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Small wooden skiffs everywhere on the water, the fishermen drop their nets for the fish that they know are waiting to be caught by them and ducks along with many other aquatic birds lazily enjoying the sun as they play at catching fish at will for their own breakfasts.
About a half hour out on the lake, we started to pass many small islands. I told Guapa that this is like a dream; I wonder who owns all of these islands because many of them are uninhabited by people even though there is livestock on some, all had trees of good size growing on them. Wouldn’t it be great to have an island of your own. This is the stuff that great fantasies have been made from, books have been written on this same subject, movies have brought the fantasy to the big screen and t-v gave us Gilligan’s Island along with Fantasy Island. Madison Ave. makes millions or probably billions by now using this fantasy and here it is right in front of my eyes. I know that I can disappear out here on one of these islands and no one would ever find me. This is the end of the world, the beginning of a different world where everyone can be invisible. By now Guapa knows what I mean when I talk about things like this, and she tells me that many islands are just there waiting for who ever decides to visit or live. I tuck this information away in the place where I keep all of these possibilities stored, and enjoy the rest of the ride over the smooth blue lake.
As the launch approaches Don Chalo’s island, maybe the size of half of a square city block, I can see several small buildings; some cattle, a few chickens, and a few pigs. Then a man comes into view and Guapa L tells me “That’s Don Chalo,” and I wave as the launch slips into shore. From the water’s edge to the top of the island’s flat land is an incline of about fifteen feet. As we climb the small hill, I get a clear look at the island. There are six buildings of pole and thatched roof construction, all on the eastern side while the western side is grass and trees. There are about fifty chickens of all shapes and sizes, turkeys large and small, sheep, goats, cows and bulls, at least a dozen pigs - most of which are really piglets and cute as buttons - a few dogs and at least one cat, although I would guess that there are more, since rats are also part of the island’s population.
In addition to Don Chalo, who is about sixty years old, there is his first wife, who is about the same age, and his second wife, who is in her mid-twenties. There are also two daughters, less than two years old, a scattering of workers, who are busy building or repairing those things in need as well as taking care of the livestock’s needs. There is no electricity on the island nor is there really any need for it, as the inhabitants are quite able to use the “sun drying method of preservation” to store meats. There are three launches and a couple of motorless skiffs for travel to and from the island. The animals play island hopping at will, swimming across the lake - which is quite deep - to other islands that they might choose to visit.
All of the people speak Mixtec, the local people’s native tongue, but a few of them also can speak Spanish. It is obvious from the beginning that our main contact while on the island will be Don Chalo, as the other folk sort of keep their distance in a way that seems natural and comfortable to all of us. Don Chalo shows us to the house that we will occupy, asks us how many mushrooms each of us would like to have and then goes off to tend his normal day’s routine. Our house is really a barn, normally used to store corn feed for the animals and some other gear and building materials plus an outboard motor that is being repaired. There is a wood plank bed and some straw mats for it, and we brought along our own blankets and pillows.
It’s noon, and as the day gets hotter, Guapa L and I finish our exploring of the island and retire to our house to relax, nap, and whatever as the day slowly passes by. A refreshing swim in the lake during the heat of the afternoon is just the thing and a nice long nap finds the sun going down behind the mountains to the west.
The animals head to their evening places, the workers leave for their homes, wherever that may be, and Don Chalo calls us to join him in his little chapel, where dozens of pictures of Jesus and Mary adorn the walls and candles are burning on the alter. He shows us our mushrooms and suggests, for whatever reason, that we wait a while longer before eating them.
So, without question, we wait as the sun goes down and all of the environment grows still. We gaze all around us at the beauty of this place and talk of the offer from Don Chalo earlier in the day
for us to live on either of two other islands that are his. He has thrown reality into the fantasy, and I am really thinking of the possibilities of island life. Guapa is also thinking about it, and we talk about the "when" of it being possible to do so.
