marked with MANAGEMENT signs, the idea being that late-arriving guests can knock on one of our doors to get their cabana keys. I never guessed the signage would make us vulnerable in this way.
Next Layla gathers all the sacred amulets and rocks she’s accumulated over the years. She picks up her stash of copal incense, a bunch of clay incense pots, salt, little figurines of goddesses and statue of the Buddha, bells and crystals, gemstones and fresh flowers—her entire arsenal. Then she gets to work, chanting and singing and burning incense.
Hearing the racket, the guests trickle out of their cabanas, asking, “What’s going on?” in their respective languages.
Layla calmly informs them, “Sunrise yoga has been canceled due to an attempted curse.”
Joe, of course, sees this as more evidence that the earth is on the verge of complete destruction. He pins on his purple wig, muttering, “When the most loving woman in the world is victim of a curse, that’s when you know the world’s about to end.…”
Layla thrusts a bag of salt into his hand and instructshim to scatter it along the stone paths of the cabana area. She directs the befuddled guests to pick fresh herbs from her pots—
ruda
and basil and rosemary—and teaches them chants to say while waving around bundles of leaves. Oddly enough, the guests seem more than happy to participate. I imagine them sending a flurry of emails and texts to their friends back home about how
padre
it is to dispel an actual curse.
And I imagine an addition to our website:
Another featured attraction of Cabañas Magia del Mar … Participate in an authentic spiritual cleaning!
We’d just have to leave out the gory bloody-poultry details, of course.
Thankfully, none of the guests have actually laid eyes on a dead chicken; that image would be hard to shake. They’ll just remember the bells and incense—a kind of early-morning party.
After an hour, Layla claps her hands and, as if ending a yoga session, calls out, “Fabulous job, everyone! Now let’s celebrate with breakfast!” Only Layla could turn a dead chicken incident into a festive occasion.
To put a further festive spin on the morning, Joe dons his giant shoes and does a clown routine with a rubber chicken and a fishing pole and a watermelon. The other guests carry on with their conversations, periodically tossing confused glances Joe’s way. He keeps going, and when he stops and bows, people offer some polite claps, which he takes as a sign to launch into another routine using a wind-up cockroach, a hairbrush, and a can of beans.
Blocking him out, I whip up two dozen eggs for breakfast, thinking of what El Sapo said about the rumors of tragedies, deaths, and accidents on this land. I think of all the “be carefuls” directed at us. I think of what the old lady with the hammocks said about how this place was cursed. And whether or not I believe in rumors and curses, I have a feeling this isn’t going to be finished so easily.
Wendell heaves the watermelon from Joe’s routine onto the counter and slices into it. He offers me a piece and asks in a low voice, “So, who do you think left the curse?”
I take a bite, sweet and cool. The culprit is clear to me. She may have been terrorizing previous managers with this dead-chicken-curse routine for years. “The jaguar lady,” I say matter-of-factly, wiping watermelon juice from my chin.
When Wendell says nothing, I add, “You know, the woman whose signs explicitly state that trespassers will be devoured or
cursed
?”
“That would be the obvious choice,” he says, deftly flicking seeds with the tip of the knife. “But we didn’t actually trespass when the jaguar pounced. We were on our side of the fence.”
“I doubt she’s one to haggle over details.” I take another bite. “So what’s your theory?”
He finishes his piece, tosses the rind into the compost bin. “I was thinking the poachers would have a motive too. Maybe they realized we
Next Layla gathers all the sacred amulets and rocks she’s accumulated over the years. She picks up her stash of copal incense, a bunch of clay incense pots, salt, little figurines of goddesses and statue of the Buddha, bells and crystals, gemstones and fresh flowers—her entire arsenal. Then she gets to work, chanting and singing and burning incense.
Hearing the racket, the guests trickle out of their cabanas, asking, “What’s going on?” in their respective languages.
Layla calmly informs them, “Sunrise yoga has been canceled due to an attempted curse.”
Joe, of course, sees this as more evidence that the earth is on the verge of complete destruction. He pins on his purple wig, muttering, “When the most loving woman in the world is victim of a curse, that’s when you know the world’s about to end.…”
Layla thrusts a bag of salt into his hand and instructshim to scatter it along the stone paths of the cabana area. She directs the befuddled guests to pick fresh herbs from her pots—
ruda
and basil and rosemary—and teaches them chants to say while waving around bundles of leaves. Oddly enough, the guests seem more than happy to participate. I imagine them sending a flurry of emails and texts to their friends back home about how
padre
it is to dispel an actual curse.
And I imagine an addition to our website:
Another featured attraction of Cabañas Magia del Mar … Participate in an authentic spiritual cleaning!
We’d just have to leave out the gory bloody-poultry details, of course.
Thankfully, none of the guests have actually laid eyes on a dead chicken; that image would be hard to shake. They’ll just remember the bells and incense—a kind of early-morning party.
After an hour, Layla claps her hands and, as if ending a yoga session, calls out, “Fabulous job, everyone! Now let’s celebrate with breakfast!” Only Layla could turn a dead chicken incident into a festive occasion.
To put a further festive spin on the morning, Joe dons his giant shoes and does a clown routine with a rubber chicken and a fishing pole and a watermelon. The other guests carry on with their conversations, periodically tossing confused glances Joe’s way. He keeps going, and when he stops and bows, people offer some polite claps, which he takes as a sign to launch into another routine using a wind-up cockroach, a hairbrush, and a can of beans.
Blocking him out, I whip up two dozen eggs for breakfast, thinking of what El Sapo said about the rumors of tragedies, deaths, and accidents on this land. I think of all the “be carefuls” directed at us. I think of what the old lady with the hammocks said about how this place was cursed. And whether or not I believe in rumors and curses, I have a feeling this isn’t going to be finished so easily.
Wendell heaves the watermelon from Joe’s routine onto the counter and slices into it. He offers me a piece and asks in a low voice, “So, who do you think left the curse?”
I take a bite, sweet and cool. The culprit is clear to me. She may have been terrorizing previous managers with this dead-chicken-curse routine for years. “The jaguar lady,” I say matter-of-factly, wiping watermelon juice from my chin.
When Wendell says nothing, I add, “You know, the woman whose signs explicitly state that trespassers will be devoured or
cursed
?”
“That would be the obvious choice,” he says, deftly flicking seeds with the tip of the knife. “But we didn’t actually trespass when the jaguar pounced. We were on our side of the fence.”
“I doubt she’s one to haggle over details.” I take another bite. “So what’s your theory?”
He finishes his piece, tosses the rind into the compost bin. “I was thinking the poachers would have a motive too. Maybe they realized we
Similar Books
