Kilometer 99 (5 page)

“So, we did it,” Ben says. “How's it feel?”

“Weird,” I say, “scary.” I take another gulp of beer. The giddy excitement over our money and our freedom has faded as fast as it arrived. All those second thoughts I'd felt in the water yesterday roll back up like incoming tide.

Ben turns onto the La Libertad highway. The traffic untangles and the car gets up to speed.

“I've always been the girl who did what she was supposed to, you know. This is new territory for me.” It's true. My tendency was to avoid hard decisions. I never cared about engineering; that was what my father wanted. Studying on the mainland was fine by me, but it wasn't my idea. Applying to the Peace Corps might be the most decisive thing I ever did, before quitting today.

Eyes still on the road, Ben leans across and gives my knee a reassuring squeeze. “It's all right. This is a big change; it should be scary.” He pats the top of my leg a couple times. “We're in it together, you know. We can lean on each other when we need to.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Ben turns to look at me, his eyes fixed on mine through the tint of his sunglasses. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I smile.

“Hey.” Ben points out the window toward my side of the road. “Looks like snow.”

I turn and see the brown mounds of dirt, covered at the top by white powder, like a miniature version of a mountainous landscape—from a place like Utah, perhaps.

“That's lime,” I say. “It's a mass grave.”

 

7

First thing in the morning, we ask Kristy for the bill. I check the math on the stack of stapled-together guest checks. Ben goes back to the room for our cash.

“What heat,” I say to Kristy.

“Tremendous,” she agrees.

I've always been curious about Kristy's age. If forced to guess, I'd place her in her early thirties—within ten years of my own age. She wears too much eye makeup, and a couple of her teeth are framed in metal, but she is quite beautiful. Based on her dark skin and fine hair, I'd guess she has a lot of Mayan blood. She's shorter than I am, her build a bit thicker than mine—bigger breasts and hips. I wonder if she has any children, but I can't bring myself to ask.

“You're good with numbers,” Kristy says, watching as I whisper myself through the arithmetic.

“I'm an engineer,” I admit. “Or studied to be one, at least.”

She nods. “So intelligent.”

“Here we go.” Ben returns with the white envelope of currency he was given at the Peace Corps office. Kristy makes our change with a mix of dollars and colones. It might be handy to have a little of both on the drive. We'll do our final exchanges at the Nicaraguan border.

“We'll finish packing in another hour or so,” Ben tells her. “We can check out then.”

“So soon?” Kristy asks.

Ben shrugs. “Can't stay here forever.”

“Don't leave without saying good-bye.” When she says that, I can't help but think of Cara Sucia, Niña Tere and Nora and the others to whom I never said a proper farewell.

We walk out of the dining area. A door on the air-conditioned wing swings open as we pass. A cloud of pot smoke drifts out, along with the new gringo we saw arriving yesterday.

“What's up?” he says with a scratchy rasp.

“Morning,” Ben says.

“Hey, Chuck Norris! Remember me?” He's excited to see Ben.

“Have we met?” Ben asks.

“It's Pelochucho.” He points his thumb back at his own chest. “I was here last year.”

Ben doesn't seem to recognize him, but he plays along. The word
pelochucho
roughly translates to “hair like a dog,” and must refer to the guy's curly mop. It does sound like a name that Peseta would give out.

This Pelochucho is older than we are, but in good shape. His upper body is health-club fit, covered in the hard, round muscles that come from lifting weights and taking supplements. He wears designer board shorts and sandals, bug-eyed sunglasses. The orange hue of his skin betrays time on the tanning bed. His floppy head of hair shines with product.

“Hi.” I reach out my hand. “I'm Malia.”

“Chinita.” He kisses me on the cheek. “You don't remember me? We totally surfed together. You're from Honolulu, right?”

“That's right.” I have no recollection of him.

He doesn't seem to care. “Fucking sit down,” Pelochucho says. “Let's hang out.”

He takes the big seat by the entrance to his room—an easy chair made from thin strands of colored rubber strung across a rebar frame. Ben and I pull up two plastic patio chairs. Pelochucho leaves his door open, so that the chill of the conditioned air seeps out.

