Sleepless in Africa

Sleepless In Africa

Noel Laflin

7-29-14

“When you see the Southern Cross for the first time

You understand now why you came this way” – Crosby, Stills & Nash

“You awake, Mike?” I asked, staring at a very strange and disorienting African sky.  I reached for the fifth of sweet Southern Comfort  lying beside me.

“Yup,” the tall and lanky form stretched out upon his sleeping bag finally replied.  The croaking chorus of ten thousand frogs hidden amongst the reeds of the river bank very nearly drowned out his words.  “This is the worst jet lag ever,” I heard him say.  “But, at least we have this to look at.”  Mike’s arm stretched heavenward and swept in the vista.  I handed him the bottle.

A zillion stars blushed in acknowledgement.  And, not a one was remotely familiar.

 

“I’d always wanted to see the Southern Cross,” I said.  But since it set, I don’t recognize a single constellation.  Do you think we’ll be able to spot the Magellanic Clouds?”

“Ah, I hope so,” my raft-mate said.  “Although I haven’t a clue as to what I’m looking for.  But, how do you hide some twenty-billion suns anyway?  Think of that!”

And, I did.  The very notion of being able to view two neighboring galaxies with the naked eye, as our boatmen had assured us would happen this far south of the equator, was more than intriguing – it was mind blowing.  And so, a high school teacher from New York and a sales guy from California, both recently brought together seeking new adventure in a very old land, scanned the night skies above a very remote region along the shores of the Zambezi River.  We were either in Zambia or Zimbabwe.  I’m sure the stars above didn’t really care which it was – nor did we for that matter.

A loud slap on the water interrupted the star gazing.  The frog chorus went silent.

“Crocodile?”  Mike asked.

“Gotta be,” I said.  “That was his tail hitting the water for sure; and the frogs suddenly took five.  I hope he stays out of camp.”

“We should be alright up here on the bluff.” Mike said.  “There weren’t any tail depressions in the sand leading this way.  Not so sure about where the two girls made camp though; too close to the river, if you ask me.”

“I eyed their spot first, but noticed the heavy croc tail trail and those big old paw prints dragging up that way.  The girls asked if I was going to grab that spot but I said they could have it.  I never told them why; thought they’d figure it out. Their dad spread his gear out close by.  I suppose they’ll be alright as he’d be a closer meal, if it came to that.”

“You know, the crocs are one thing, but the freakin’ baboons are worse,”  Mike said. “Now, they’ll steal you blind.”

“Yeah, a cab driver in Vic Falls had me roll up all the windows coming through town because of the baboons.  Guess they’ll reach right in and grab anything shiny if you’re stopped for more than a second.”

“They broke into my room the night before we headed out here,” Mike said.  They worked the latch to one of the louvered windows that was barely open and let themselves right in.  Dragged my duffle bag outside and had their way with it.  Tore open all the film cartridges because they were packaged in gold foil.  They are bold little fuckers, to be sure.”

“One of the crew said that they’ve heard explosions on past trips.  He claims it’s large groups of baboons running the countryside and tripping off old land mines left over from the Rhodesian Bush War,” I noted.  We had seen families upward of a hundred or more, babies clinging to the backs of their mothers, loping across the savanna and coming down to the river to drink and bathe nearly every day.

 

“Did you know,” Mike replied, “that a large group of baboons is known as a congress?  I’d like to see some congressmen back home have to run a minefield or two.”

We laughed and passed the Southern Comfort between the two of us once more, toasting the thought.

A chorus of frogs took up song once again.

“Croc moved on, I guess,” Mike said.

“Never heard any screams from the girls, so I guess they’re okay for now,” the teacher surmised.

“Probably got their dad instead,” I concluded. 

“Hey, what’s that up there?” Mike asked, pointing the bottle skyward.

I focused on two distinct faint clusters of light, separated by a few degrees, twinkling some two hundred thousand light years beyond and above us.  They had not become apparent until all the talk of frogs, crocodiles and baboons had passed.

“Captain Magellan, you may have just located the illustrious ‘clouds’ that have been eluding us all evening,” I retorted.

“I’ve read,” said Mike, “that the larger ‘cloud’ – or grouping there - provided astronomers with an unexpected surprise nine years ago, when the light from an explosion of one of its stars, one hundred and fifty thousand years earlier, finally reached us.  It was the nearest supernova explosion since the seventeen hundreds.”

