In addition, the life of the whole nation has been affected by dealings with the, at times, interventionist neighbor to the north. Consequently, the oft despised Yankee gringo is also the much loved Americano. But in either case, regarded as a legitimate target by unsavory types.

Canadians are secondary gringos, not the Real McCoy, nonetheless regarded as annoyingly vital sources of income. Few Mexicans bother to differentiate between equally well-heeled tourists. Accordingly, I watch my back and after a while that is not as exhilarating as you might think.

I follow the example of the savvy locals and carry a respectable amount of pesos in cash, which would hopefully, appease any fair minded, knife wielding thief. Being of gringo demeanor, I also carry one much travelled US twenty dollar bill, just in case the thief had his heart set on some Yankee bucks. It is wise not to disappoint an armed assailant. My passport and visa are photocopied and beyond some coins for anyone who asks, my pockets are empty. Routinely, I keep to the streets where there are lots of pedestrians. For me, complacency died in 1970.

Although, the worst violence in this city happened centuries ago. When the religious zealot, double-dealing Cortes the Conquistador and his gold lusting horsemen arrived. They cut a wide swath of destruction, upending numerous societies. It was the vainglorious pillaging of an entire world.

How many died? Suffice to say; in the grinding gears of History it is prudent not to stand too close to the action. The worse-case scenario; burned to death at the stake. The best-case scenario; worked to death as slave labor.

What can you say about undomesticated humans? History tells the tale. The conqueror’s tool box is full of painful implements and it is clear there is always another subjugator willing to use them. He is out there now, waiting in the wings, working up some pretext, so his ego can go on a rampage. It is never over.

I go to Rosita’s for scrambled eggs. It is one of the few cheap restaurants in the city that still serves up hand pressed corn tortillas. The heavy press is positioned proudly at the doorway of the restaurant. The younger, heftier waitress puts in the considerable toil to squeeze out the thick, nourishing rounds of Mexican dietary history. Today, many consumers have switched to processed wheat tortillas delivered in plastic bags from the bakery/factory.

After breakfast, I walk downtown and run into some unlikely rain which turns into even more unlikely hail. The hard, white, shining balls beat down angrily for a good fifteen minutes.

I take the opportunity and duck into the Education Ministry to once again view the Rivera murals. I feel the usual happy sensation from the power of Diego Rivera’s creativity, so properly displayed on colonial walls built by Aztec labour. It is a refreshing change that in this chapter of World History, the people definitely got the last word in.

With the sun struggling to push between the clouds I pass a tiny park squeezed between two buildings. Five or six emaciated street dogs hide in the bushes. The sorrowful looking pack slowly starves together. Miserably, they slink away from our neglect. I circle back to the hotel with their sad image stuck in my mind. It is better not to take too big a dose of Distrito Federal at any one time.

On Sundays, which is the safest day of the week because there are people everywhere, I often join the crowd at Chapultepec Park to watch the white faced mime amuse the children. Then, up the hill to the Castillo de Chapultepec to view some more interesting historical murals.

At night, a leisurely saunter through Plaza Garibaldi is like a visit to a gritty, yet magical world. The plaza is alive with the sound of trumpets, guitars and violins. The unique mariachi music is both a celebration of life and a lament at the same time. In any mood, the musicians are a wonderful sight to see and hear. Mexican families wander among the numerous, small groups of threadbare and traditional suited mariachis. The listeners stand happily while they consider which musicians they prefer for the next birthday celebration. The mariachi musicians are one of the many essences of Mexico.

The traditional Wednesday street market is another. They pop up for that one day on selected side streets in neighborhoods all over the city. The Indian tianguis is a tenuous link to the past and is still giving locals a shot at affordable vegetables. All food items come wrapped in newspaper. Bring your own bag, this isn’t America. Actually, it could have been. The United Mexican States of America.

On the street corners near Revolución Metro, I notice the very skinny, tired, girls for hire are already out, milling about the edges of hard existence. I pass by a trio of musicians with hungry, grumbling stomachs as they stroll from restaurant to restaurant playing old, beaten-up instruments. When they finish their repertoire they stand smelling the food while a youngster, probably one of their sons, goes round the restaurant collecting coins.

Some mornings, I walk to the note-worthy Post Office building and then over to the Zocalo pulled along with the throngs of people up Madero Street. My eyes always watchful for the fenders of the darting, weaving, Volkswagen Beetle taxis. I enter the great open space of the Plaza de la Constitution. It is a concrete lake brimming with the tears of Mexican history. The giant Mexican flag centers the scene. The Zocalo is where Mexico celebrates death and gets its bearings for life.

