--BOWMAN--

1999

It wasn’t hard to build a hotel in Mexico. Especially in the part of the country that was dependent on a steady influx of cash and needed tourist dollars to support itself. The local gangs needed protection money, and the investors wanted big returns. All-inclusives were definitely the way to go. Luckily for Michael Bowman, this one was already mostly started. From what he’d been told, the original developer had started on a pre-flattened piece of land, right on a beach head, so there was no need to truck in the expensive powdery white sand that fat American tourists loved taking their awkward family photos on. He’d been a developer for the better part of thirty years, and along with hundreds of projects, he had built a reputation for taking ever-increasing risks to maximize investment dollars and capitalize on returns. His work was always beautiful, and cost half of what the other companies were charging, which was still a pretty penny. Not that this investor was hurting for money: quite the contrary. However, the design of this particular resort wasn’t something that Bowman was familiar with.

He’d designed villas for starlets in the Hamptons, beach houses in Carmel, and had even gone toe to toe with Trump and Hilton in his early years. Those bastards had walked away with most of his money and ideas, but they couldn’t take away his reputation, and that’s what had landed him this job. It seemed simple enough, simpler than most jobs he’d done recently: oversee the building of a specialty resort in the northern Yucatan. The workers had already been hired, the plans were already finalized, even the required permits all taken care of, all he had to do was watch it go up, collect a guaranteed paycheque and lend his name to the project. That was easy. He received the plans via courier the day before he flew out to Cancun, and after reviewing them on the flight down, he still wasn’t exactly sure what the hotel was going to look like in the end. The blueprints were like nothing he’d ever seen before.

A long, slightly crooked rectangle pointed squarely at the beach, and was to be built on an already existing stone base. Fine, that was workable. Guest rooms were planned on the outer edges of each of the four levels; those at the front of the structure on the lower level appeared to be the luxury rooms. Those rooms had direct access to the pool that stretched in front of the hotel from their open balcony: no doors were indicated, so he wasn’t sure how that was going to work. But then again, it was Mexico. There were no real rules in Mexico. From the looks of the plans, there was also a grand staircase to worry about, not building it, mind you, it was already in place, but building around it. The real work would come in balancing out the structure with another staircase that would lead down to the open-air banquet hall, bars, and the pool area. Again, no glass or doors. Interesting. There were separate blueprints for a few other structures, and two more pools. He was impressed by the mathematical precision of the plans. No odd angles, no higgledy-piggledy arrangements or ‘artistic’ frippery. It was sparse, but clean. He liked it.

As the small plane touched down, Bowman looked out the window and noticed a sleek black helicopter sitting on the tarmac. Its tail section was emblazoned with a gold seal depicting what looked like a doll with big green earrings and a wide O for a mouth. Damned Mexicans and their symbolism. He inwardly hoped that the worksite wasn’t going to be too ethnic; he couldn’t speak very much Spanish beyond what he’d learned in bars along the Texas border. Arriving at the airport, he had barely gone three steps into the terminal when two men in khakis and button up shirts with matching gold insignias stitched above the right breast pocket approached him. Shorter than Bowman by a few inches at least, the uniformed men had dark black eyes, prominent noses, and an air of command about them. One had long thick hair, pulled into a plait that lay over one shoulder, a green stone band at the base. The two could have been brothers and Bowman already knew he was going to have a hard time telling them apart.

The taller of the two was the first to speak, as Bowman stood awkwardly in front of them,

“Señor Bowman, my name is Mateo,” he pointed at his companion, the one with the braid, “and this is Tomás. We’re here to take you to Los Pasiónes. Are you ready?” Bowman blinked at them and started to stammer something about collecting his bag and going through customs. “We’ve taken care of everything, Señor, you’re a guest of honour here. Please, this way.”

Mateo pointed to a door nearby, and led Bowman back out to the suffocating heat of the tarmac and towards the waiting helicopter that crouched at the edge of the airstrip like a giant predatory insect. Mateo and Tomás exchanged some quick words on the walk to the waiting aircraft, but those words weren’t in Spanish, Bowman was sure of that much, there was too much guttural exclamation and slurring, definitely not the Spanish he was used to. He shrugged it off and pulled himself into the helicopter. Even though his height wasn’t imposing, at 6’ tall he felt like a giant in this country, and being crammed into a small plane and then a smaller helicopter wasn’t helping things. Tomás took the controls, and Mateo gave Bowman a headset. As they lifted off from the airport, Mateo explained that the resort location was currently only accessible via helicopter, but that would soon change now that he was here to oversee the building of the resort. Los Pasiónes would be a luxury getaway, far away from the noise and corruption of the Cancun strip and the madness of the over-saturated Riviera Maya. Construction had begun at the site several years ago, but was abandoned because of some issues with permits.

