Strange Conversations with Strangers

 

Strange Conversations with Strangers
by Dave Wright

A Walmart Encounter

I was waiting in line at the Walmart checkout. The bald man in front of me wore scuffed Army surplus boots, tattered blue jeans, a camouflage coat, and a Wild Willie beard that hung to the middle of his chest. He turned to me and said, “I haven’t been home for Christmas in years.”

The woman in front of us had a shopping cart that looked like she had purchased a sample of everything in the store. We had time.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Been overseas snipin’,” he said casually, as if every other person I had met was a professional killer. “Then spent a few tours when nobody knew where I was.”

The man could see that he had my attention, so he continued. “Got transferred to military police. Started out as a guard and worked my way up to managing a unit in no time. I’m used to tellin’ people what to do—and they do it. One of the guys in the unit says, ‘You think you can do that ‘cause you’re white.’ I says to him, ‘I ain’t white—hundred percent Cherokee.’”

The bottom of the woman’s shopping cart finally came into view. The man unloaded his few items. “Did a little police work when I got back. It was in my blood, but soon found out that I wasn’t making good decisions.”

“Good you were able to find that out for yourself,” I suggested.

He smiled with a grin full of missing teeth. “Yeah. Didn’t want no judge tellin’ me that.”

He reached for his wallet. “What was that?” he said with a hand cupped behind his right ear. The clerk repeated the amount. “Been through two explosions,” he explained pointing to his left ear.

A shaking hand flipped open his wallet to search for his credit card. “Now I drive truck,” he said. “Fill ‘er up. Empty out. Repeat—seventeen times a day and I’m done. Never been happier.”

“I understand,” I said. “I owned a business before I retired, and I don’t miss managing people.”

He shook his head in agreement. “Can’t find no one to work. Twenty positions open.” He turned to the clerk who wore a colorful scarf and looked like she was about five months pregnant. “Have a good day, young lady,” he said as he walked away, “and you too, sir.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

Suppose the whole family dresses in camo for Christmas dinner?

The Amputee

I few weeks later, I was getting dressed after a swim at our local fitness center.

“I died five times,” said a middle-aged man who was fitting a prosthesis on his left leg.

This was a novel conversation starter. “Oh,” I said. “How is that?”

“Three amputations, two bouts of COVID, and a Staph infection that got into my brain.”

Three amputations and he’s only missing one limb. Maybe he has diabetes. Could have started with a toe or two, moved on to a foot, and finished with an amputation at the knee.

“You died each time you had surgery or an illness?”

“That’s right,” he said as he shrugged into his shirt.

“Did you see the white light?” I asked.

“Nah,” he laughed. “I saw a talking orange and a ninja turtle.”

Okay, I can suspend belief for a moment longer and accept his fantasies as truth. Maybe he misinterpreted his doctor as a ninja turtle. “Was the doctor wearing green scrubs?” I asked.

“No. Purple—just like my prosthesis.” He patted the covering of vet-wrap that protected the limb. “I’m going back to work soon. I’m a trucker.”

“Lucky it was your left leg.”

“Yep. Otherwise, I’d need to learn to work a stick.”

Small blessings.

Prostitution is legal in Ecuador

While we were in Quito, Ecuador on a tour with Overseas Adventure Travel, our guide, Alberto asked if we might be interested in participating in a paid interview with a prostitute. It was optional for the group, but we were curious. Alberto approached a woman on a street corner that was known for this activity. The woman was a slender, good-looking woman in her 30’s with stylish dark hair. She wore blue jeans and a light blouse. A man about her same age wearing a white shirt, black pants, and black ankle-high boots leaned against a wall across the street. The heel of one boot was propped against the wall. Between his fingers, a cigarette smoldered with the same intensity as his facial expression.

The lady appeared to be more than happy to answer our questions, particularly since it would mean that with the payment she received from the interview, she could ignore the John waiting across the street.

“How did you resort to prostitution?”

“I have a young daughter in school, and I need to provide for her.”

“Does your daughter know what you do for a living?”