“The crew said the clusters would appear ‘ghostly’,” I quipped, without just a tad of wonder.  “To finally see the image of one of its twenty billion stars explode, oh so long ago, is like seeing a ghost.”  I took another swig of bourbon.

We stared heavenward for the rest of the evening.  Sleep, as formerly elusive as those twenty billion suns, finally overtook us.

It was the brilliant light from our one and only star that finally woke us.

That, and the racket the family of baboons were making as they tried to unzip my backpack.

Jake and the Snake

Jake and the Snake

Noel Laflin

7-21-14

Jake, the mule, knew how to get to the river alright.  But on a fine September day some thirty years ago, he decided to take a shortcut. Unfortunately, he took me with him. And although I swear that I saw a most unfortunate end, I am here to tell you that it was not so.  But, almost. 

It's all the fault of my old neighbor, Jane, I contend. As she had heard so much of my white water adventures the year prior, it came as little surprise when she suggested that I take her with me should I ever return to the wilds of Arizona. 

So that's what led us to that remotely beautiful and yet quite desolate cliff overlooking the mighty Colorado River. It looked deceiving small - the river that is - from our vantage point so high up. The mule train stood silent guard behind us as we took in the view of the massive gorge, the diminutive ribbon of water so far below and the steep trail winding its way through sharp lava and giant cacti. 

Now, I had rafted the upper gorge and had taken a mule ride out of the canyon to this very spot just twelve months previously. After surviving the likes of some very nasty rapids, daily temperatures of a hundred plus degrees, monsoonal down pours and a ride on a dusty zigzagging trail out of the canyon, I was ready for a leisurely descent back down that very same trail on this fine autumn day.   

This was to be a shorter voyage, but important to me, as if would take us all the way to Lake Mead, thus completing the entire two hundred and twenty-six mile river journey through one of the seven natural wonders of the world. 

So, money was put down for the two of us to ride wooden dories through the lower gorge. We would be joining a group of folks who'd been in transit for the last two weeks. I envied their time there. But I was content with the trip that Jane and I were about to embark upon.  And, so here we were.

"This here's Jake," the old mule handler from the Bar 10 Ranch informed me as I mounted up at the edge of the canyon. 

"Gentle as they come," he added. "He's done this trip a hundred times, so just sit back in the saddle, go easy on the reigns and enjoy your ride, partner.  Good old Jake knows the way" he concluded.  With that, he moved on to Jane and her mount. I heard a similar pitch delivered her way as he tightened a harness here and there. 

I turned in the saddle and grinned at my neighbor. "Gonna be a piece of cake," I bragged. "Ought to be easier than coming up," I surmised, trying to sound confident.  

And with that thought in mind, we were off. Jake dutifully followed the mule ahead, who in turned followed the next guy, etc.  There must have been a dozen of us or so heading down the narrow old dusty trail. "This is gonna be fun," I thought. So, I let Jake lead the way and do his thing. 

The rattlesnake caught us both by surprise. 

He slithered onto the trail about two minutes into the descent. The rider and mule directly ahead of us were unaware of him. But I saw the critter. Unfortunately, so did Jake. 

Now, I once tried my best to re-enact in a sign language class what exactly happened next.   When signing, one should always use plenty of facial expressions in conjunction with the signs themselves. The telling of this particular tale lent itself perfectly to that assignment. 

As I stood before my classmates I first drew them a picture of me sitting contentedly atop old Jake by extending two fingers of one hand and straddling them with two fingers of the other hand. I was smiling and bouncing along lazily. I then signed the word for snake - venomous snake - and pointed to where he slid across our path. My facial expression was not a happy one.

From there it became a wild pantomime of Jake going crazy. He stopped abruptly, brayed repeatedly, raised his front legs and then kicked up the hind pair before bolting off the trail like a mule possessed. 

My flying signs showed the class a person leaning way back in the saddle before being thrown violently forward again. I demonstrated how my hands first lost the reigns and then my feet, the stirrups. I clasped rider-fingers tightly about the fingers representing Jake.  Then I laid them to the right and then to the left. Yes, that was pretty much me holding on by a wing and a prayer, taking in the rapidly descending vista from a horizontal viewpoint.

