Quioshi

I am sitting on Guatemala´s Caribbean Coast after bathing body and soul in the sacred convergence of fresh water and sea. They call her ¨The Sweet River.¨ So sweet she is that the slurping mud riverbottom carresses my feet with warmth and kindness. The water is the perfect salinity for flushing out nasal passages. The salinity of human tears. Sacred human tears that wash into the river and out to the sea. Rachel and I sit, here, at La Buga, the mouth of the river, at the fingertips of the Sea, and let the waves wash over our sunkissed legs like young playmates in a tidal pool of pure afternoon love.

We fill our hands with purple seashells and begin to pulse with the rhythm of the waves. Chhhtt. Chhhtt. Chhhtt. Our hands our instruments, salt shakers of the sea. ¨You know there is someone there, across the ocean, doing the same thing we are doing right now,¨I say to Rachel through a quiet smile. "On the West African Coast. On the Southern Tip" We speak the names aloud. "On the banks of the Ganga. On the Florida Coast. In Cuba. In Long Beach. Outer Banks, North Carolina. Stormy Oregon Coast. Nova Scotia. Even in Rainy England." We send salutations to lovers all over the world as we feel the weight of the shells in our hands. Shake. And, in a crescendo of thanks -- gratitude for fresh coconuts and machetes, for sacred convergences and purple seashells, for the way the wind and water connect us all in an intimate Union through salt, seeds, smiles, tears and tangled-hair -- in a crescendo of thanks, we release the shells back to Mother Ocean and thank her for allowing us to feel sweet and beautiful in her stained-glass waters.

He left the scene of our Sweet River Gratitude-swimming with no words spoken. Two young women kissing the sand and seashells with open pores and tangled blond curls. I am not sure he knows how to handle two soul-searchers who respect life enough not to get drunk in the middle of the day. Salt water and river mud offer clean, sweet intoxication without heavy eyes, clumsy feet and stumbling tongue. We did not buy him a drink. We did not buy him a smoke. We were not reach to numb the afternoon with a cold, glass bottle. Perhaps he left disappointed.

We see him again, Quioshi, in the evening. His friend approaches us and hands us two fliers advertising a restaurant down the road, "Free mojitos if you eat dinner here. Excellent food." He smiles. He kisses us on the cheek. He pretends he knows everything about us after sniffing out our white skin and light eyes on the evening breeze. I take the objectification light-heartedly. Why should I expect to by any more than a young, attractive White woman in the eyes of this boy who earns his living by slobbering all over tourists? I am getting ahead of myself. My bias is coming out. My disdain for this young man who treats me as a money-pot, sex-toy and expects me to let him treat me this way because the culture permits it. But ask any Garífuna woman in town: this coastal culture does not permit such disrespect. Why does it bother me so? Because he treats me like I am a stupid woman who will give sex and a free drink to any sweaty local who takes my arm and leads me to the hippest tourist joint. This is what Rasputin wants. I think they are brothers. Quioshi and Rasputin. This is why he fixes our table and tries to massage my sunburned shoulders in between his crude jokes. This is why he pretends he knows everything about me. I feel the tension start to rise in me as he speaks to all the world with proud disrespect. He grows angry that we have not offered him a drink. He grows angry that I do not let him touch me as he pleases. He grows angry that I am not just a "stupid American." I understand why he is spiteful. To him, tonight, I am "Them"-- Rich, Privileged, White Tourist who both gives him a job and makes him irate with anger, centuries deep. The waitress comes and she yells at us. She yells at us because the night is full of misunderstanding and her tourist-trap dogs have not done a good job in inticing us to spend a bundle of money on a fancy dinner. She yells at us because her under-the-table workers slander her with insults as they demand alcoholic compensation. How did we find ourselves here? He latched onto us at the dock. Just recently off the boat. When I ask him a question about Hindu culture here, he responds with spite -- spitting accusations of my ignorance. Maybe I am clueless about the deep-rooted cultural racism, tension, history of coinhabitance of Garífuna, White, Black, Ladino, Indian peoples. This is why I ask the question. Because I would like to know more. I would like to listen to the stories. Because there is more here that interests me aside from discotechs and alcoholic overdoses. I change my tone of voice. "You know, we Americans are just stupid. Forget my question." He asks for a sip of my mojito. "You can have it," I say, feeling dirty, disrupted, distant from the rum filled cup. He gets what he wants in the end. We are left to try and sort through the complicated, heavy weave of racism, history, resentment and jealousy we have become a part of this evening. I cannot pretend to understand the depth of it. I cannot pretend to understand the historical roots of the insults Quioshi fires at the Garífuna passersby. I do not know why it pains him that his father is Indian. Yet, I cannot sit idly while someone shoots his slandering arrows at me in a strange combination of kisses and curses and demands for alcohol. Just as I cannot pretend to know anything about him, he cannot pretend he knows anything about me. But he does. This is where it begins. Tonight, in his eyes, I am a White Sac of Ungrateful Shit Money. His eyes are angry to discover that I don´t carry enough cash to buy him a drink. We walk on