Castaways 4

“Ese era su cueva, allí.” Said one of the lobstermen. That was his cave, there. And we rounded the last point from Puerto Inglés, into calmer water, and half-moon Cumberland Bay at the base of the three thousand foot flat-topped fine-misted volcanic peak that towered above it. Clinging precipitously to the tortuous jagged side of El Yangue Mountain, rising abruptly from the sea and almost lost in a sweep of eucalypts, guayabas, and chanta trees, appeared a cluster of wood and tin huts, crowding the narrow shore.
“San Juan Bautista.” Said the lobsterman. “Mi casa.” A few lobster boats nodded on their moorings. The rest of the town didn’t look any more awake.
We landed outside time and space. The refugees had likely forgotten how and why they had come to this frontier of the spirit. The few that roamed the street moved at the pace of the bread rising for them at the bakery. They looked at us indifferently, almost like we weren’t really there, as we reached the rocky beachhead. The dirt roads were as deeply rutted as the faces of the lobstermen, and the only conveyances, other than the mail jeep, were the wheelbarrows. The few hundred inhabitants were neither rich nor poor. Their bungalows were weathered but tidy, with chimney pots and small yards and sparse gardens, and big leafy palm or fruit trees. There was a Catholic and Mormon and Evangelical church, as many shops of similar denominations, a primary school, and a red telephone box, the nerve centre and meeting place for young aspiring escapados. A big round rusted plate hung suspended below the hand painted red and white sign at the top of the two tall metal poles, in front of the town hall. Emergencia. I wondered what they would ever need it for. We were four hundred miles from the nearest medical care, and only way to get there had taken off hours ago.
She was waiting for us at the end of the pier. Dafne owned a small guesthouse at the eastern end of the village, over the water. Her wet suit said she was going diving. She told us she was going diving.
“Quieres una langosta para más tarde?” She asked. Did we want a lobster for later. Robyn’s eyes lit up the answer. We both said goodbye to the Spaniards, and Dafne took us along the shore to our cabaña. It had a kitchen with a gas stove, and a very large pot. Our carton of Santa Rita 120 wine from Santiago took its place alongside a box of custard powder on the only shelf. We were good.