Trying to recreate the ride straight down the mountain, all the while watching my life flash before me, was a bit of a challenge.  But Jake was a master in his ability to dodge (if only by inches) those large spiny barrel cacti, which popped up out of nowhere, threatening to slice off limb and face.  Sharp, jagged mounds of ancient lava were no match for my four-footed friend as he cagily wove his way between them, all the while throwing in the occasional kick and screaming hee-haw.  But in retrospect I have to admit that we made fantastic time.

 

I was greeted by a standing ovation of both river men and paying customers by the time Jake reached the banks of the mighty Colorado. 

Unceremoniously, I slid out of the saddle and fell to the cool, smooth damp sand. 

Jake wandered off for a drink of water.  

Someone handed me an ice cold beer.  There were a few dozen more cooling in the river.

I kissed the ground before pulling the tab with shaking hands.  Someday those hands would help tell this tale.

The rest of the group, including my neighbor Jane, reached the impromptu party thirty minutes later.

I was only a little drunk by then.  But, the day was young.

Jake and author prior to meeting the snake

Salt of the Earth

Salt of the Earth

Noel Laflin

7-15-14

Painting by Lauren Raine

“On the morning of June 30, 1956,” our trip leader solemnly began, “two commercial airliners collided directly overhead and plunged into the canyon walls above us.  One hundred and twenty-eight folks died that day.  At the time,” he concluded, “it was the worse aviation disaster in history.”

I scanned the general area to which he pointed.  The cliffs rose to dizzying heights.  If you stared long and hard enough, you could catch (or believe you had glimpsed possibly) a tiny shining reflection of metal on mountain.  Parts of flight TWA Flight 2 and United Airlines Flight 718 would never be retrieved.

“Twenty-nine bodies from the United flight were never identified,” our guide resumed.  “They are buried together in the old cemetery on the South Rim.  Worse yet, sixty-six of the seventy passengers on board the TWA flight were also disfigured beyond recognition.  They are buried similarly at Citizens Cemetery in Flagstaff.”

There was silence among both passengers and crew at this point as we continued to gently float down the muddy Colorado River.  We were at the confluence with the Little Colorado River.  There was a stark color difference between the mighty giant upon which we had traveled for the past few days and the beguiling turquoise blue of the smaller tributary pouring into it.  I believe our moods reflected that of the larger body of water for the moment.

A boatman began to steer the raft to one side of the river.  As we pulled further away our guide spoke once more.

“If you look closely to the opposite shore you’ll notice white patches lined throughout the cliff.”

We could easily see it.

“It’s salt,” he continued, “and sacred to the Hopi.  We always stay clear of it.  Although this is Navajo land, the Hopi still have passing rights in order to gather it.  It’s used in rituals.  Young men are lowered over the cliffs in order to scrape some of the salt from the walls.  It is then used in a coming of age ceremony.  In fact, some Hopi believe that mankind first entered the earth not far from this very spot as they followed Grandmother Spider from another world below.  There are other versions of man’s entrance; regardless, it’s sacred ground and we respect it.  Consequently, there are a lot of spooky legends pertaining to this general area.  It’s one place that I would not want to spend the night,” he concluded.

We soon pushed off and continued our adventure.  There were some giant rapids awaiting us downstream and we were looking forward to challenging them.

But, as I reflect back on that particular scene some thirty-odd years ago, I can’t help but wonder about salt-encrusted canyon walls, ancient deities (with mankind in tow) rising from the underworld, and folks falling from the sky – all within a mile radius of where we floated that day.

I don’t think that I would ever want to spend a night in the vicinity either.

Fortunately, we made camp many river miles downstream that evening.

Lightning Reflex

Lightning Reflex

Noel Laflin

7-13-14

I never used proper profanity until I was sixteen years old. And even then, it was just between me and God and the truck that nearly did me in - causing the forbidden expletive  (just picture a word that rhymes with truck) - to escape my virgin lips in the first place. 

Up until that near-life-altering event, I was pretty much a choir boy as far as language was concerned. I had few, if any, bad role models to influence me. My folks never cursed. Friends rarely swore.  There was no cable TV in the fifties or sixties. Even movies were tamer back then.   Although "Midnight Cowboy" had just been released that summer and certainly could have been an influence, as it had an X rating, I was still too young to view it. And, so my naughty word naivety stayed safely intact. 