“I’m afraid she suspects what I do,” she said matter-of-factly. “One of her friend’s mothers accused me of being a bad influence on my daughter.”

“How did you deal with the accusation?”

“I told her I knew her husband. She didn’t complain after that.”

“Do you have a pimp?”

“No. Since prostitution is legal in Ecuador and everyone is expected to work, there is no middleman. I keep whatever I make.”

“What is a typical fee for your services?”

“I charge $13.00: $10.00 for me and $3.00 to cover the hotel.”

“How long does a session usually last?”

“About ten minutes.”

Tough way to make a living.

Edible Anthrax

In 1999, I served as a short-term volunteer in Tanzania with Christian Veterinary Mission. We were working with the Maasai, who lived on the Serengeti in small fincas beneath Oldanyo Lengai, (The Mountain of God). We encouraged them to adopt management practices that would improve the health and productivity of their cattle and goats.

I was visiting with a Maasai warrior through Daniel, the interpreter I was assigned. The Maasai man was dressed in typical garb, draped in a bright red plaid blanket with a spear in his right hand, a cell phone in his left, and a machete in his belt. Like all of the local residents I had met, he smelled of smoke from the fires that smoldered in their mud huts.

I knew that anthrax was endemic in parts of Africa, so I asked him if he was familiar with the disease. The organism is used in germ warfare and can have devastating repercussions for people and animals. I described what I knew about the clinical signs—acute death, often with dark, tarry blood leaking from the cow’s nostrils and anus. If a veterinarian suspects signs of anthrax in the United States, we are advised not to open the carcass and take a blood smear from a nick in the ear, which is an accurate diagnostic test. If the smear comes back positive, the carcass is burned and buried on site.

“Oh, yes,” said the Maasai. “I know the disease you speak of. If we find a cow that dies suddenly, we will cut open the animal and check the internal organs. If everything is normal except for an enlarged spleen, we will butcher it.”

“Butcher it!’ I exclaimed. “Anthrax is a serious human disease that could kill you.”

He laughed and said, “I know about these concerns. We do not eat the liver or spleen, and we cook the meat thoroughly.”

“But doesn’t the person who butchers the animal get sick?”

“He sometimes gets a few blisters on his hands and arms—particularly if he had a scratch or wound.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“We watch our cattle very carefully,” he said proudly. “If one dies, we find it very quickly and cannot waste the meat.”

That evening, I plunged into my Merck Veterinary Manual to see if the young warrior could possibly be telling the truth. Sure enough, in people there is a cutaneous form of anthrax that can spare those with immunity from other serious symptoms.

Maasai steak? No thanks. I’ll have chicken, please.

Maasai Polygamy

The beer label reads, “Polygamy Porter: Why Have Just One!”

Although the Mormons publicly disavowed polygamy in 1890, some cultures—like the Maasai in 1999—were reluctant to accept monogamy as the preferred form of marriage.

I struck up a conversation with Daniel, our Maasai interpreter.

“Do the Maasai still practice polygamy?” I asked.

“Not so much anymore,” said Daniel. With some embarrassment, he added, “but my father still has eight wives—or rather, nine now.”

“You’re kidding,” I laughed. “Did he just get married again?”

“Yes,” he replied thoughtfully, “but this one’s different.”

“How so?”

“Before meeting this last woman, he was accumulating wives like he did his cattle. You’ve heard that having multiple wives is a status symbol in the Maasai culture.” He grinned and continued, “But he made the mistake of falling in love with wife Number Nine—and now, wives One through Eight have become a burden.”

“What do his other wives expect from him?” I asked.

“He’s still responsible for them. He has to visit them regularly and check on the cattle that she and her children take care of.”

“I’ve noticed that a lot of the cattle are thin and malnourished,” I said. “There is limited forage available in this dry climate. Wouldn’t it be better to sell a few head and allow the remaining herd to grow fat and healthy? The cows I’ve seen only produce a couple of liters of milk per day. If each cow could be fed more, it would be easy to double their production.”

Daniel laughed. “Numbers are the only thing that matters to the Maasai. No one cares about how fast they grow or how much milk they produce.”

“So,” I asked, “is that the same for wives?”

