Nestled along the tranquil shores of the estero in Punta Arenas is a charming and unpretentious boutique hotel called Bella Vista. It offers a haven of comfort in the poor, rundown city built upon a narrow strip of land embraced by the sea. Across the estero, a vast expanse of mangrove forest extends, casting its emerald reflections onto the water. In the distance, undulating hills are draped in a lush tapestry of tropical forest, painting a backdrop of natural secrets.
Here, you come to escape.
“Il mattino ha l’oro in Bocca,” Mario sings. I tell you that it means ‘the early bird catches the worm,’ but you already know. Your knack for languages blows me away, Fik—French, Flemish, English, some Italian, and now even Spanish. You’ve only been here two months, y ya estas hablando como un nativo. Does Argentina’s current run through your veins as well, mi hermanito? Was the language always in you, just waiting to wake up? How could it be if you were born in Belgium, unlike your brother and I?
Mario continues to sing in Italian. He has the same unpretentious charm as his hotel Bella Vista. The interplay between his tanned skin and wavy gray hair lends him an aura of effortless sophistication.
“I got something for you,” he says.
“What’s the surprise?” I ask.
“A yellow dinghy and four Americans.”
Our older brother would have been drooling at the word ‘Americans.’ I can see the excitement in your eyes, but no dollar signs. I wonder if you’ll join our father and your brother in their business ventures. I don’t ask. You’re here with me now, washing away my guilt.
You’re sixteen, a boy, not quite what the Americans from New Mexico expected as an introduction to their tropical boat trip. But you exchange niceties better than I can, giving me a chance to help Luca prepare the Corsario for the trip.
The Corsario makes its way through the slender water trench in the estero, its bow pointing towards the vast expanse of the open sea of the Gulf of Nicoya. On the left side, a row of timeworn houses, bearing the marks of years gone by, stand in various states of disrepair. To the yacht's right, a breathtaking mangrove forest stretches outwards. The mangroves' roots rise and fall, intertwining like an enchanted web, creating an almost surreal landscape that appears to be a living, breathing entity.
Roger, the American man, tears the silence.
“What is a young Belgian couple doing in this forgotten land?” he asks, fanning his face with the Panama hat.
“Enjoying the freedom of living on an island like Adam and Eva,” I answer, knowing that a Bible story always scores points with his like.
“Not afraid of all the political bullshit going on? I mean, the commies are already in Nicaragua. But at least Reagan will take care of that.”
You don’t need to look at me to know what I’m thinking.
“We Americans always help other countries like your country, Belgium. You know, my father was in the Ardennes during WW2.”
“I thank your father for fighting the Nazis,” you say.
“You know, Roger, Somoza was also a fascist, but he was a good friend of the US,” I say.
I guess Roger doesn’t know that because he suddenly asks what my handicap is.
“I’m healthy, Roger. I have no handicap.”
He looks straight at me to see if I am joking, ruffles his hair, and says, “You don’t play golf, Catalina?”
“How do you know I don’t play golf?” I ask.
Luckily, you grab two beers, and Roger’s happy that he can gulp down this surreal conversation.
“Look, Luca, dolphins on starboard!” I say. “What a pod.”
“Please, stop the boat! I’d like to jump in,” you say.
Before Luca could decide, you dive into the water.
As you hit the water, you start to swim towards the dolphins. I can feel your heart swell with the sheer joy of it all. You swim, laugh, and wave at the dolphins like true waterlogged royalty.
Roger and his friends pull out their Minoltas, Canons, and Nikons, clicking away as if Ronald Reagan himself were playing in a dolphin movie—which could have been an improvement compared to his monkey movie.
“So awesome!” yell the two ladies in nasally, ringing voices. “Never thought we would see that today.”
The show ends, and you climb on board. I watch my baby brother dripping, and the ocean swells in my throat. How could I have left you behind as our parents underwent a divorce? You had to learn of the deceit through the voice of liquid spirits. The shouts, the torment—no refuge for you. Too young to leave home, left alone by my doing.
Then you hug me, your grin wider than a dolphin’s flipper. “Cats, thank you.”
“On your left-hand side, you see the island of San Lucas, which houses a terrible prison; only a few people left alive,” Luca calls out.
“Look at those beaches, though!” shouts one of them.