“What about the workers?” Bowman shouted into the headset mic, “Where are they from, and do we need more?”

Mateo shook his head, “No Señor, the workers have already been hired. They’re all local, and will work hard for you. I’ll be your foreman. The men already trust me, and we won’t have any trouble.” Mateo smiled at Bowman in a reassuring way, but something about that smile turned Bowman’s blood to ice and he felt a sudden chill in the stifling air of the helicopter’s cockpit.  

Breaking the awkward silence, and continuing as if Bowman had returned his smile, Mateo went on,

“We have much of the ground broken already for the pools: we just need to pour concrete for the pool decks and finish the main and outlying buildings. We’re looking at about six months of work...”

Mateo continued to talk, but Bowman wasn’t listening. He was looking out the window, watching the endless jungle whip by. They were headed north. Away from the city, away from the bustle of the tourist crowds. Who would come here? Were they building a road too? Something white flashed into view up ahead and Bowman squawked into the headset

“What the fuck was that that?!” he pointed in the vague direction of the white flash.

Miguel turned to look and shrugged, composed, “A ruin most likely. There are hundreds in this area, abandoned and not of any archaeological importance, so the tourism board didn’t bother to excavate and make it a tourist spot. We’re almost there, do you have any questions about the site?”

No, Bowman had no questions, not yet. He mumbled something to that effect into the mic and settled back in his seat, scanning the jungle once more as the ocean came into clearer view and the helicopter began to make a slow descent into the trees.

Mateo hadn’t been blowing smoke. From the air, Bowman could see that the area was already heavily modified. The ground had been flattened and sown with grass already, and not that cheap vine grass either. Low stone buildings flanked the front of the hotel, and excavations on the pool areas had already begun. Workers swarmed over the site like brown ants. The layout matched the blueprints perfectly: it was orderly, with sharp angles and crisp lines. A simplistic layout that would be easy to navigate and give a clear path to the beach. He liked it even better is person.

The helicopter touched down a short distance from the stone outbuildings, and Mateo led him away from the helicopter and Tomás, who had still not spoken a word. While Bowman was exhausted and a little overwhelmed, he was excited about the project. It was also the middle of the day, and he wanted to tour the site. Mateo obliged, leading a visibly impressed Bowman from landmark to landmark, as the larger man compared the layout to his blueprints and exclaiming over the fastidiousness of the builders and the quality of the lay lines and excavations. He was especially impressed with the work that had been done on the initial outbuildings and staircases.

Reaching out a hand to trace some relief carvings on a pillar near the second pool excavation, Bowman exclaimed breathlessly,

“You’re really going for the authentic feel, huh? This detail is incredible...” Mateo pushed Bowman’s hand away from the carvings, and nodded silently, a slight smile on his face. Bowman was vaguely aware of Tomás, trailing behind them, speaking to workers as they passed in that strange Spanish dialect that Bowman couldn’t place.

“What on earth is he saying to those fellas?” Bowman jerked a thumb in Tomás’ direction.

Mateo shrugged, “They’re simple people, reliable workers that follow some old traditions. Don’t worry, they’ll work hard for you. Tomás is just making sure they’re on schedule.” Mateo led Bowman past piles of neatly shaped limestone bricks, pale and milky, ready to use.

As they passed more workers, Bowman took stock of what he saw. These men didn’t look like simple workers to him. He’d seen simple workers: rednecks that couldn’t read but could build a condo in no time at all and took payment in cash without counting it. These men were straight-backed, clear eyed and all sported the varying lengths of braids just like Tomás’. Their profiles were distinctive, with prominent noses and foreheads that appeared to slope at an odd angle. They were all well muscled, not like the normal strain of Mexican worker he was used to - the kind that spent most of their time in the shade, or pretending to work, holding up construction and making deadlines almost impossible to meet. Bowman caught himself staring, flinching away from the solid worker who held his curious gaze with a steely, unblinking focus. Bowman felt an extra layer of sweat dampen his armpits and lower back. He cleared his throat and walked quickly toward the main pool excavation. The worker watched him go, the sun glistening on his scarred, naked chest and gleaming off of his oiled braid.

