Senor Nice (34 page)

Directed by the young, brilliant, award-winning Justin Kerrigan,
Human Traffic
is a film about Cardiff nightlife at the end of the second millennium, focusing on how five best friends deal with their relationships and personal demons over a weekend. Starting on Friday afternoon with their preparations for clubbing, the film follows their progress from ecstasy-induced fun through a booze-laden comedown early on Saturday morning followed by the weekend’s aftermath. I played myself in a cameo role commenting on the way spliffs were smoked and passed around at parties. It was my first acting role.

‘I had great fun doing that. When were you in Cardiff?’

‘Eight years ago as a student, which I remembered nothing about until
Human Traffic
reminded me. But I go back there at least once a year. That place rocks, man.’

‘What did you study?’

‘I got a scholarship from here to do Welsh studies at the University of Cardiff but ended up learning English and becoming a resident DJ at the Emporium.’

‘Really! I DJ’d there when Tim Corrigan was in charge. He runs the Soda Bar now, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Tim used to be my boss. He’s a dude. I also used to play at the Club Ifor Bach. I heard you DJ’d there once with Gruff of the Super Furry Animals. I missed that. I’ve got his new solo album, by the way, the one that’s all Welsh. Anyway, Mr Nice, what brings you to Patagonia?’

‘Just having a look around to see the place for myself, really. It’s incredible, isn’t it? I’m also vaguely doing research for my new book.’

‘New book? Great! What’s it about?’

‘Good question, Manolo. I guess where I come from, what’s happening to me now and where I’m going.’

‘What’s that mean, then? Are you here to look for long-lost relations? DJing at a Welsh tea house? Or do you have plans to grow marijuana here? That would be great.’

‘All the above. Is it possible to get any dope here?’

‘There’s no dope scene here really, but I did bring a ready-rolled one with me when I knew I was meeting you. I brought some skunk back with me from Cardiff. I can’t miss the chance of smoking a joint with Mr Nice, can I? We’d better not smoke it inside here though, just in case.’

The three of us went out and walked to the municipal park. Manolo sparked up a joint, took a few drags and passed it to me. Raoul seemed oblivious to what was happening. I sucked at the joint. It’s amazing how well it works after a few days’ abstinence. Manolo and I talked about the usual – skunk, pills,
cocaine, music, films and football. He lived in Dolavon, just west of Gaiman, and offered his services as a guide to the Chubut Valley. He had things to do today, but he and his car would be at my disposal tomorrow for a few days’ exploration, if I liked the idea.

Manolo then sped off, while Raoul and I got into his car and drove back to Trelew to have a drink at the Touring Club hotel, where anyone who matters today hangs out and where all the bad guys hung out a hundred years ago.

Butch Cassidy, born Robert Leroy Parker in Utah, was the most prolific bank and train robber of his day. After numerous run-ins with the law and a couple of years in prison, Cassidy organised a group of outlaws, including Harry Longabaugh aka the Sundance Kid, which became known as the Wild Bunch. During 1896–1901 the Wild Bunch robbed over a dozen banks and trains throughout the West until the Pinkerton National Detective Agency began to make such robberies highly risky. In 1901 Cassidy and Sundance, with the latter’s girlfriend Etta Place, fled to Argentina to pursue a career in ranching. All they wanted was to lead a life hidden from the world. Their home in Cholilo, at the western end of the Chubut Valley, was often the scene of music, well-attended dances and other revelry, much loved by the dignitaries of the area. To buy supplies and sell their produce, they would travel 400 miles to Trelew and stay for long periods in rooms that now form part of the Touring Club hotel.

The public area of the hotel was a huge cowboy saloon with fans suspended from a high ceiling, newspapers on sticks, old peeling mirrors, polished light-wood tables and chairs, antiquated but functioning cappuccino machines and a bar longer than a cricket pitch. Shelves carried hundreds of spirit and wine bottles, beer and cider cans; and black and white group photographs lined the walls. I looked at each faded photograph intently. Many bore the names of the people
pictured. I looked for McCarty. And there it was. Rubbing my eyes and dusting off the frame, I treble-checked. There was no doubt; I had read the name correctly – Patrick McCarty. He and a few of his mates were leaning against a white stone wall making hand gestures similar to those made by today’s hip hop artists. I could not detect any family likeness, and there was no hint where the photograph had been taken. However, this was no coincidence: I had found my great-great-grandfather.