Oh, to be sure, there were the off-color jokes of childhood where mild vulgar words were whispered and giggled over.   But not - well, you know - the big nasty word itself.

 
Then came the crossing of the East Street incident. I had done it hundreds of times in order to get to the store across the way. My mother was in need of something for dinner and had sent me on my way. 

Now, if I had not been so lazy I would have walked the relatively short distance to the corner light and crossed with safety. However, most of us in the neighborhood rarely did that. We took our chances to make the wild dash and save a minute.

 
Looking back on the scene that late afternoon, I really don't know how I did not see that semi-truck barreling northbound. But I did not - and stepped off the curb.

 
The blaring horn, so skillfully applied, made me look like a boy performing the hokey-pokey on amphetamines. 

 
I felt the rush of the big rig as it blew by – just a foot from my chest - spinning me backwards simultaneously.  

"FUCK!" I cried aloud.

 
Both of my hands immediately flew face ward, clamping tightly over my mouth. 

I looked heavenward certain that I would be struck by a bolt of lightning. 

Nothing happened.

 
I looked to the left, then right, behind me and finally up again - certain in the fact that I’d be pulverized momentarily.

The smiting never occurred.

I cautiously repeated the word. 

Still no response from God. 

I danced about a bit while chanting the hitherto forbidden word over and over again.

 
It was with a crazed sense of liberation, not to mention thankfulness, that I then dashed across the street (having given both directions a very thorough check, check and double check). I tested my new word every step of the way.

 
Apparently God had bigger issues with which to deal, I thought in justification of my new Tourette-like state and the lack of fireworks on his part.

 
All of these years later, I’m happy to reflect upon just how freakin’ glad I am of that fact.

However, one should only test his luck so much; God might unexpectedly have a little free time on his hands and be listening in.  And, there is probably still a bolt in the arsenal bearing my name.

Sidewalk Theology

Sidewalk Theology

Noel Laflin

7-8-14

“So, why don’t we ever sing, Shall We Gather At The River? the young man in a sweat-drenched, dirty tee-shirt asked the good pastor one afternoon.

“I love that song!” the kid added, whistling the chorus while sweeping an errant leaf from the church walkway.

“It’s a Baptist hymn,” pastor replied.  “We don’t do Baptist here.  We like something grander -  like Luther’s A Might Fortress Is Our God. Now, there’s a song!” he advised.

The boy thought for a moment, reflecting on a thousand past processionals for which he’d risen, Lutheran hymnal in hand - joining his fellow congregants in exultation.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “It’s not bad for an opening act – I’ll give you that.  But, you never hear it in a John Ford movie.  He used The River in five of his classics,” the shaggy-haired young gardener countered.

“Ford was no Lutheran,” the lean, be speckled parson replied with a sigh. “Obviously!” he added for emphasis.

“I think he was Catholic,” the boy said.  “Lutherans are kind of like shirt-tail Catholics, wouldn’t you say?”

Pastor gave the young man a wilting stare.

“We are NOT shirt-tail Catholics, you nit!  That would be the Episcopalians.  Have you forgotten your entire Catechism?” he asked sarcastically.

“Well, how come the Catholics and us both use the term catechism then,” the boy argued. 

“Because there are some universal themes throughout all of Christendom, you dummy!” the man nearly shouted.

The boy pulled out a pack of Winston’s from his back pocket and proceeded to light up.

“Give me one of those,” pastor demanded, looking cautiously over his shoulder in the event his wife should appear.

“She’s not here, Friar Tuck,” the boy said, handing over a smoke and a light.  You’re safe.”

“Don’t mention this to her,” the man of the cloth warned.  “She thinks I’ve quit.”

“Quit buying, you mean," the youngster  amended.  “Don’t worry, your secret habit is safe with me.”

“And, speaking of habits,” he dovetailed, Sister Mary Elizabeth pays me a lot better than you do.  I make four hundred a month at St. Anthony’s for a lot less hours – you guys only pay me two hundred.  What’s up with that anyway?”

“Have you ever thought of converting?” the  perplexed pastor asked.