 Mateo caught up with Bowman’s long strides, and continued explaining what still needed to be completed. The main pool excavation was complete; it was an exaggerated rectangle that matched the shape of the resort building. The pool would begin as if it were the shore of the beach, starting very shallow with water lapping at the entrances of the luxury suites and gradually deepening to a little above waist height. A swim up bar and submerged sitting area would ensure that the guests could wander out of their luxury suites right into the pool. They could lounge in the water and maintain a view of the entire complex and ocean beyond, while their drinks would never run dry. He could see it in his mind, and made a mental note to ask the developer if he could swing a week’s stay at the completed resort as a part of his fee.

Rising out of the main pool excavation was a limestone staircase, which met up with the centre of the resort building. Counting the steps that would be submerged, he already knew that there would be precisely ninety-one limestone steps. Bowman marvelled at the way the plans were coming to life before his eyes: he had looked at this staircase skeptically on the blueprints, but this was beyond what he had imagined. The slope of the staircase was gentle enough that those stone steps made the various floors of the resort easily accessible from the outside, no need to go inside and parade your trysts in front of other hotel guests, unless that was your thing. The finished building would be an elegant multi-level structure, with an ancient patina, and mythic feel. Bowman was excited about the project, more excited than he had expected to be.

As his tour continued, they stepped from the pool excavation into the darkness of the main structure where the water would lap almost directly into the banquet hall. As Bowman waited for his eyes to adjust, he thought more about the existing structures at the site. The stones looked very old, with a great deal of attention paid to their shaping and placement: the colour of the limestone was pale and pearly. In his periphery, Bowman caught a glimpse of something that didn’t belong on a work site and made a face - in one corner of the banquet hall, a pile of red and yellow flowers were clustered around a limestone block that balanced a small bowl.

Bowman pointed a shaky finger towards the corner, his face reddening in the darkened space,

“Mateo, I want that superstitious shit gone, we’re here to work...” he trailed off as he realized that the workers that covered the site had stopped to stare at him.

Bowman cleared his throat and raised his voice, “The workplace isn’t the venue for your pagan jungle religions! Mateo, make sure you make that clear to them. I don’t speak your Spanish or whatever... just make it clear.”

Tomás held his gaze as Mateo made placating noises, leading Bowman back into the daylight and toward his quarters, which were located along the west side of the site.

“Don’t worry, Señor. Tomás will make sure the men clean the work site. You’re right to want to keep these superstitions away. These men are simple, and it keeps them focused on their work. You won’t see anything like that again.” He looked over his shoulder at Tomás, who turned and barked orders in that strange language at the workers clustered around. They moved as one and surrounded the little altar, muttering in their strange language. Tomás stood straight-backed and watched Bowman go, and Bowman didn’t have to turn around to know that Tomás’ eyes burned with anger.            

“You must be tired now, Señor. The workers will be finishing for the day soon, but tomorrow we can assess the next few months of work. There is much to be done, but I believe we are on schedule.” Mateo continued on, but Bowman wasn’t listening. Angry strides carried him quickly to the larger of the workman’s buildings. He was thinking about what he’d seen on that altr. He stopped at the door, seeing his bag on the cot within. He turned sharply, and cut Mateo off mid-sentence, blurting out,

 “What was in the bowl.” The words fired out of his mouth, more of a statement than anything. He was sure that he’d seen something strange on that altar. The contents of the bowl had been dark and thick, something that couldn’t be explained away. Mateo tried though,

“The workers are extremely religious. Do not fret Señor; what was in the bowl is nothing more than earth from the building project, offered to the ancient gods, to Ahmakiq. To the workers, traditions like this keep the site safe, free from accidents...” he left his sentence hanging in the air, as if daring Bowman to question him.

“Just make sure it’s gone. I don’t want to be tripping on that kind of shit on my work site. Tomorrow we get down to real business, no more babysitting the locals. We have a deadline to stick to.” Mateo just nodded at Bowman, and although his smile was wide and friendly, his eyes were cold obsidian flakes and Bowman couldn’t meet them.

“Of course, Señor. You relax,” he handed Bowman a walkie talkie and a cell phone, “call me if you need anything. I’ll come by with dinner in a few hours.” Bowman grabbed for the walkie and phone.