“Yes, but we’re not going ashore. We’re going straight to Isla Gitana1, where we lived for a year together with howler monkeys and one American smuggler,” I say.
“How exciting,” our tourists proclaim in chorus.
The remote white sand beach, adorned with hundreds of swaying palm trees, appears like a hidden paradise. The gentle lapping of the waves against the hull echoes the excitement of our American passengers.
“Ready to drop anchor!”
I drop the anchor cautiously, a prudent distance of 100 meters from the shore, as I spot treacherous rocks lurking beneath the surface.
“We call this the Robinson Crusoe beach because nobody comes here except the people of the Corsario.”
Roger nudges his friend Max, who’s been quietly observing everything behind his sunglasses and basketball cap. “I told you I’d do good.”
“I made you a nice fruit punch to enjoy on the beach.”
“Do we have to paddle to the beach, Catalina?” Roger asks.
“No, no, we have an outboard engine, don’t worry,” Federico says, winking at me.
They all take their place inside the yellow dinghy Mario lent us. I hand over the cooler filled with ice, fruit punch, glasses, and some snacks.
“Federico!” I yell. “We need the outboard engine.”
You appear on deck with a glass of rum.
“Outboard engine needs fuel,” you laugh, gulping down the glass in one shot.
Roger looks at Max. Max looks at his wife, who looks at Roger’s wife. A chain of bewilderment.
You jump in the water and wrap the dinghy line around your waist.
“Off you go. Enjoy. A once-in-a-lifetime experience,” I call.
You start to make motorboat noises, and I fall into Luca’s arms, laughing. “Oh, Luca, this is too much.”
I take the binoculars to follow the scene as closely as possible.
“Oh no, Roger just fell in the water. I’m going to pee in my pants.”
“No, oh no, no, no, no, this can’t be true,” Luca says.
Amidst uncontrollable laughter, I hand over the binoculars.
And now Lucas sees what’s going on: a soaked Roger standing on the beach, leaking water, and two women walking towards him with completely yellow pants on their back sides, not realizing yet that their perfect white pearl shorts have changed colour.
“They are going to kill us.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and feel perfectly happy.
“I don’t think so, but I am going to kill Don Mario,” Luca whispers.
Nobody kills anyone. In fact, the Americans even leave an American-sized tip, which we use for another bottle of rum.
In the quaint, weathered concrete patio of Bella Vista, you and I dance salsa, our past currents and present rhythms merging.
“I wish I could have joined you earlier in Costa Rica,” you say, holding my hands how you had wanted to before I left, a grasp I could never let go.
“Oh, Fik, you missed out on Isla Gitana. That really was like a movie. Unreal. And the first tours we did were with big mafia families. The godfathers gave us crash courses on how to become a billionaire and whitewash the money.”
“But we haven’t put the theory into practice yet,” calls Luca, laughing.
Yet…
“It's funny but not so funny, really. They’re taking over the world. Drugs, weapons, human trafficking—the CIA lets it happen without getting their hands dirty so the United States can buy failed countries and install their corporation-ruled justice. Fighting socialism for freedom, they call it. I swear, I learned more in two years here than I did during four years at the university. Are you going to study, Fik?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll start a business or work for Dad.”
“Watching you guys together, I don’t understand. Why are you leaving us, Federico?” Luc asks as he makes us another drink.
“Food, Luca, or better said, the lack of food. You feed me bananas with beans, onions and beans, and the daily portion of Gallo Pinto—rice and beans. If I make any more pedos, my butthole is going to rip,” he says, laughing.
Then you draw me into the refuge of your arms, a sanctuary amidst the harsh edges of the world. Your touch, weathered by the Cosario, speaks of a resilience etched into the lines of your palms. The dance becomes an elegy for moments lost, a sonnet composed in the language of shared glances and unspoken truths. We traverse the terrain of memory and longing, our dance a testament to the unyielding spirit that persists in the face of life's tribulations. And so, we continue our dance until the encroaching dawn, two souls entwined in the choreography of a world that often remains indifferent to the yearnings of the heart.
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Each story stands alone but holds more weight if you read from the beginning. Play catch up.
It's interesting, the sheer amount of places that I encountered that are called "Bella Vista". Including our own community, once.
It's also interesting how bella vista many things and people and places seem if you look at them as a passerby, from afar
Great post, Nolan