Based on a true story.

Jarred awake, I feel the instinct to run.

The sound of the 125-CC, two-stroke engine roaring in my ears.

To my left, my brother barely stirred as the rain continued to lightly pitter-patter on the metal roof of our makeshift shelter. A low guttural roar erupts from the monkeys in the distant canopy – they are small but refuse to be outdone by the sound of the engine.

It’s 5:45 in the morning in Guiones, the place I call home.

Time to go to the beach. It’s rainy season; deep brown puddles line the streets from the previous night’s rain. Pallets block the cars from proceeding down the main road to North Guiones as the construction crew continues to lay the brick roadway before the busy dry season. The crabs scatter as I lower my head to the puddle to get a glimpse of myself in the morning light. My brother is awake and happily limping ahead of me.

My mornings didn’t always start this way. In my youth, I would awake amongst the sheets to the beeping sound of the box on the nightstand in the master bedroom. My papa would yawn and rise from the bed before turning on the machine in the kitchen that gurgled and filled the house with the fresh smell of café. My brother and I used to run around the yard after breakfast, the morning dew glistening beneath our toes. Papa would touch my head lovingly and remind me how good my brother and I were.

Life was good. My biggest problem most days was the choice between chicken or steak. The neighbor boys next door were annoying when they’d try to invade the yard. My brother was strong then and would stand up for me anytime things escalated. That was so long ago.

Before the eviction. The heartbreak. The accident.

I’ll never forget that day the phone rang. Jarred awake, I hollered for my papa to answer it. He ran and picked up the line before the third ring. I stood in the room, glancing at my papa, trying to read his face in an effort to decipher the news. After briefly exchanging pleasantries, papa shouted “WHAT?!” before quietly beginning to sob. I nervously shuffled from side to side at the thought of my papa leaving again. His exits from our house had picked up in frequency lately; each time he left was for a longer period than the last. The nice young Tica (and her boyfriend, unbeknownst to papa) from down the street would come over to play with my brother and me while papa was gone from the house.

I hate the bag with all the zippers. Every time papa pulls it out of the closet, I know he is set to leave. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind. People coming and going from the house at all hours has disrupted the sacred morning routine papa used to carve out for my brother and me. The house now sat empty, the alarm clock, soft bed, and the coffee machine all packed into boxes and carted away on dollies by stern-looking men. The yard that my brother and I used to play in freshly mowed with a big sign planted down into it.

My brother and I stand out in the yard, watching as papa carries the final box out to the moving truck. Papa has repeatedly scolded me for trying to jump into the back of the truck, and I hate to disappoint my papa. I stand by the truck unaware of what is going to happen next. Papa closes the back of the truck and begins towards the driver’s seat. He opens the door and stops.

Turning to us with a tear in his eye, papa leans down, gives us a pat on the head, and tells us to “take care of ourselves”. The door slams closed in my face as papa enters the truck and turns the key in the ignition. The tear in his eye has turned into a torrential downpour as he begins backing out of the driveway.

My brother and I shout and run circles around the car, doing everything in our power to get Papa to stop. He exits the driveway and turns up the street. The next few moments happened very quickly but are burned into my brain as a slow-motion reel that I cannot forget.

Papa is 25 meters ahead when he slows at the big faded octagon, before punching the gas. Overcome by grief, my brother takes off sprinting after Papa, shouting for him to stop the car and take us with him.

The sound of the 125-CC, two-stroke engine roaring in my ears.

“BEEEEEEP”.

The screech from the tires.

My brother howling in pain.

The next few years all kind of blurred together. My brother adapted to his new situation, albeit very slowly. To this day, he still can’t put weight on his left leg, but has grown into a spry old chap! We need to be careful running out into the surf as the undertow can be strong at times; our days of playing in the yard ended the day Papa moved out. The old fool is going blind in his old age and somehow has grown happier. He’s my best friend in the world. We took Papa’s last words to heart and look after one another. Anytime a motorcycle comes near, I chase them away from my brother and his hurt leg, yelling for them to “Leave us alone!”.