“Yeah,” the cocky young man with the broom replied.  “I could at least then walk to church as it’s only a couple blocks from my house.”

Pastor stubbed out the cigarette on the grass and turned to head back into the church office.

 

“Make sure you pick that up before you finish today,” he said to the young gardener.

“Jawohl!” replied the boy with a grin and two fingers under his nose.

The minister did an incredibly swift about-face and kicked him squarely in the ass.

“Say,” the boy said laughing, “perhaps some old spirituals could be worked into a Sunday service or two as well.  It would be a nice nod to the underpaid help.”

“Speaking of Sundays,” the minister retorted, “why is it that we never see you on that day?”

“My gosh, pastor!” the boy mocked in reply, “I’m here six days a week as it is trying to make this place look respectable for that crowd.  Even the good Lord rested on the seventh.”

The older man tried to give him another kick, but the kid was too fast and sidestepped it.

“Alright,” pastor sighed in exasperation as he turned to leave a second time.

“Oh, yes,” he said turning around once again.  “I almost forgot.  There’s a wedding on Sunday.  There’s an automatic twenty-five bucks in it for you if you take care of the clean-up – mostly rice swept off the sidewalk, etc.”

“Count me in,” the boy said.  “College doesn’t come cheaply you know.  Well, maybe you don’t really know, but the Catholics certainly do as they pay better…”

“Enough of this tomfoolery,” the lean and be-speckled man admonished.

“Get back to work.  I’ve got a sermon to write anyway.”

“What’s the theme?,” the boy asked curiously.

“Patience and the suffering of fools,” the man replied, opening the door to his office.  “I think I’ll work in the verse regarding the weeping of our Lord too.”

“Cool!” the kid in the sweaty, dirty shirt replied.

“See you Sunday then!” he said, sweeping up the two discarded butts on the ground.

“Did you say, Sunday?” the pastor asked hopefully.

“Well, yeah,” the lad replied.  “There’s a wedding to clean up after.”

He turned and began to whistle loudly.

 

It was a tune favored by John Ford in at least five of his best Westerns.

He heard the church office door slam shut before he reached the end of the sidewalk.

Warnings

Warnings
Noel Laflin
July 4, 2014

September 1968:

“The original hotel first opened in the late 1800’s,” the man sporting the 1940’s Hawaiian shirt said to the two boys walking to either side of him.  He pointed to the imposing structure with the plate glass windows overlooking this stretch of sand and the Pacific Ocean.  Catalina Island shimmered to the northwest just twenty-six miles across the sea.

The three beachcombers had been lollygagging for a bit now with the man pointing out tidbits of Laguna’s past all along the way.  He loved California history and trivia in general – local lore, in particular.  He made any trip interesting – even this simple stroll down the beach.  What he knew about the Hotel Laguna was no exception. He continued to elaborate as they slowly walked its length and onto Main Beach near the old boardwalk.

“It was condemned in the 1920’s and razed.  It was rebuilt of course,” he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.

“Why was the hotel razed in the first place?” the fifteen-year-old asked, stopping to look at the grand old structure from a new angle.

The lad raising the question was spending a few precious days before the start of high school with these good friends at their rented beach bungalow several blocks south of where they now walked.  The teenager was enchanted by the father’s knowledge regarding - well, just about everything.  He was delighted to be in his company.  And this was one of the finest days of the summer.  He was trying to soak up all of the sun, sea and fun facts being tossed about so casually before his sophomore year officially got in the way.  So, he wanted to know what took down the original structure naturally.  He knew the man in the cool Hawaiian shirt would have the answer.

“It just got rundown,” the father replied.  “Became pretty much of a firetrap, according to what I’ve read,” he continued.  “But, what they built in its place still stands as we see it now.  It was a real Mecca for the Hollywood elite back in the 30’s.  Bogart, Bergman, Bacall and anyone who was anyone hung out here in its heyday.”

“Who’s Bogart, dad,” his nine-year-old son asked, dodging an errant Frisbee that nearly took off his head.

“He was a movie star from a by-gone era,” his father replied.  “Just like the hotel,” he added with a just a hint of melancholy in his voice.

“I’ve seen Casablanca,” the other boy chimed in.  He might have only been fifteen, but he was up on his old movies and only too happy to reenact the part of a fast-talking bar owner named Rick.

