El Corazon

Ten minutes later the ever-present sound of radial engines is finally silenced. Abby breathes her last breath of the day and then there is a brief pause. Then, like the tide, the sounds of the jungle replaces Abby’s throaty report.
El Corazon is Jerry’s compound. A combination aircraft hanger and shop, with a large home built in the space above it. It is totally off of the grid, like most places down here. We pump water from a well, get our electricity from the sun and the river out back. Our only source of communication out here is the ham radio set. There is a Jeep and a old Dodge Powerwagon that could find a road through any jungle. There is one road out back that leads to a little village not far from here, maybe three miles. There is a clinic, a bar, and a couple of real good places to eat.
When Jerry first brought me here, I asked him who watched the place while we were out. No one, was his reply. We were too far out of the way for anyone who really would want to rob us, and the people of the village were hard working folks who wouldn’t think of taking something that didn’t belong to them. He treated them right when he was in town, and they all knew who he is, and now who I am as well.
“I am beat.” Jerry says to me as he jumps down to the dirt. “Why don’t we let Abbey be and kick back.”
“No problem.” I wasn’t into burning any midnight oil, even though it was only 9:30pm.

Before long we have the oil lamps lit, the yacht batteries that kept the sun’s charge run our satellite television or stereo. Tonight it is the stereo and a rather cheeky dice tournament. We drink nearly all of the beer during the competition, one that sees Jerry victorious. To date we have kept a running tally of monies won and lost. I am hoping it is all in jest, but can never get a straight answer out of Jerry whether it is a fictitious amount or if he really expects me to pay him the $23,000 he has won. I suppose I will have to wait until the tables have turned to find out the true answer.

Morning comes with the sound of a car horn. I am in my hammock, tangled in a blanket. I hear no movement from Jerry, only to find that he is not in his hammock at all. Out the window I see him, in the Jeep, beer in hand, the other threatening to blow the horn continually unless I make it down there spot-quick.
I throw on some shorts and one of my collection of Grateful Dead tour shirts and head down to the hanger and out into the morning sun. It is about 85 degrees and humid as hell. I curse myself as I approach my impatient driver.
“What’s the problem?” Jerry asks.
“Should have grabbed a beer.”
Jerry points to the passenger seat and there is the last beer, unopened and ice cold. I take it and then hop in.
It is a definite skill drinking a beer in a jeep while tearing through the jungle, but I manage well enough. Only once do I spill a little. It is a ten minute ride into the town of Nogales. We didn’t have plans to go to town today, or at least I didn’t think so.
“I thought we had an early pick up this morning?”
Jerry drives with one hand, the other upending the beer bottle before tossing the empty in the wooden crate that holds the empties. “Rescheduled for tomorrow.”
The ride goes by in a flash as I finish my beer and toss it into the back with the other bottles. The crate is so loud with jingling bottles that we sound like a giant wind chime as we leave the jungle behind us and head up toward the cluster of shacks and small structures that make up the heart of Nogales’ business district.
A few stray dogs bark at our passing as we drive up the dirt trail and stop in front of a make-shift market. Jerry hauls the box of bottle out of the jeep and sets them down inside the door of the building.
Inside, it is nothing more than stacks of boxes and crates, some overturned and displaying the contents of the hidden crates below. Over in the corner are several cases of beer stacked next to an ancient ice-chest style cooler. Ice is brought in every few days, most times by us, to keep the beverages and occasional meat and perishables cold. Nogales, like many small villages, is not on the grid. There is some solar powered electrical and storage batteries, provided by Jerry before I came here. It powered a ham radio for emergencies, and the occasional light bulb.
Jerry pretty much financed the market, a kind of trading post that kept us in meat, clothing, furniture, and tequila from local manufacturers.
He gestures to the cases of beer, “Grab one. And check the cooler.”
I open the ice chest. Still had a stack of melting block ice to one side, on top of which were several bundles of goat meat, chicken, and some marinated pork in one of Jerry’s large Tupperware containers. On the other side at least two cases of bottles chilling in the icy melt off. “Oh yeah, we have cold ones.” I pull two longnecks out of the slush and toss one to him, then shoulder the case. “Where is everyone?”
“Dunno.” Jerry cracks the beer and takes a pull. He steps in the back room, where there was usually one of the woman from the village and about six kids running around. “Is it the last Sunday?” Jerry fiddles with his watch, “yep, Sunday. Shit this month went by fast.”