I joined Raoul back at the table and told him the reasons for my obvious excitement. I asked if he would mind enquiring from whoever was in charge if there was any chance of buying the photograph. I would happily pay a good price. Raoul ambled off behind the bar. He returned shaking his head. No photographs were for sale, but if I had a camera I was welcome to take a close-up shot, as long as I didn’t remove the photograph from the frame. I had no camera other than the one in my mobile, which I still hadn’t figured out how to use. I’d have to buy one and come back.

My problem was solved by another surprise appearance from Gareth, who seemed as if he had expected to meet me here.

‘The rest are at the Palaeontological Museum round the corner looking at models of dinosaurs. I don’t mind a bit of history, but that’s taking it back too far, in my opinion. Mind, I liked
Jurassic Park
.’

‘Do you have a camera, Gareth?’

‘I certainly do, and it’s a digital one at that. I’ve got it with me. It takes excellent pictures, excellent. Shall we ask your mate to take one of us two together? We could sit down by there, next to that poker table. I’m sure those Indians wouldn’t mind moving over for a minute.’

After quickly introducing Gareth to Raoul, I explained to Gareth my discovery and need for a camera. Within a few minutes Gareth had taken several exposures of the priceless photograph.

‘I can download the photos and email them to you. Marvellous what they can do with computers these days, mind, isn’t it? Who would have thought it? So your great-great-grandfather was from round by here. What was his name?’

‘Patrick McCarty.’

‘Was he one of those original Welsh colonists that the preacher kept going on about today? Bethan was fascinated.’

‘No, he was Irish.’

‘I guessed that with a name like McCarty. But there were plenty who came from over the water to work in the Welsh pits. I used to court an Irish girl myself before I met Bethan. She lived in Merthyr Tydfil. Two years it lasted. Bethan still goes on about it. Was he one of those?’

‘No, my great-great-grandfather went over the water the other way, to America. Then he came here, learned Welsh, disappeared for several years and finally turned up in Kenfig Hill under the name Marks and led a quiet religous life. He changed his name because he was related to Billy the Kid.’

‘You’re kidding. I never knew that was Billy the Kid’s surname. I suppose he must have had one. Billy Marks. Well I never.’

‘No, Gareth. Billy McCarty.’

‘Right! Of course. Now I’ve got you. Well I suppose we’re all belonging to one another in some way or other. My father always used to say he was Bob Hope’s cousin, something I would have kept a bit quieter about if I was him. Well I’d better be off. See you again, I’m sure.’

‘OK, Gareth. Let me give you my email address.’

‘Oh dear. Almost forgot already. Thanks, Howard.’

Meanwhile Raoul had been thumbing through the local phone directory searching for McCartys. He had found three MacKarthys, rang them, but none answered. He would try again tonight after he had driven me back to my Puerto Madryn hotel.

*

As arranged, Manolo, wearing the same T-shirt, turned up at the Hotel Peninsula Valdes just after breakfast.

‘All right, Mr Nice? Raoul called me before I left. He checked on those MacKarthy numbers in the phone directory, but the people insist they’re neither Welsh nor Irish and have no connection with either. So that’s not your family. They seemed a bit upset to be bothered. They’re probably Yanks. We don’t like Yanks much down here.’

‘I’m not that keen on them myself.’

‘I’m not surprised. What was it like in that maximum-security prison?’

‘Brutal and barbaric, but survivable. You just do your time until they let you out.’

‘I suppose so. Wouldn’t fancy it myself, though. Anyway, enough of that. Those days are over, I hope. Let’s get going.’

I checked out of the hotel and asked to leave my bags with the concierge for a few days. Manolo got into his car, a red Mercedes much like the one I owned before I was busted, and arranged the soft drinks, snacks and ashtrays. I climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Nice car, Manolo. I used to have one of these.’

‘Not bad, is it? We like European cars in Patagonia. You’ll hardly ever see an American one. We’ll go to my place and pick up some CDs and blankets. It’s on the way. You can meet my missus, Olwen. She knows all about you and has even read your book in Spanish. Don’t mention dope in front of her, though. She’s nervous about all that stuff. Best to keep it quiet.’