This could be better than anything that I had in Tennessee when it was “back to the land” time, better than Israel and the lifestyle of a kibbutz, better than Taos, which never was any reality other than drugs, sex and rock “n” roll. Don Chalo has a ranch on a bigger island where he keeps his main herd of livestock and he has a nice house there that needs someone to live in it. That island has electricity, a small general store and a few other people living
on it, but a good part of that island would be ours, just for the living. We could have and do what we wanted as we wanted it, privacy being the biggest draw, and a simple life, with no one in our business about anything. We agree that on our next visit we will have Don Chalo take us to see this place, and then dream our dreams with a little better picture of what our fantasy could be. But for the night rapidly approaching, mushrooms are the King.
The half moon is up in the eastern sky, and the first evening stars are out when Don Chalo calls us back to his chapel. He is seated in front of the small alter, our individual portion of mushrooms are set out, and he starts to pray in both Mixtech and Spanish, invoking the names of the Trinity in a low mumbling way that reminds me of my own grandfather praying when he was still amongst the living of this world, and many other men of strong faith and beliefs. After about ten minutes, he concludes the prayers and offers us the mushrooms, which we happily take and retire to our house for the night.
I look at my watch and see that it is 7:00PM, the launch back to Temascal will be picking us up in twelve hours, so we have a lot of time for our trip before returning to the outside world. Guapa eats most of her mushrooms as rapidly as she can, as instructed by Don Chalo. I have told her that if she does her mushrooms like that I will not interfere, but it would be much more pleasant for her if she goes about her consumption of these gifts from the universe in a slower way. She feels more comfortable following Don Chalo’s instructions, and within a half hour she is tripping heavily and no longer is able to stay on her feet. She is lying on the bed telling me “I feel strange, I feel love, I feel happy”, over and over again, as if saying a mantra. She is laughing and crying at the same time, obviously overcome with the magnificent beauty of all life in and of itself. I assure her that she’s OK as she starts to chant about feeling like she is going crazy, a term that, were she a native speaker of English, would probably go something like “It’s blowing my mind”. I’m amazed that she is still speaking English and continues to do so all night.
I’ve started out slowly, eating a few thin stems of these fabulous mushrooms, savoring their special taste and chewing on them until they have totally dissolved in my mouth. For me, eating mushrooms has been a long time coming. I nibbled one about five years ago and found that my nerves were too wired to deal with it, but I was still in the early stages of my recovery from the MS outbreak. This time I was prepared for what ever reaction I might have, and perhaps it was just will power that allowed me to eat enough until I was tripping. Perhaps my body can handle it now, but what ever it was that allowed me to trip without getting into physical trouble, here I was, enjoying this wonderful experience. And what a place to trip, an island in the middle of this huge lake in Oaxaca, Mexico. Alone in this place with just a few other people around and only Guapa really there.
We passed the night tripping together. I can’t remember all of the details now, but I guided her through her rough times and brought her safely back into the world with me just by staying close to her as her point of reference. It’s been years since I did that. But then I am the “Mushroom Man” who lives across the way.
From somewhere a voice called out. It’s morning and time to go.
Our first ride took us to a nearby island where we waited for another launch that would take us back to Temascal. After a half hour of waiting on this tiny island that was no more than an acre in size, the boat arrived and we boarded with our bags and thought that we would soon be getting to Temascal. The boat owner had other plans. he took us all around the lake as he made what turned out to be his daily route of gathering fish from the many fisherman, weighing them and recording each catch, then exchanging it for sugar or coffee or tortillas or candles and even in one case he actually paid in cash for a fisherman’s catch.
Two hours went by as we made the rounds and observed the transactions of fish for barter before finally heading into Temascal, all of the time with the weather worsening. We were glad to finally be ashore. We ordered a big breakfast of unbelievably fresh and delicious fried mohara with beans and rice and once we were filled up headed back to catch the first of the two busses that would get us back to Boca Del Rio. We relived the experiences of the night before on the ride home and we wonder if we’ll ever get to be “lost on an island in Oaxaca”, that strange and mysterious place.