A Cult of Two

by Harrison Kim

Table of Contents

Chapter 4: The Bus Rider and the Soldiers

I’d arrived in Mexico City after travelling around the northern and western parts of the country, following a vow to stay away from any tourist areas. Mexico was to be a new adventure across a frontier of discovery. I wanted to meet the real people, see the true culture.

The world seemed surreal and unpredictable by the time I reached Mexico City. After checking into the Hotel Ontario, I stood outside watching the people leave office buildings at rush hour. Jimmy walked across the busy afternoon street and introduced himself. He said he waited for Max, a Swedish friend who owed him money. He was the first black man I’d seen in the entire country.

“I am out of funds at this time,” he said. “I gave them all to Max.”

We stood a while, and he talked. He told me of his discharge from the army and his consequent wanderings towards Mexico City. “I lived six months in Puerto Escondido,” he said, “just doing nothing, living on the beach.”

Max accompanied Jimmy from Escondido to Mexico City. Jimmy picked up the tab and ran out of funds himself. Apparently, Max had an appointment that morning at the Swedish consulate to obtain some money. After that, he would pay Jimmy back.

“Do you have anywhere to stay?” I asked him.

Jimmy grinned. “No. Max is supposed to solve that problem.”

“It doesn’t look like Max is going to show up,” I said after we’d chatted for an hour. “You might as well stay overnight in my hotel.”

“In return,” he said, “I will tell you about Santeria.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Let’s go to a cafe and order and then talk about it,” he said. “The reason I stopped you there on the street was because I saw you have Santero Wizard potential.”

Maybe this guy’s a bit crazy, I thought, but he’s friendly and more than a bit intriguing. Besides, I hadn’t relaxed with a long conversation in English for weeks.

Jimmy talked and we ate for three hours in the Torta Carne, then we hiked to a tiny store across from a Catholic Church. Inside were displays of rosaries, statues of the Saints, herbs dried and hanging, tiny bottles of blue and amber liquids on creaky old shelves, and the scent of sage filled the shop, so much fresher than the polluted city air.

“They sell all sorts of magic materials for your Santeria education,” said Jimmy.

The young lady salesperson grinned and fingered her black pigtails. “Everything you need for the strength, for the sex.”

I noticed a bottle of “Spanish Fly,” next to a couple of gnarled crosses made of different kinds of wood and rope. “These are good-luck crosses,” said the girl. “Do you like candles? We have many candles.”

Jimmy said, “I’d like to buy some statues and some liquids.” He turned to me. “Could you lend us a hundred pesos?”

I said, “Sure,” without hesitation. This seemed like a whole new adventure, a door opening into a wide and intriguing space of different perspectives, alternative ways of looking at the world. It was the Santeria scene.

My goal in travelling to Mexico was to know mystery, to find excitement and perhaps forge a new identity within another culture. Already, I’d become a very different person from when I began. I’d travelled out from a very organized society into chaos. My adaptation to the disorder challenged and energized me. People seemed so friendly and open and emotional, so different from Canada with its formalities of regulation and clean management. The honeymoon of idealization was tempered by my travel experience, but in Jimmy there appeared to be much to discover. Santeria fascinated my imagination. If I could gain personal power through adopting its rituals and customs, I’d walk through the city like a colossus.

“Yeah, we will be giants,” Jimmy said. “Most people become what they take in, but we shall direct and change the outer world. We will heal the sick and calm the meek and afraid.” He chuckled. “We will not charge unreasonable rates.”

He always checked the post office daily for his money from Grandma Marget. While he did that, I went out with Silvia. We rode the bus south of the city. She smiled at me, rubbed my shoulder “I must pick a book up at my mother’s house. Can you come with me?”

We rode the train south, then boarded a crowded bus. At one stop, a huge number of people embarked. I stood, let Silvia sit. She leaned her head against my leg.

A young man with glasses and a briefcase bumped by, sending me off balance. I fell into Silvia. “Hey!” I told him.

The young fellow grinned. “Get out of my way,”

I stood up and glared directly at him. He kept grinning. Little did he know he confronted a man who possessed the power of Santeria. I raised my hand up and stretched out all five fingers.

“Begone,” I said. “Demons begone.”

The young man looked at me. He started to laugh, then his eyes scrunched up. He ripped off his glasses, rubbed them. I could see tears streaming down.

“Is there something in your eye?” somebody said.

The young man lurched towards the back of the bus, pulling his briefcase. I saw him squishing his eyelids together. At the next stop, his eyes closed, he felt his way from pole to pole and stumbled off the bus. He staggered, leaned against a window, rubbing his face.

“Harrison, what did you do?” asked Silvia. “I thought he was going to hit you.”

“There was a lot of perfume in the air,” I said. “Maybe he was allergic.”

“I saw the way you responded to him,” she said. “I think he was afraid.”

“What happened to that guy?” I asked Jimmy, as we sat playing cards in the hotel room the next day. “I hope I didn’t do anything really bad to him.”

“You used the Olosi demon curse,” he said. He dealt me a few cards. “You have become quite a powerful student.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” I said. “I wanted him to say sorry for pushing me out of the way.”