“Got something for you.” Pelochucho runs back inside his room and returns with a plastic bag of marijuana and a pack of rolling papers. He throws them into Ben's lap. From the blue-green hue of the buds, it's obvious that they were not bought locally.

“Roll a fatty for us, Norris,” Pelochucho orders.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“All over the place, really. Nowadays, I split my time between Orange County and Vancouver Island.”

“Vancouver Island?” I had him pegged as a Southern Californian, but I didn't expect Canada. “How's the surf there?”

“Good.” He smiles hard and reveals a mouth packed full of brilliant white teeth. “Cold, though. And full of bears.”

“What do you do there?” I'm not sure where all these questions come from. He seems a person in need of explanation.

“What do I do? You mean for work?”

Ben holds his head down, balancing the papers and the pot upon his knees.

“I own a company that buys other companies.” Pelochucho crosses one leg over the other. His flip-flopped foot bounces in the air. “It's kind of complicated. But not really. We buy businesses that we think Microsoft will buy, then jack up the price before they get them.”

“I see.” None of this makes any sense to me.

“But I don't work that much, to be honest.” He puts both feet on the ground. “I flew down here just for this swell.”

“What swell?” I ask. “It's a lake out there right now.” It's not even the season for groundswells here.

“Trust me.” He smiles again, his teeth looking even bigger and closer together. “I've been online, watching the buoys.”

“I've been watching the ocean.” I say it with more sarcasm than intended.

Pelochucho stares at me and closes his lips.

“I hope you're right,” Ben says, diplomatically.

He passes the joint off to Pelochucho, who fishes a lighter from his board shorts and sparks it up.

Ben turns to me. “Maybe we'll score it down in San Juan del Sur.”

“San Juan del Sur?” Pelochucho coughs out the words along with the first exhalation of smoke. “Nica-fucking-ragua? Are you joking? This is a real swell. You want to score it
here.
” He uses the lighter to gesture backward over his shoulder.

“We paid our bill. We bought a car.” Ben shrugs and tilts his head toward the Jeep. “Time to get on the road.”

“That's your car?” Pelochucho passes Ben the joint. “Then you guys have to stick around. Listen.” He speaks only to Ben now. “I'll pay for your hotel, your food, your gas, whatever, if you hang out for a few more days.”

“You don't have to do that,” I say.

“I want to.” Pelochucho turns to me and pushes his sunglasses up to his forehead. “Look, I might be doing this land deal out at K Ninety-nine. I could use some help getting around.”

Kilometer 99 is a semisecret surf spot up the coast, slightly shorter and less perfect than Punta Roca, but far from any sizable town. Ben and I sometimes hitchhiked to it for waves. There's nothing there, only a mile marker and a cove with world-class surf.

“You can rent a pickup and a driver,” I say. “Just ask Kristy.”

Ben sips smoke from the joint. I can tell this offer appeals to him.

“So, this is embarrassing, but I'm not great with the language,” Pelochucho says. “This could work out for all of us. I want you guys to have an epic trip. Forget the food and hotel and shit. I'll give you a hundred bucks a day if you stay here and help me out, drive me around a little, translate the odd conversation. A hundred bucks each.”

“That's awfully generous.” A red-eyed Ben pushes the joint toward me.

“No thanks.” I hold up a vertical palm. He passes it back to Pelochucho.

“It'll be fun.” Pelochucho lowers his sunglasses. “We'll score some sick waves. You'll make some cash. Take a minute. Think about it.” He looks back and forth between the two of us. “Talk it over.”

*   *   *

“Flat,” Ben says.

On the concrete and stone stairs that lead down to the beach, we take a seat. The sun sags low at the horizon. Not a breath of wind. Were there any waves at all, conditions would be perfect.

“It could help out a lot.” Ben stares seaward, his Southern drawl returning. “Costa Rica, Chile, those places will be pricey. We're only spending like twenty bucks a day now—between the two of us. If we stick around here for a week, it could add another month or so to our trip.”