“You may have a point,” laughed Daniel.

I’m happy with one.

Broken Vows

Pat Gavihan was a clean-shaven, lean man with a soft-spoken British accent. He and his wife were the owners of Hacienda Navidad, a 240-cow dairy in Bolivia.

It was 2002 and I had been invited to deliver a presentation on dairy reproduction to area farmers. I arrived a week before the seminar so that I could tour a variety of dairy farms and observe their management practices. The smallest was a thirteen-cow dairy owned and operated by a women’s cooperative. The largest was a modern 500-cow dairy using a Surge milking machine.

“You don’t sound like a local,” I said to Pat. “How did you decide to move to Bolivia?”

He smiled and replied, “I was sent here as a priest from Great Britain twenty-five years ago.”

I smiled back. “But you’re married.”

“That’s right. My wife is a former nun, but she’s from North Dakota. We were both sent here as missionaries.”

“How did you meet?” I asked.

“Both of us were interested in agriculture and wanted to find ways to employ the local population, so we decided to set up this dairy farm. One thing led to another, and we fell in love. I gave up my vestments and she her habit so that we could get married. We’re still serving God, but in a slightly different capacity.”

“How many people do you employ?”

“We currently hire twenty-four locals who each milk ten cows morning and night, plus about a dozen others who help with the field-work and other chores.”

“Have you thought about purchasing a milking machine, instead of using all that hand labor?”

“We have two sons in their twenties who are eager to do that, but I’m concerned about finding other work for our employees who do the milking now. We’ll see.”

A moral dilemma.

Tar Baby

Thanksgiving week, 1999, we packed our snorkeling gear and took the family on a vacation to Ambergris Caye, an island off the northeast coast of Belize. The morning after we arrived, I was up early as usual and walked along the sandy beach south of our motel. The reefs for snorkeling were within sight but required a boat to get to them. I passed several piers with cabin cruiser boats moored next to them and signs above advertising day trips. I was hoping for something with more local flavor.

About fifty yards beyond the last dock, a wooden, open-hulled boat was beached on the sand. As I approached, a young man who had been stretched out on one of the wooden-board seats with his arms behind his head popped up from his morning snooze.

“Hey, mun!” he shouted in greeting. A flash of white teeth shown against a face as black as coal. A small potbelly protruded beneath his sleeveless T-shirt. “Gud maahnin.”

I smiled in return. “Good morning. How you doin’?”

“Aarite, mun. I doin’ aarite. Hey! Yo’ lookin’ for a boat to hire?”

I took a moment to decide if this was a risk I wanted to take. The boat was old and weathered, but appeared seaworthy—as long as we didn’t venture beyond the breakers. A small outboard motor clung to the transom. We wanted adventure, didn’t we?

“Matter of fact, I am,” I said. “My family would like to go out and explore the reef. We’ve got our own snorkeling gear.”

His smile consumed even more of his face. “I’m yo’ man. I know all de good spots. Been doin’ dis all my life.”

He extended his hand. “Mah naym’s Tar Baby.”

“Hi. My name is Dave Wright.”

“Yo’ kiddin’, right?” he said. “My last naym is Wright, too—Tar Baby Wright.”

I shook my head and laughed. “I don’t believe it. You’ve got to be pullin’ my leg.”

“No sah. I bring my driver’s license and show you. When you want to leave?”

“How much for an afternoon?” I asked.

He quoted me about half of what the signs above the high-end piers had advertised.

“How about leaving at one this afternoon?” I suggested.

“One this afternoon,” he repeated. “See yoo lata.”

Instead of a handshake to seal the deal, he wrapped a long arm around my shoulder. “Yo’ my Bredda.”

I shook my head and laughed again. “Guess so. See ya’ later, Bro.”

I was almost surprised when Tar Baby was waiting at the boat when we arrived carrying our snorkels, fins, masks, and towels. Another man was standing next to him.

Tar Baby took me aside. “Mind if I get a small advance to cover the gas?”

I rolled my eyes but thought, I’m already committed. I handed him a ten-spot, which vanished from Tar Baby’s hands the moment it left mine.

