Mesopotamia (24 page)
The tropical paradise of Puerto Vallarta was so touristed up that all the locals spoke a spicy English. When I got out of the airport I could see minibuses lined up waiting to distribute the arriving passengers to the beachfront luxury resorts. Piranha-like cabbies fought over the few wide-eyed tourists who were left over. I watched as three of them actually had a tug-of-war over some scared young girl’s suitcase, not even permitting her to choose. When this frenzied school of gypsy drivers tried for my bags, I told them I was waiting for the next flight out. Over the next few minutes, several different guys asked me if I wanted to buy an oceanfront timeshare. I simply shook my head until they went away.
“You gotta be from New York,” said a savvy female voice seated behind me. I turned to see a tough young Latina smoking a cigarette.
“Why, are most tourists here New Yorkers?”
“About half. They always look more like terrorists than tourists.” She laughed at her own joke. “Actually, I used to live there myself.”
“Where?”
“El Bronx, East Tremont,” she said. “Hey, I know this is a dangerous question, but you’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Yeah,” I said after a pause of amazement, “and I suspect the father of my child is out here with his teenage yoga instructor. I want to catch them so I can get a nice settlement.”
“Then you picked the right person,” she said, getting up. “Cause I’ve been standing where you are more than once. Only I didn’t want no stinking settlement, I wanted his balls hanging on my cab’s rearview mirror.”
She led me to her dented cherry Nova, and though there were no sets of testicles hanging from her mirror, she did have photos of two cute kids glued to her glove compartment. I sensed she put them there as a message to possible robbers:
Don’t kill me, I got kids
. The backseat was littered with empty bottles and crumpled wax papers that looked like they once held greasy sandwiches.
“Sit up front with me, Mama,” she said, opening the passenger door. “The name’s Magdalena.”
“Do you know how to get to this place?” I unfolded the address that Presley gave me. “Costera a Barra de Navidad, number 778.”
“Yes I do,” she replied as I put the address back in my bag.
She hummed “Feliz Navidad” as we drove, until she suddenly had an epiphany. “Oh boy! Your husband’s smart. He’s a good cheater.”
“Why do you say that?”
“See, his place is on a private beach with a narrow roadway that connects it to the mainland. And if it’s where I think it is, we probably can’t get there by land. Here’s what you can do, though: my cousin fishes tuna up the coast. If you want to throw him a couple bucks, he might be able to take you out for the day.”
“You’re not just saying this to get more money out of me, are you?”
“I’d be dumb if I didn’t try to get as much out of you as I can, but I also happen to be telling the truth. If you think I’m lying, I can take you as far as we can go.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She turned on a ranchera radio station, Mexican country music. With the windows rolled down, we drove in the dry heat until we reached the Pacific Ocean, where a cool breeze was welcome relief. Then we headed north up a narrow, winding road. It descended until we were just above the beach, at which point I started getting drowsy.
“Okay, we’re coming up on the address,” she said, slowing down. Then she veered toward the ocean on an even smaller road. “This is it.”
Sure enough, we came to a locked hurricane gate; the road continued behind it.
I got out and looked around for some street sign or numbers, something to check the address with, but found nothing. Walking up to the gate, I saw that it extended right into the waves, blocking both sides of the narrow isthmus. I peered out and could see a fishing boat bobbing off in the waves.
“If you want, you can try swimming around the gate and back to shore, but I wouldn’t recommend it in your condition.”
“Let’s visit your cousin.”
She turned the car around and we drove further north.
It was like being blind. I essentially felt at the mercy of this stranger. Even if she were honest, I wasn’t sure how sharp she was, and since I didn’t know the lay of the land or the people, I couldn’t judge the intelligence of her decisions.
Half an hour later, she pulled into a small driveway and stopped along a rickety pier crowded with old rowboats loaded with tackle, bait, nets, and traps. Of the few that were coming or going, all had one- or two-man crews. I grabbed my purse and we carefully angled our way along the narrow, congested pier, trying not to get shat on by seagulls.
“
Dónde está Cesar
?” she asked various fishermen, who mostly just shrugged.