In one corner of the historic plaza, I follow behind some school kids to view the mummies in their walnut and glass boxes lined with red velvet. These withered citizens, slumber peacefully in the catacombs under the sinking cathedral.

From the Cathedral Metropolitan, I walk over to Pino Suarez Metro station passing the small church where the bones of Cortez are interned. I’m headed to the suburb of Coyoacán to visit the house where Leon Trotsky lived in exile.

Inside the residential home I note the bullet holes in the wall from an earlier, unsuccessful assassination attempt. In the next try, in 1940 Stalin’s agent made no mistake. He stabbed Trotsky to death with an ice pick in the back of the head. The revolutionary’s cracked eye-glasses lie where they fell onto his desk. Now, it’s a small museum containing mementoes from history, reminders of our violence, reminders that the disunion and turmoil continues. ‘Two sides squeezing the middle’, also known as ‘World History’.

Since, I am in the neighborhood I walk to the ‘Blue House’, the home of Frida Kahlo. The almost half century of her painful life ended here. Displayed are some of her paintings mingled with pieces from her and Diego’s collection of Pre-Colombian art. Her wheelchair is positioned prominently and the little museum is a place where misery is enshrined together with genius. Through her life of immense suffering and its artistic expression, Frida Kahlo has become a personification of Mexico.

On Saturday, I decide to get out of the city. I hop on an early relic of a slow bus and spend two hours bouncing out to Teotihuacan. I visit the Pyramid of the Sun and of the Moon. On the vast grounds there is also a cactus museum. If you are lucky, a delicate slip of a breeze greets you at the top of the Pyramid of the Sun. From there, you can view the entirety of the city/ceremonial center which also contains a sacred ball court.

The hugely impressive architecture of the pyramids is perhaps tainted by the stigma of the victors removing beating hearts from captives’ chests. But, keep in mind today’s sanguinary rituals may be less dramatic, but in our high-tech world, the expression ‘bloodbath’ takes on a whole new meaning.

Anyway, maybe it was the Olmec civilization that handed the torch to the people who constructed Teotihuacan. Much later, the warlike Aztec confiscated the property. They were the occupiers not the builders. But, so many distinctive links in the chain, that’s the real takeaway.

It turns out to be an exhausting day of walking and climbing, but I’m lucky. Out of breath from running, I catch the last bus leaving the site and I get the last seat in the rear. Back in the city, I jump on the Metro and go to the Flor de Asturias cantina on Avenida Puente de Alvarado. I pass through the swinging doors famished and ready for botanas.

The rules of botanas are simple; first you have to order three regular priced drinks. Starting with your fourth drink you are entitled to a tasty, small plate of food. And, now with each drink comes another plate. Thursdays, the special is paella. Anyway, for a hungry guy my size, a minimum five or six plates of food are required. Add in the first three drinks and that makes eight or nine drinks, and well, you get the idea. I must mention that a hangover acquired at high altitude makes the next day a very rough day indeed!

Consciousness

There is respite,

When the mermaid of my ocean,

Beckons to me,

And I sink into,

The inside-out stream,

My mind receives,

The underground channel,

Of mutant dream,

Merging past and present,

Into the night’s program,

Of emotive reveal,

My eyes spin as slumber sings,

Secret songs of truth,

Spliced and wrapped,

In otherworldly guise,

A lifetime inventory,

The intimate,

The uncensored,

The unbreakable,

Bonded into puzzles,

For the reposed brain,

Dreams mocking the reality,

Of my tomorrow,

When the closest sun,

Automatically activates,

The daily toil,

I awake to,

Feel the heavy drag,

The responsibility,

Of consciousness,

I brace my mind,

For the self-deception,

The never ceasing urge,

Of every ego,

I strive to balance,

Reason and the knowing,

Of mortality.

The Elemental Task

The mindful world,

Defines me,

The constant doubt.

Hones me,

The never ceasing words,

Written on the page,

Spoken from the lip,

Fill my time and space,

I must interpret,

Decipher,

Judge,

Define the subtlety,

Determine the implication,

The meaning,

In signs from symbols,

Quills and barbs,

The task is set

Within the light,

Dark and gray,

Within the true,

False and strange,

My mind grapples,

For freedom,

For sanity,

To see beyond,

The primal blur,

I must not fail,

In the elemental task,

If I do,

Count me,

One sheep more,

In the flock.