“Louie, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship,” he added, pretending to stroll across a fog-enshrouded Moroccan airstrip, circa 1941.

Having got caught up in the moment the adolescent  inadvertently stepped on a sunbather.  The blond young man in the tight swimwear lying on his towel smiled up at the klutzy teen now doing a quick two-step – trying to avert his feet from doing more injury.  The sunbather, who looked to be all of eighteen, had a suave and worldly air about him despite his youth.  Several other scantily clad men, spread out across the sand on their own brightly colored towels, howled with delight.

The boy, reddening in the face, stammered out a barely audible apology.  The tanned young man on the towel removed his sunglasses and gave him the once over.  He had the most amazing green eyes.

“It’s alright, honey,” he replied, staring at the boy directly.  “You can trip over me anytime you like.  Just come back when you’re older.”  And with that he put the shades on and lay back down.

The other sunbathers snickered once again.  Catcalls were being bandied about as well.

“Well, I guess you do know your Bogart,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said absently.  “But you had better watch your step, especially along this stretch of the beach.”

“I meant to warn you about people like this,” he said in afterthought.

And with that, he turned the two boys around and headed them back up the beach.

“Dad?” his son asked him.  “Warn him about what?”  He looked confused.

“I’ll tell you later.  Let’s had back, shall we?  Your mother most likely has lunch waiting for us.”

He marched the two lads northward.

The wannabe Bogart gave a glance or two over his shoulder.  The handsome young man on the towel had turned his head to the side, watching the trio slip away.  He raised his hand in farewell.

Bogy waved back, when the other two were not looking.
 

July 4th, 1977

The shy young man tried to look nonchalant and just blend in with the crowd.

The place was packed with men of all ages and the floorboards themselves vibrated and danced to the overly cranked up, relentless beat of disco. Folks tried to move, converse or flirt amid the music, noise, smoke and clinking of bottles and glasses. 

It was a world quite unlike any he had either envisioned or encountered. The young man was enthralled, remembering what had brought him to this strange yet excitingly exotic and welcoming new home just an hour ago.

He had not been ready to drive back to a lonely apartment that night. 

“It’s Independence Day after all – and maybe,” he reasoned, to the empty seat beside him, “it’s time to do something about it.”  

He took the turnoff for PCH. 

The young man was twenty-four, not bad looking - or so he'd been told on one occasion or another - and fairly successful in his job. But there was a major void in his life. He just did not know who he was any longer.
  

Perhaps it was time to ignore an old warning directed his way some nine years ago on a long-lost hot summer day.  He recalled a man with amazing green eyes. He guessed it was time to finally visit Laguna again. 

“Not all warnings are justified,” he said aloud as he parked his car.   

“But I could lose my job over this venture,” he fretted as he ran across busy PCH, hoping not to be recognized by any off-chance acquaintance who happened to be passing by. 

"Fuck it!" he yelled, reaching the safety of the sidewalk and the entrance to the bar he'd known of for many years, but had never had the balls to enter until this moment.

"I'll be the judge of old warnings," he reassured himself as he entered a new and formerly forbidden world. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about. 

Slipping back into the present the boy, who had so many questions as to what was expected of him, wondered what his next step was to be. 

As if turned out, his errant foot tripped over that of another as he lurched forward unexpectedly into the catching arms of the shirtless, injured stranger. 

The tanned, blond man steadying him smiled as he held him upright. 

He was a few years his senior but looked hauntingly familiar. 

He had the most amazing green eyes. 

"Oh, honey, when I told you that you could trip over me any time, I had no idea you’d wait so long!"

"You know," the klutzy young man stammered, taking the stranger's extended hand and shaking it in genuine thanks - "I was once warned about people like you."

"Oh, I do recall indeed," the handsome man replied with a suave and worldly wave of the hand. "But of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walked into mine - despite the warning.”

Now it was time for the younger man to smile in recognition of a summer day long ago on a beach not far away. 

He realized that he was being asked a question. 

"What’s my name?” he repeated, as if caught napping. 

"Why don't you just call me Rick."

“I guess that makes me Louie then,” the man with the knowing eyes laughed, raising his glass. 

"But let me steal one of your lines just for the moment," he added.

"Here's looking at you kid."