Ch-Ch-Changes

[Theme song: (to the tune of "You are my Sunshine.") "You are my moonshine, my only moonshine, You make me giddy when days are dull. You'll never know dear, how high you get me. Please please keep my moonshine jug full." (fade out)]


Abruptly the season just changed. Seven months of sunshine yielded to a drenching downpour. There was some warning: gathering clouds in the afternoons, sudden cool gusts of wind, deep thunderous rumbles and apocalyptic flashes across the night sky. The change brings relief. But like the dry season, the rains will eventually wear out their welcome too, making us long again for the sun. Farmers use the dry time to burn off their fields for planting. Along with clouds of dust that rise off the many unpaved roads around Cochabamba, the smoke hangs heavy, clouding the valley, coating every surface. These early rains are life-giving, restoring the burned grasses, transforming the slopes of the Andes from dull brown (unlike the burnished gold of California) to vibrant green again. But the rains will eventually cause the rivers to flood their banks and inundate the streets, pouring rocks and earth down the mountains and making a dangerous mess. Asi es la vida. We move from thirst to saturation then back again as balance eludes us.

Half our family left last night for a journey across three continents. Such a departure is always harder for those left behind. It will be the longest separation we have endured in our years together. An experiment in independence. Each child will be the only child of a single parent for almost two months. Each parent will have no other adult to consult about daily decisions. Will the novelty of these altered family dynamics prove amusing until we reunite at Christmas? Or like the weather will it finally prove tedious? Vamos a ver.

Word has come - as it often does these days, via internet - that Bill Rogers has died. He and I were close for some years and I considered him a mahatma: a great spirit. Like Scaramouche, he was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. I first got to know Bill 25 years ago in a small Mexican Pacific coast fishing and beach town that was much more primitive then than now. It was surprising to see him in that raw, wild place, a large long-haired man in a wheelchair, often pushed and helped in those days by his sexy diminutive girlfriend, Karin.

We really bonded during an Easter boat trip in 1983. During Semana Santa in Mexico, everyone goes to the beach, making it crowded and crazy. Visitors also included the fishermen who ordinarily made their camps on islands some four hours from shore. To avoid the crowds, we hired a panga - the long (25 to 30 feet?) open boats local fishermen use - with a guide to take six of us out to Isla Isabel, deserted during Holy Week. Four of us lifted Bill's wheelchair into the panga from the beach. It was tricky. He was heavy and couldn't help us in any way. His chair barely fit in the center of the boat. It seemed adventuous for anyone to foray out into the ocean in such a small boat, let alone a paraplegic whom none of us would be able to save from drowning if anything happened. Was he brave or crazy? Yes and yes. We had a quantity of psylocibin mushrooms, from which the ladies cooked up a delicious electric quiche to enhance the experience. Snorkeling off the island was especially delightful. And wild Bill did manage to put on a mask and stick his head in the clear water for a look. He was always un hombre muy listo, up for anything.

We spent four or five nights on Isla Margarita, a protected sanctuary for two huge species of birds, the frigates and the boobies. The frigates (tejiras in Spanish, because their tails resemble scissors) nest in the short stumpy trees on the island. The boobies (0r bobos) lay their eggs on the ground. There was abundant fresh water there. We brought some supplies, including (not quite enough) alcohol, but depended on our fishing to supply our meals. Swimming in the daytime, fires at night. A lovely, hilarious interlude. After that trip we were friends. I saw him in several of his California homes or apartments over the years and at one point rented an apartment from him next to his house in Bonsall, where I spent a wonderful winter.

Bill broke his neck at 19, bodysurfing at Huntington Beach. He would have drowned except for the lifeguards who pulled him out. He spent a couple of years in the hospital before he could get around at all. It was excruciating for him, losing his physical capacities and all feeling from his mid-chest down. He suffered many physical complications and operations over the years. He had only partial use of his hands and arms. But he did tell me once that his injury was the best thing that ever happened to him. Because it woke him up. He overcame his initial depression and desire to die. And he got into transcendental meditation.

He went to Maharishi International University in Iowa, where he met Karin. And he traveled as a favorite courtier with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi around the United States and Europe. Bill would go in and out of the strict TM discipline for the rest of his life, but he would never lose his veneration of the Maharishi or his belief in his wisdom. As crazy as he was - and he was - Bill always maintained a strong element of spirituality in his makeup. His great capacity for laughter was a vital part of that. He loved to laugh and I loved to laugh along with him.

Bill was a schemer and a scammer, always planning some sure-fire off-beat means to riches, or else some spiritual coup, or some cominbation of the two. One time the police raided his house, guns drawn, to seize his computer because he was involved in illegal on-line sports betting. He later sold computer-generated astrological readings. He tried with varying success to help addicts beat their urges through meditation, diet and conversation.

Improbably, I lucked into two all-expenses-paid tickets to Superbowl 20 in New Orleans. Bill was the perfect person to take, a huge sports fan and fun companion. So we partied our way through the French Quarter and into the Superdome. The game itself was a blowout: the Chicago Bears chewed up and spit out the New England Patriots. But we were having way too much fun to care. In search of psychic and physical equilibrium, Bill veered from a strict dietary and abstemious regimen to wild over-consumption of booze and illegal substances. But these were only phases and facets of his steadfast quest for happiness and spiritual truth.

His last years were marred by pain that was difficult to control. He was bed-ridden and often drugged out. I visited him a few times until he told me to stop. He made it to 60, living twice as long as a paraplegic than he had in normal health. I am grateful to have known Bill. His friendship enriched my life. His story and his generous, luminous being enlarged my understanding of courage and pleasure and what life is all about. He was far more alive and intrepid than many healthier but more timorous souls. Rather than complain or bemoan his unfair fate, he chose to take as much joy from life as possible.

Bill Rogers was indeed a great spirit. I'm sorry he's gone but really glad he was here.