The first thing you have to figure out when becoming homeless is where to get water. People forget that you can go weeks without food but only days without water. Thankfully, Guiones is in the rainforest so there’s plenty of water if you’re willing to lower your standards a bit. I’ve come to appreciate all the lost minerals in the filtered water I used to drink and have gotten used to the taste of the “artesian” Guiones water. Drinking the ocean water is very bad, something we learned the hard way.

We rely on the generosity of others for food. Luckily, there are muchas gringos in Guiones who are suckers for the sight of my brother and me. We’ve got a pretty simple scheme for getting our daily sustenance: my brother limps up the street a little bit, (kind of) acting like a blind old fool; I run up and dote over him anytime a new gringo enters Honali Plaza. The gringas are the easiest to scam. Usually one performance is enough to garner attention and get some of the food in their takeout boxes.

If that doesn’t work, the local restaurants throw away a ton of perfectly good food that we can go raid. Our preferred route is to first hit El Jardin where they leave the plates out to be collected after breakfast, before hitting up Chancho BBQ for all the day-old meats they throw out, and finally ending at Juan Surfo’s and Howler’s for the evening rush. After a few margaritas, the gringas will cut off a piece of fish taco and offer it to the “two poor, injured, blind boys”. Ha! Like taking candy from a baby. Worst case, if the scheme and the restaurants fall short, there are plantains, coconuts, crabs, and fish along the beach that we can fall back on.

We’ve learned to stay away from the hotels. The water by the pool tastes funny. The hotels have appearances to keep up, especially the dining room at Sendero. The wait staff is nice enough to let us linger on the patio though. We had a nice thing going for years. 

One day, a white Suzuki Jiminy rolled into Honali with a gringo couple in tow. Go time! My brother hopped off the porch at the Mini Super Delicias to begin limping over to greet the attractive young couple who had stopped outside 10 Pies. The man exiting the driver’s seat took one look at my brother and cruelly exclaimed “Ha! Pretty good show, buddy, but I can see right through you! You’re faking it.” before exiting the car and grabbing his bag as his woman disappointingly looked at him. Ooo, a challenge! Occasionally, we see this type of resistance – in cases like this, it’s best to slowly work the guilt game on the gringa; she’ll do our work for us behind closed doors, and we’ll be eating good in no time! I fell asleep licking my chops at the prospect of a new challenge.

The next day, the gringo emerged from the little apartments behind 10 Pies bright and early, surfboard in hand. I don’t know what came over me, but I felt compelled to try my hand at a second impression. I walked up to him, smiling and friendly, to begin my pitch at another chance. He coldly walked by me without so much as a glance. This pattern continued for a few days as my resolve to win this gringo over continued to swell.

Finally, the cracks began to show as one morning the gringo briefly flashed a smile at me as he walked down to the beach. I excitedly ran up to him and attempted to embrace him. He reeled away in horror at my gesture before beginning to curse under his breath. I sadly moped away, but at least he did not strike me or threaten me as so many others have before. For a few days, the gringo was weary of my presence, and my progress at winning his trust was temporarily halted. By this point, I was fully committed to the long game. My brother and I would still do the route and would occasionally perform the scheme, but winning over the gringo consumed me.

Everyday I would follow the gringo down to the beach and make pleasantries with him. Between my brother and me, we slowly began to win him over. The gringa began to comment that he was our “papa” and even bestowed upon us the names “Enrique” and my brother “Ricky”.

Fast forward a week and every morning we would meet papa on the beach as he went out for his morning surf. Papa would play with us on the beach and say kind things to us before heading out to face the surf. Each night we would find ourselves on the porch under the metal roof outside the 10 Pies apartments, chasing away the coatis who would wander into the yard. We followed papa everywhere when he wasn’t confined to the interior of the 10 Pies apartment pecking away at the folding square with lights. Papa began to call his partner “mama” in front of us! My new familia made my brother and me very happy. I even transitioned from always chasing the motorcycles down the street to occasionally chasing them away from my brother. One day mama convinced papa to give us food and filtered water. Life could not be more perfect.