King Claw-Foot of Peru

In North Dakota, the September sun had lost its brawn. Crisp days were followed by cold nights. There was talk of a hard winter to come. The signs were all there; the earth beetles were especially fat, the trout in the waters of Buffalo Lake were swimming in the deepest zones, the wolf’s howl was hoarse, the raccoon’s mask darker and the fur on a bear cub’s neck thicker.

The people knew the simple truth, that interacting with Nature was fundamental to being. Native lore was the accumulation of lived experience. A legacy from their chain of ancestors, passed down from thirty or forty generations. The Dakota and Assiniboine tribes are cherished survivors from history. They are the speakers of the Siouan language and they still trust and preserve the old ways.

Life on the reservation was straightforward. It was a struggle. Households were too poor to store extra provisions, but every family had chopped some surplus wood. Winters were usually long and snow filled. It was guaranteed that every year there would be at least one or two bitter cold snaps that would make the national news.

In a small prefabricated house, a fourteen-year-old boy sat at his desk reading a large book, ‘The History of the Pre-Incan Tribes of Peru’. The volume was open on his knees and his brow was furrowed in concentration. Jefferson was a healthy teenager in almost every way. Although, sometimes human DNA can unexpectedly offer up unique challenges. Jefferson had been born with a strange deformity. He had two sound, normal legs from the hip to the knee. But, Jefferson’s lower left leg had a withered muscle and was as thin as the leg of a kitchen chair. And, his foot wasn’t a foot at all but a small claw, like a bird’s. It had sinewy cartilage that connected the four elongated toes.

Jefferson had learned to manage. He walked with a crutch. He kept his puny leg covered using a piece of dark cotton material. Only in the privacy of his bedroom did he expose his leg and strange bird foot. Even at his young age, the days of feeling different were behind him. He had, not only become accustomed to his leg and foot, but often thought he rather liked them. No one made fun of him anymore and his life was fairly normal. Jefferson got along well with the kids at school, but of course he didn’t join in the active games. Anyhow, he preferred reading.

His favorite subject was South American Indigenous history. History offered him a connection to the generations of migrants who made ‘The Great Trek’. Humans seeking better lives created thousands of unique cultures stretching north to south, from Alaska and Canada to Argentina and Chile. Jefferson had learned he was a child of these pioneers from History.

Jefferson had been intrigued when he came across the article King Claw Foot of Peru in an old history magazine at the school library. He eagerly read about the mysterious tribe that had existed in the interior of northern Peru, south of the Amazon River and east of the Andes Mountains. A remote area, even today it is not completely under Lima’s control. The author wrote about a king with a claw foot who had ruled in that deepest tangle of jungle. This tribe had never been conquered, even by the powerful Inca. They had retreated, disappearing into the tropical greenery, not leaving a single trace of their community. This spoke highly of their organizational skills and their fierce independence.

The first mention of King Claw Foot in the history magazine had more than intrigued him. But, when Jefferson saw the aerial photographs of the Nazca Lines his breath got caught in his throat. These were the huge figures drawn in the hard baked crust of the coastal mountains of southern Peru. One giant outline was of a claw footed king! Jefferson traced his finger over the picture of the King with the claw-foot. He kept looking at his own withered leg and foot and then he would look back to the picture. Jefferson’s whole being hummed with excitement. He exclaimed to himself A king with a claw foot!

Jefferson had now encountered two references to a claw footed king and he was burning with unanswered questions. How had the people in the Amazon jungle lived? Had they practiced agriculture? It was a tremendous distance over the Andes Mountains to the people of Nazca. Had the two societies been in contact? Had the Nazca people once ruled the Amazonian people? Had they shared a royal family? How is it that the claw foot appears in both societies? Was it simply a case of copying a powerful symbol?

Jefferson dreamed of belonging to a royal family. His young mind conjured up visions of King Claw Foot welcoming him back to his rightful place with his people. A culture lost in more than a thousand years of history. A new sensation of pride infused his being. He had always considered his leg a liability. He now saw it as a mark of kingship. The youngster grasped at the idea of royal status to counter the grim facts of his life. Jefferson fantasized about being a claw footed king. If only he could go and unite with his people. He felt an irresistible pull and thought; I must travel to Peru and find King Claw Foot.

Jefferson was a natural student and problem solver. Straightaway, he began teaching himself Spanish. He studied secretly, turning inward and guarding his innermost hopes and dreams. As of yet, he did not have a plan, but the teen felt animated by his secret