“You need to understand” — Jimmy put down a couple of cards — “this skill is not to be trifled with.” He frowned. “You are channelling the flow, man, because you believe. When you believe, you can push past that flow and make things happen.”

“I’d sooner use the power for good,” I said. “Silvia saw what happened, but she doesn’t know I have Santeria power.”

“The fewer people that know the better,” Jimmy replied.

I checked my cards, then looked around the room. Jimmy’s statues stood on the dresser, where he prayed every morning. I smelled a powerful incense, the smoke still wafting in the air. I shuffled my legs back and forth. The stress of thinking about the blinded man wound me up considerably. Due to the Presidential inauguration, armed soldiers walked the streets. Only army jeeps were allowed in this central section of the city. I paced the room, “I can’t just sit and play cards,” I said. “Let’s go out for a bit.”

Jimmy sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I’m restless too. But just to the cafe for a coffee and soup.”

Nobody walked the streets. I glanced at the police marksmen on the roof of the office complex across from the hotel. I breathed in smoke from a cloudy, foggy morning.

Jimmy sniffed. “There’s a change aspect I perceive,” he said.

“Will it be a peaceful transition?” I asked.

“I sense trouble,” he said, stretching his neck from side to side.

We ventured into the Torta cafe.

“Most stores are closed,” I noted to Bosque, the proprietor. “We’re glad you’re working.”

“I live upstairs so I can open for business,” he smiled grimly. “I don’t talk politics.”

As we sat waiting for soup, some soldiers strode in, three young fellows laughing and sprawling out on the chairs. One guy pointed at Jimmy. “Hey, who’s the black man?”

He waved at me. “Who’s your friend?” he asked again.

“Oh, that’s Jimmy,” I told him. “We’re travelling together.”

Jimmy made no expression. His eyes looked over the soldiers’ heads.

“He seems a little nervous,” said the soldier. He grinned. “Say, I’m Angel. What’s your name? Where did you learn your Spanish?”

He introduced his buddies. “This guy with the moustache, that’s Puncher,” he said. “This hombre in his big hips, he’s Leon.”

“We didn’t bring our rifles in here,” Leon said. “Bad for business.”

The other two laughed.

“You guys seem in a good mood,” I said. Then, in English. “Hey, Jimmy, these guys are quite friendly.”

He shrugged, gave a half-smile.

“What’d you say?” said Angel.

“I told him you were friendly,” I said.

Angel and his buddies laughed again. “Maybe you told him we were assholes,” Leon said.

Angel chuckled. “Ask your friend if he knows Jimi Hendrix. He looks like Jimi Hendrix.”

“Do you know Jimi Hendrix?” I emphasized the last name.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, taking a swallow of his rum and coke. “He’s my best friend.”

“I like that ‘Purple Haze’,” I said to the soldiers. “What about you guys?”

“Yeah, man. That’s groovy stuff.” They said “Groovy,” in English.

I did a big inhale, breathed in the vapours from my confidence oil, which I’d sprayed under my arms that morning. I’d also sprinkled some St. John the Conqueror root in my pocket. I rolled the bits around between my fingers. These three guys were just boys away from home, like me. I could handle them.

“We have music in common,” I said. “Music unites the world.”

The three soldier amigos began quizzing me about The Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, Neil Young. “He’s the greatest,” said Angel. “It’s his vocal tone, hombre.”

“Yeah, well Santana’s great too,” I said. “He was fantastic at Woodstock. There’s some incredible Mexican guitar players.”

“Can you write out the Spanish lyrics to the song “The Night Chicago Died?” Angel asked.

“If you have a pen and pencil,” I said. “Everyone in Mexico seems to like that song.”

Jimmy sat silently. He didn’t touch his soup. He watched us until he saw Leon looking. Then he glanced away.

Leon chuckled and took a big bite of his sandwich. “Your friend is scared.”

I grinned. “No, hombre,” I said, “he’s not good around people. Been real quiet since Vietnam.”

“Oh,” said Leon. “He was an American soldier?” He saluted.

Jimmy stared at him.

“I told Leon you were an American soldier,” I said.

Jimmy nodded.

“Groovy, man,” Leon said in English.

After the soldiers left, Jimmy said, “Not many black men around here. Those guys looked at me like a zoo exhibit.”

“But you’re the Master of Masters,” I said. “You have the power to vanquish and eliminate.”

“There are many enemy forces,” he replied. “I can’t take on a whole army.”

He rubbed his shoulder. “They came over here right away when they saw me. I’m not saying they’re the enemy, but the enemy can work through them.”

“There’s limits to Santeria?” I wondered.

“Hey, there’s limits to everything,” Jimmy rubbed his chin. “Look at Vietnam. Uncle Sam bombed the shit out of the Viet Cong and they came back and kicked his ass.”

“Yeah,” I said, “our guys didn’t know who were the Viet Cong and who were friendlies.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Jimmy. “You were confident with the soldiers. They knew who you were.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I used good spirit power with the soldiers.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy, “you’re learning. And you’re the colour they respect.”

This praise and my successful engagement with the soldiers, made me feel clear, relaxed, and free. I was forming a true, positive self, thanks to the power of Santeria.

Proceed to Chapter 5...

Copyright © 2021 by Harrison Kim