The rainy season in Guiones really picks up in September. Around this time, papa slowly stopped coming out to the beach in the mornings to surf. One day, he went back to Juan Surfo’s and I saw him hand over the surfboard that had sat outside the 10 Pies apartment for the last few weeks. He waved “Chau!” to Juan, walking away with a t-shirt and I sensed something was shifting in papa.

Due to the increase in rain, my brother and I had to expand our search radius for food. Many of the restaurants in Guiones close during September and October. Guiones is roughly split into “North”, “Central”, and “South” along the streets that run perpendicular to the ocean. Honali, 10 Pies, and Papa’s apartment down to Juan Surfo’s is roughly “North” Guiones. Juan Surfo’s down to the street where the farmer’s market is held is “Central” Guiones, and everything south is “South” Guiones. Most all of the restaurants are in North and Central Guiones, while South Guiones is where all the locals reside. Despite Mama’s efforts to feed us dinner whenever we crossed paths, we found ourselves having to venture further and further into South Guiones to raid the trash cans. On one such quest, we went a few days without going up North to see Papa. A bad feeling began to rise in me, and I know by now to trust my instincts.

Jarred awake, I feel the instinct to run.

The sound of the 125-CC, two-stroke engine roaring in my ears.

It’s 5:45 in the morning in Guiones, the place I call home.

Time to go to the beach to try and cross paths with Papa. He typically comes down between 6:00 – 7:00. After scanning the beach left and right, I leave disappointed as he is nowhere to be found today. The next couple of hours fly by as I make my rounds around Guiones. My brother and I split up midday as he decided to take a nap under a banana tree, and I decide to go pay Papa a visit at his apartment. I arrive just in time before the afternoon downpour begins.

When I arrive, a familiar pain rises in my chest as I see the bag with all the zippers laid out in the living room of Papa’s apartment. The otherwise messy living room is uncharacteristically tidy. Mama is the first to see me and motions to Papa that I am outside the door. Something is off about Papa today. He flings the door wide open and motions for me to come inside, greeting me in his usual cheery manner before rushing out into the torrential downpour. There is a sadness in his step that I cannot decipher. I am tired from the long walk from South to North Guiones and reluctantly decide to rest inside Papa’s apartment with Mama – the air-conditioned space feels so nice after spending so many days outside. I can’t remember the last time I have rested inside.

When Papa returns, he returns with a feast of fresh BBQ chicken! I’m so accustomed to eating the day-old meat from the Chancho BBQ trash that the taste of fresh meat brings a rush of emotions. My mind wanders to all the time I’ve spent on the street and a distant memory of the life I lived with my original Papa surfaces. A rapid-fire succession of images from my domesticated life fire off in my brain: waking up in a bed. The smell of coffee in the morning. The feeling of loving touch after a meal of fresh food. My brother running in the yard healthy and strong. It’s been so long since I’ve felt loved and cared for enough to be invited inside someone’s home. I look up at Papa with love in my eyes and know that I have found home again.

The next few moments happened very quickly but are burned into my brain as a slow-motion reel that I cannot forget.

Papa made numerous trips back and forth between his apartment and the white Suzuki Jiminy, carrying the bags with all the zippers out to the car. As he grabbed the last bag from the apartment, he put the key in the door of the apartment and turned to me. With tears in his eyes, he leaned in real close, patted me on the head, and told me “to take care of myself and to look after my brother”. As he turned to leave, I could see the tears falling in a torrential downfall as mama tries to comfort him.

Papa opens the backdoor of the SUV and goes to load the last bag into the car. I find myself looking for a place to jump into the car, my mind made up that I’m willing to leave life in Guiones behind for a chance to be with my papa! Papa slowly closes the door; panic begins to set in as I realize what is happening. The driver seat door closes and papa turns the key in the ignition. I begin to run around the car, shouting at the top of my lungs for papa not to go, to stay here in Guiones or to take me, su leal hijo, with him to the ends of the Earth! As the car turns right and begins rolling down the street, I take off in a sprint, the splitting pain of heartbreak in my chest growing, grasping at happily ever after with my papa and mama.

As I gasp for breath and contemplate turning around, I look up ahead.

The car has pulled over.