We traversed the now-familiar sixty miles of wilderness to the Chubut River, passed through Gaiman, and thirteen miles further west came to the seemingly unconscious tiny hamlet of Dolavon. Unlike Gaiman, Dolavon had preserved the character of an early pioneering settlement – whitened brick buildings and not a tea shop in sight. Manolo’s home was at
the edge of the village, a quaint grey cottage with railway sash windows next to a municipal campsite. Boots and gardening tools lay next to the doorway, which exquisitely framed Olwen, a beautiful mix of Welsh, Spanish and Indian features.

‘
Swt mai, Mr Nice? R’wyn falch iawn i cwrdda chi. Croeso i Dolavon. Dewch mewn
.’

We walked in and sat down on some antique chairs. The usual trilingual Welsh/Spanish/English conversation then took place, substantially aided by a nearby pile of dictionaries and some maté to focus concentration. After about half an hour Manolo picked up his CDs and a pile of blankets, and we said our goodbyes to Olwen, who insisted I see the garden before leaving. The simultaneous yellow blooming of the native thorny
calafate
and the imported daffodil, a common symbol of the Welsh nation, heralds spring in Patagonia. A Tehuelche legend relates how an old woman too feeble to travel was left behind by her tribe one winter and turned into a
calafate
bush to feed the small birds with her berries and provide them with shelter from the icy wind. In Olwen’s garden each
calafate
bush was surrounded by a carefully planted circle of daffodils in gratitude for its winter-long protection.

Manolo and I drove into the centre of Dolavon and parked the Mercedes near a disused railway station, next to a stream. Weeping willows, curious irrigation waterwheels and other hydro-devices lined the stream banks.

‘Weird, aren’t they? These saved the original Welsh settlers and enabled them to be self-supporting after years of their harvests failing. They used the Chubut River to feed irrigation canals, pumping the water through with machinery like this. Soon, the valley was a blanket of yellow wheat. No one makes bread like the Welsh, do they? Lovely stuff. The Indians here learned that quickly enough and used to swap loads of ostrich feathers for a few loaves. The Welsh would flog the feathers to other European colonists and use the money to buy what they needed.’

‘Why didn’t the other Europeans buy feathers direct from the Indians?’

‘They’d be scalped if they tried that, wouldn’t they? Only the Welsh insisted on treating the Indians as equals. All the other Europeans, except for a handful of individuals, used to really fuck them over. Anyway, while all this bread-bartering was going on, a guy from Dolavon called Benjamin won first prize in the wheat contest at the Universal Show of Paris. I think it was in 1899, the one the Eiffel Tower was built for. Four years later Benjamin won the same prize at the Chicago National Show. Chubut wheat really took off then and was exported to Europe and North America. To stop the middlemen ripping off the profits, the wheat boys formed the Chubut Mercantile Company, which everyone called the Welsh Coop. There’s one of the old mills still working just around the corner. It’s a restaurant, too. Fancy lunch before we go? They do fantastic Patagonian lamb there.’

After eighty years of use, Harinero Mill is still in working order with the original machinery. Manolo and I had to walk through the mill, where the noise was deafening, to get to the farmhouse-style restaurant. Bilingual Spanish/Welsh recipe books, jams, and bread were available to buy.

‘How’s the lamb?’

‘As good as any back home. I suppose they brought the sheep from Wales.’

‘No. The first sheep here actually came from the Malvinas.’

‘Really! From the Falklands?’

‘Don’t use that word here, for fuck’s sake. What a stupid war that was – two bald men fighting over a comb. But yes. An Englishman, Henry Reynard, brought the first sheep over. The English do have their uses, sometimes.’

Leek soup had preceded the stuffed shoulder of lamb. A selection of Welsh black cakes followed. The waiter topped up our carafe of red wine throughout the two-hour meal.

‘All right, Mr Nice. Let’s be off and do what the Welsh did over a hundred years ago – head west.’

Manolo stuck a CD into the car’s sound system. ‘Your Mother’s Got a Penis’ by Goldie Lookin’ Chain, Wales’s answer to two decades of American hip hop, boomed out of the back speakers.

‘I love these guys,’ said Manolo. ‘I’ve got the whole album. The track about the soap bar really cracks me up.’

The terrain gradually became more mountainous and punctuated with alien-shaped sandstone outcrops which looked as if they had transplanted themselves from Arizona’s Monument Valley. Coming into a small town named Las Chapas, Manolo turned up a lane towards a ranch house. He pointed to a gable.