“He ain’t coming back for a couple hours,” one boy finally said to her in English. We headed on to a small shack up the road where they sold fish tacos and cold beer. We sat at one of the sticky outdoor picnic tables. When a waiter came over, Magdalena ordered a sea bass stew and two Tecates. Very native. Though I only got a bottled water, I picked up the tab.
After she finished her meal, she fidgeted around in her chair and said, “Damn, he shoulda been back by now!”
“Where do you think he is?”
“Occasionally tourists rent his boat to watch the whales.”
Magdalena excused herself and circulated among the latest group of incoming fishermen eagerly hunting for her missing cousin. I sat there tiredly trying to make sense of the Spanish chatter amid the tinny music of some mariachi band playing over a distant radio. After the long day of flying and driving, I felt increasingly drowsy in the hot sun and soon fell fast asleep.
I awoke not long afterward, when some scary-looking guy asked me if I was interested in purchasing a time-share. Immediately I realized that my purse was missing. I sprang to my feet and looked around for Magdalena, but there was no sign of her. I dashed back to her car. A red van was parked in its space. Frantically I returned to the pier, where I approached several fishermen asking if they knew a guy named Cesar. I also searched for the boy who had spoken to us in English.
One very sunburned man named Cesar was finally located, but he didn’t seem to know Magdalena. I had been severely duped. That bitch had stolen everything. I didn’t mind that she got my clothes and Gustavo’s expensive camera equipment. I didn’t even mind the fact that she got my purse which held my passport, my cash, and my credit cards. But the vital scrap of paper with Roscoe’s beach address was also gone. I was seriously fucked.
I
t wasn’t like I had to rebuild my life, only reaccess the identity of it. Fortunately, there was an American consulate in Puerto Vallarta. Once I was able to hitch a ride with a truck driver back downtown within walking distance of the consulate, I knew I wouldn’t starve to death in a foreign land. I patiently explained my problem to the local receptionist who had me wait for a consular agent, some woman named Johanna Carlyle. I drifted to sleep while sitting in the line of chairs until this skinny blonde delicately woke me up asking me if I was Cassandra Bloomgarten.
“A cabby stole all my bags,” I said simply.
“I don’t suppose you got his name or number?”
“Her named was Magdalena and she had pictures of her kids on her glove compartment.” I then gave her a complete physical description.
Johanna turned out to be my hero as she carefully went down a comprehensive to-do list. One of the first things she did was Google my name. She seemed to become even more helpful when she saw that I was a working journalist. She had a friend at the police station and said that they actually had a decent rate of recovering stolen goods here, and she explained it would be wise to tip the cops for their efforts. It sounded a lot like the police crew in Daumland.
“If you can lend me the money, fine.”
She had me fill out a receipt and advanced me two hundred American dollars for pocket cash.
Next I filled out a DS-64 Statement Regarding a Lost or Stolen Passport. Johanna also dialed an 800 number to report my stolen Visa card.
She even coached me on what to say to get them to return my card immediately and told me to have them send the card directly to the consulate. After going through half a dozen questions and being kept on hold for the mandatory ten minutes, I was told by the Visa operator that Magdalena had managed to put two hundred dollars of charges on my card in the last thirty minutes. The card was officially canceled and she put in an order for a new card.
“We’ll send you an affidavit to fill out to expunge her charges from your account,” she said with professional courtesy.
When I was done, Johanna asked where I was staying. I explained that I hadn’t gotten a room yet. She suggested a thrifty motel just a short walk from the consulate and called them to make a reservation. The consulate would put me up until my credit card arrived, then I could pay them back. Soon a Mexican police officer showed up. I calmly handed him a twenty that Johanna had advanced me. He silently slipped it into his shirt pocket and asked me exactly what had happened. I walked him through it, trying to remember as many details about Magdalena as I could.
“I know most of the crooks who work here in P.V., but she’s not ringing any bells,” he said in perfect English. “But come by the precinct tomorrow, we’ll show you some pictures. Maybe you can ID her.”
I thanked him and he left. Then I thanked Johanna for all her help. She confessed that this was her specialty. She routinely helped American tourists who had been ripped off.
“The consulate is glad to assist you, but of course we expect you to pay us back once you get your Visa card tomorrow.”