Tar Baby was unfazed. “Tanks, Bredda. Hey. Let me show ya’ my I.D.” He pulled his license from the front pocket of his cutoffs.

Amazing. “Tar Baby Wright” was inscribed on the plastic document.

I laughed and said, “Sorry for doubting you, Tar Baby. Why did your parents give you the name of Tar Baby?”

“You kiddin’, mun?” He pointed to his chin. “Look ah dis face.” Then he pointed to Tristan’s face. “Now, look ah dat white boy’s face. Yo’ see a difference?”

Tris and Eric laughed, but I could see their wide-eyed skepticism. What has Dad gotten us into now?

I plunged ahead with a round of introductions. “This is Sue, my wife. This is Tristan who is a junior in high school, and this is Eric. He’s a freshman.”

“Evryting gud,” said Tar Baby. “Let’s go.”

As we each found a place to sit, he shoved off the beach, waded to the back of the boat, and climbed aboard. He gave the starter rope a few jerks and the engine sputtered to life.

“Yo’ white boys know how to throw an anchor?” demanded Tar Baby in a friendly banter.

“We’ve got a boat at home at our cabin,” said Tris. “We know how to drop an anchor.”

“Aarite,” said Tar Baby, smiling at their confidence. “I give de word, and yo’ throw dat anchor dere.”

We motored for about fifteen minutes with Tar Baby scrutinizing the bottom. He slowed the boat, then looked up suddenly. “Now, white boy! Now!”

With a hilarious laugh, Tris and Eric threw the ancho over the bow. “Can we get in the water now?”

“Go ‘head. Swim as long as yo’ like. Den, I take yo’ conch fishin’.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“See dose two ropes tied to dah back of de boat?”

I nodded.

“Yo’ hang onto de end of dose ropes and I tow yo’ along real slow. When yo’ see a conch, you drop dah rope, dive to dah bottom an’ pick it up. I stop dah boat and yo’ hand it to me.”

We explored the reef full of colorful fish and coral. When we got cold, we took a break for candy bars and sodas, after which Sue and I agreed to try our hand at conch fishing. We put on our masks and snorkels, slipped overboard, and grabbed the end of the ropes that were fastened on either end of the stern. The ropes were only about four feet long and we watched the propeller spin only a few feet away. (It was not an OSHA-approved activity.) As we trolled slowly over the shallow ocean floor, I spotted a conch shell and dove six feet to the bottom and retrieved it.

When I handed it to Tar Baby, he scoffed and said, “See dat hole? Means it already been cleaned.”

I returned to the water for another try. We collected a half-dozen conchs that still had their fleshy interior and handed them over the side to Tar Baby. He sliced out the meat, set it aside for an evening meal, and returned the shells to the ocean floor.

While Sue and I were being pulled behind the boat like trolling Rapalas, Tris and Eric told us that they had been interviewed by Tar Baby.

“Hey, yo’ white boys need anyting else?”

“I don’t think so,” said Eric.

“Yo’ sure? I can get yo’ women—lots’ a women on de island jess right fo’ white boys like yo’.”

“No thanks,” said Tris.

“Liquor? All boys yo’ age must want some liquor.”

“Nah. We’re still in high school. We don’t drink.”

“Dat don’ mean you don’ wan it. How ‘bout drugs…I can get yo’ some good weed.”

Eric shook his head. “We don’t do drugs, either.”

“Thanks for asking, though,” said Tris. “We’ll tell our friends to look you up if they come to Belize.”

When we returned to the beach late in the afternoon, there was a handful of people waiting for us on shore—rather, waiting for Tar Baby. One person was his wife, another a hardware store owner, another a mechanic. As I pulled out my wallet to pay for our day’s excursion, the entire group gathered around Tar Baby in anticipation of settling past due accounts.

“Thanks for a great day, Tar Baby,” I called as I backed away from the feeding frenzy.

“Yo, Bredda,” he shouted with a smile as big as his original greeting. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Thanks, Tar Baby, but we’ve made other plans.”

My advice: Step off the tour bus and strike up a conversation!

 

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