Two stray dogs dig a hole farther up the beach. Sand flies out from between their hind legs. One of the restaurants must've buried bones or fish guts in that spot.

“I know.” There's no point arguing with the math. “Our hotel bill was more than I thought. We could use the money. But that guy, he gives me the creeps. What's this business about a swell? There's nothing.”

“Chuck Norris!” The call comes from behind. “Chinita!” We turn and see Peseta approaching in that urgent, rhythmic gait of his.

Considering his lifestyle, Peseta has a beautiful head of hair. His shining curls bounce as he hurries over to us. We nod and say hello. Ben bumps his knuckles.

“
¿Qué ondas?
” Peseta asks. “There're no waves.”

“No waves,” Ben agrees.

“Have you got
mota
?” Peseta asks Ben.

“
Sí
.” Ben stifles a laugh, still recovering from Pelochucho's pot. “Plenty.”

Peseta is La Libertad's jack-of-all-trades. If a strange tourist shows up in town, he helps them with their luggage and leads them to a hotel, where he'll ask for a tip from both the client and the hotel manager. His mother is a local weed dealer; Peseta earns most of his income from trips between her house and the rooms where the surfers stay. He's more than happy to run to the crack house for something stronger.

Peseta nods. “Listen, both of you. Some guys, they've been waiting by the cemetery to rob surfers. Be careful, eh.”

Peseta also fancies himself a sort of ambassador between the surfers and the city's criminal element. He issues warnings like these as though they're weather hazards, and expects money in return.

In this instance, the information isn't too useful. The cemetery stickup is a fairly common thing.

“Hey, Chuck Norris.” Peseta puts on a pouty face. “Have you got a coin for me? You know, a little gift.”

I roll my eyes.

“Oh, right.” Ben taps the pocket of his board shorts and pulls out one colón. “Here.” He holds it out.

“
Gracias,
Norris.” Peseta smiles, his thin mustache edging up at either side of his mouth. “You let me know when you need more
mota.
”

“Peseta?” I say.

He turns to me.

“Do you know this guy Pelochucho? Have you met him before? Did you give him that nickname?”

“Pelochucho? Of course. He's returned, no?” Peseta raises a mischievous eyebrow. “He's a lot of fun.
Mucha plata.
” He rubs together two fingers in the international sign for money, then walks away.

“See?” Ben says to me. “The guy likes to throw his cash around. It could be a while before we have another chance to earn any money at all. Let alone easy money.”

The ball is in my court. I get bad vibes from Pelochucho. But another side of me likes the idea of sticking around here a little longer, getting some kind of closure. Everything has happened so fast since the earthquake, I could use some time to catch my breath.

“Fuck it,” I say. “Might as well take this guy's money for a day or two.”

Ben smiles and puts an arm around my shoulder.

I look out at the ocean. “I mean, how bad could it be?”

 

8

It wasn't long after I'd broken up with Alex, a few short months into my service, a year and a half before the earthquake. Some girlfriends from my training group talked me into a weekend at the beach. Four of us rented two rooms in La Posada's cheap wing—which was the first time I ever saw the place. Once our backpacks were shoved inside, we all went to a shorefront restaurant for midday drinks.

I'd not surfed in years, and never outside of Hawai‘i. It hadn't occurred to me that there might be waves in El Salvador. Straight away, I could tell a swell was running. The rocky point—which began at the restaurant—stretched far out to sea. It was as long as any wave I'd seen on Oahu and had no closed-out sections. I studied it while the other girls smoked and chatted.

Soon, I saw a bearded gringo, prone on his surfboard, riding white water into shore.

I leaned over toward Courtney, my closest friend in the group, and pointed. “Do you know that guy?”

“Him?” She squinted. “That's Ben. He's Agro-Forestry, from the group before us. They say he comes here a lot. You never see him in the capital. I think he's from North Carolina.”

He climbed out from the frothing ocean and undid the leash around his ankle. He was shorter and thicker than Alex; his body was fit except for a small paunch at his belly. The water made clumps out of his reddish beard and matted together the hair on his chest and shoulders. He tucked the board under his arm.