It was the second time she had reminded me. I assured her I would, and she had me sign some more forms. But I didn’t tell her that I was intent on staying in Puerto Vallarta until I hunted down Roscoe and Missy and snapped some sellable pictures.
She recommended an inexpensive local restaurant where I went and ordered a small taco salad and white wine. As soon as the waiter brought it, though, I remembered that I was still technically pregnant and asked if he could switch it for a mango shake. But it didn’t matter, I was too angry about being duped to consume more than a few lettuce leaves to feed my wiggling fetus.
Next I went to the cheap motel and asked for a quiet room. I got one in the back: no audible neighbors but no ocean view either. I took a cold shower and tried to sleep. Unable, I found myself watching crappy Mexican soap operas. I played a little game of trying to figure out the melodramas based on the characters’ expressions. In the universal language of daytime soaps, everything was either shocking, lusty, violent, patronizing, or shameful. I found myself starving for subtle irony.
The next morning, after an egg-white omelet and herbal tea at a nearby American-style diner, I headed off to the consulate for my credit card. Of course it hadn’t arrived. Johanna let me use her phone again—for more wasted time on hold while my call was outsourced halfway around the world. I was finally told to be patient and wait a little longer.
I took a long walk around downtown Puerto Vallarta, wishing and willing that when I returned to the consulate my card would magically be there waiting for me. Unfortunately, upon return it still hadn’t arrived.
Back outside, more sitting around reading trashy magazines. Shallow sleep. Telenovelas at the motel. Shallower sleep. Calling Visa again.
“It should be there first thing tomorrow” was their stock response.
By the end of the third day, I officially looked like the classic pushy American. Sadly, I was growing accustomed to the expressions of receptionists who dreaded seeing me.
Day four, stranded in Mexico, Johanna let me use her phone to call Visa yet again. I asked another faceless operator, from who knows where, what was keeping my fucking replacement card. She explained that for some technical reason my application for a new card still hadn’t gone through. They had tried getting ahold of me but were unable. Even though no one in their right mind should have given me a credit card, I knew I wasn’t being denied. Banks would issue a credit card to a gorilla with a gambling problem if he just applied. Patiently, I went through the entire application process yet again. This time, I gave them Johanna’s office number and the woman promised to leave a message if anything went wrong. I also took the liberty of the free phone to dial Vinetta.
“Oh my God!” she freaked, having last heard from me when I hastily boarded the plane in Nashville. I filled her in on everything, detailing how Jeeves had given me priceless tabloid information. When she asked why I had waited four days to call, I told her that I had gotten ripped off and was waiting for a new credit card. But I also desperately needed her help.
“Go on.” She had a lot riding on my success.
“I need an address from John Carpenter at Blue Suede.”
“John Carpenter? How will I find him?”
“Remember that bent-up old guy who saved our asses outside the Blue Suede? If you could just go up to the mansion and ask him for the address he gave me, he’ll know all about it.”
“I really hate going by there,” she protested in her twangiest Southern accent, “and two of the kids are sick.”
“I know you have your hands full, but unless I get that address, there’s no chance of recovering any money. Floyd’s death, the Elvis contest—all this will be in vain. Do you understand?”
“Okay,” she acquiesced.
I gave her Johanna’s phone number at the consulate as well as my room number at the motel. I explained that it should be easy. A no-risk assignment. She simply had to call me once Carpenter gave her Roscoe’s address.
She promised she would. When I got off the phone Johanna remembered that an Officer Lopez had left a message asking me to stop by the precinct. He had photos of the possible thief. With nothing else to do, I walked over to the police station where I discovered that computer technology still hadn’t made its flashy debut. I examined several photo albums filled with mugshots to hopefully identify Magdalena, the kindly cabby. After flipping through four books, I finally spotted a photo that might’ve been her. The suspect’s name was Elena Gonzalez and though she had never been arrested for stealing, she had worked as a prostitute in Mexico City. The officer promised he’d check her out and would notify Johanna if he learned anything. I tipped him two bucks, which was all I had on me, then returned to the consulate to find that the Visa card still hadn’t arrived.