When My 18 year old son and I arrived in Mazatlan it was the height of the dry season, however the only thing dry was the jungle, we were both drenched, natures sauna cleaning your pores. The heat and humidly this time of year required any and all outdoor activities to be conducted only in areas where you were wafted by the constant ocean breezes or actually submersed in the water itself. We spent our time between the water, beach front cantinas and air conditioned comfort, it was in the beach front cantinas we replenished the liquids that continuously flowed from every inch of our skin.
The other thing that would bolster my fortitude was the knowledge that now that I actually lived here, I was experiencing the worst the climate had to offer. Summer in Mazatlan was far more preferable that a brutal sub zero winter in the mountains of Idaho. I am much more receptive to meeting my demise by heat stroke than being found stiff and blue, frozen to the seat of the outhouse.
Somewhere around the end of our first week in Mazatlan, we were cruising the streets of the Golden Zone and we saw this very disheveled man, with a large a black beard staggering down the street. I immediately thought he was drunk, (my generation), and my son’s almost simultaneously impression was that he was a crack head, (his generation). What ever the origin of this mans disability, he sure looked blitzed on something! We saw him several other times over the next month, in exactly the same state of being; purposeful in his stilted strides, but rather disoriented.
Several weeks after my son returned to Idaho, around the middle of August, I saw this man again. One day while having lunch in Chill’s Pepper (yes the Chili’s is possessive), I saw this same bearded character awkwardly making his way down the beach with a small box of something he was attempting to peddle. Knowing that the extremely poor will sell “Chiclets” I assumed he was attempting to sell gum to anyone that he could get close enough to make his garbled plea. After watching him come about 300 meters down the beach, I realized he was some how mentally disabled, he definitely had a couple of his plug wires crossed. It was hard to tell if his staggering gate was from any thing physical or a bi-product of his miss-firing synapses. Most people he veered toward looked to be politely repulsed by his presence and would wave him away. At this point, I knew that both my son and I had passed a premature judgment on this man and he was certainly neither a drunk nor a crack head.
As he approached within 50 feet, I called out to him “ Hola, Barba Negra, el Vagabundo de la playa!” As he staggered over I noticed that his right leg was unnaturally turned in almost 20 degrees from what would have normally been straight ahead and the angle his left foot didn't look real good either. When he got close enough, he offered his box of gum with a smile that had more teeth than I expected.
I dug around in my wallet and when I handed him a 50-peso note, his smile instantly vanished. He knew he did not have even close to enough money to make change and would most certainly loose the sale. I immediately told him I did not want any change nor did I need any gum, the 50 pesos was for him because he worked so hard at walking the beach and deserved something for his effort. He stared at me for several moments as comprehension slowly set in, then one large tear rolled from his eye traveling the distance from cheek to chin. When suddenly, through the eye contact, being drawn into this mans world, along with his open heart and total gratitude, all I could do was grin back and try to keep my eyes from leaking as well. He took the bill, folded it and carefully placed it in the only serviceable pocket he had and then with a wide smile, he raised his hand for a high five.
Not all things, or situations, in life are as we first perceive them to be. Judgment is like a large caliber hand gun, it can either save your life or do incredible damage; use it wisely because life’s story can be far more complex than anyone one of us may imagine.
I see and greet Barba Negra several times a week and will always slip him 30 to 50 pesos and I am always rewarded with a high five, a knuckle bump and a huge smile. I have talked with several locals but no one knows his story other than his street name is Ben Laden, but something tells me he’s not the real one. After several weeks of watching this challenged street person stagger around in raged shorts and torn shirts I realized I had extra clothes my son left behind along with a few things I would never miss. When I next saw Barba Nerga wandering the Golden Zone I passed on the care package in hopes he would use the contents and not sell the lot. When I saw him the following week he was wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts, a t-shirt from an Idaho pub and an Old Navy hat. I believe that Barba Negra has other benefactors along his daily trek, but if you see him along the streets or on the beaches, show him a little kindness, he won’t bite.
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