“Don’t worry about dinner, I want an early start. I expect everyone to be on site at 5:00 a.m. No excuses. You make sure your man tells everyone.” Bowman dismissed Mateo with a wave and stepped into what would be his home for the next few months. He surveyed the room: a bed that looked military grade uncomfortable, a table for his blueprints, a hook on the wall for his clothing bag, and a small closet area that contained his personal squat toilet that smelled faintly of lime. He spat on the dirt floor. Luxury.

 4:00 a.m. came earlier than he had expected. Damn that Yucatan jet lag. He dragged himself out of bed, a crick in his neck and a pain in his lower back. Typical. A wide basin of water was on the table. He looked at it curiously, but shrugged and splashed some over his face and neck. He dried his face with a kerchief and then tied it around his neck. Lacing himself into his work boots, Bowman pushed open the door of his room and stepped into the cool air. The whole site was heavy with morning jungle mist and he could hear the muffled crash of the surf, coming as if from another world away.

Bowman took a deep breath and sucked the cool moisture into his lungs. Everything was shades of grey, the jungle was a grey green, the limestone piles brought from the quarry blending into the mist, the lightening sky hidden by swirling fingers of jungle mist. The site was silent in the early morning. Beautiful. An emerald green bird with a flowing tail screamed as it burst from the undergrowth, churning up the mist as it flew up and over the main building. Its call was shrill and echoed across the site, startling Bowman out of his pensive mood. He wished he hadn’t given up smoking last month. He felt jumpy and on edge.

As if on cue, a figure melted out of the mist. It was Tomás, and he was speaking that Spanish Bowman couldn’t understand, his eyes hot black pools of superiority and anger, his voice rhythmic, lilting, commanding and resonant all at the same time. More and more shapes materialized in the greyness of the morning, countless figures, all moving in to the rhythm of Tomás’ words. The sound swirled around Bowman, mesmerizing him; he closed his eyes and swayed on his feet.

“Señor Bowman!”

Mateo’s shout started Bowman out of his trance. Tomás was gone. The figures in the mist were gone. The mist was all but gone too... with only a few lingering wisps clinging to the pearly limestone of the main building’s framework. With the mist gone, the light of dawn poured over the work site and Bowman shook off his vision. It was time to get to work.

He barked at Mateo, louder than he’d intended, “Grab the plans. Meet me on the stairs.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, and made for the central building. He wasn’t sure what kind of pep talk he was going to give these workers, but he didn’t have time to fuck around with fantasies in the mist. The sun would be up soon, and then the heat of the day would hit.

As he climbed the stairs, he was vaguely aware that Mateo was at his heels. Perfect. He climbed to the fiftieth stair, and turned to survey the site, once again marvelling at the exactness of the layout. He looked up to the sky, the deep purple of night still hanging on to a few quiet stars fading in the growing dawn. He breathed deeply, savouring the richness of the air. The workers had begun to gather; he hadn’t realized how many there were, close to four hundred. Good.

Without making eye contact with Mateo, he motioned for the plans, snatching them out of the smaller man’s brown, work calloused hand. “Make sure your man translates,” Bowman grunted. Mateo nodded beside him and beckoned to Tomás who strode up to the thirty-first stair, his braid swinging behind him.

Bowman cleared his throat,

“I am your Jefe. We have a big project ahead of us,” Tomás began to speak to the group, but Bowman tried not to notice, “We have six months to complete this resort. You will be split into teams to complete these projects. Questions and issues will go to Tomás or Mateo. Your day starts at 5:00 a.m. No excuses.” Tomás was still talking... he looked at Mateo questioningly, and cleared his throat loudly. Without waiting to be dismissed, Tomás descended the stairs and stalked into the crowd of workers.

 Mateo grabbed the plans out of Bowman’s hands and clapped him on the back,

“Don’t worry Señor. You have an easy job, this is not Texas or California. All you need to do is be here to see that the job gets done. You’re still Jefe, don’t worry...” Bowman wasn’t sure what that meant, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it either.

He stayed on the stairs for the rest of the day, watching the workers swarm over the site. The two smaller pools were excavated that day, and lines and framework set for the pouring of concrete for the pool decks and pathways. He was blown away. That second night he fell into a restless sleep, haunted by the burning look in Tomás’ eyes that morning.