The Irish Tales

Second Life (7)
　
　
I was sitting close to the summit of Popocatépetl,
the second highest peak in Mexico and an active volcano.
Its name translates as "Smoking Mountain", which is both accurate and relevant to this particular tale.
We were here to film part of a Kodak commercial, which I wasn’t particularly proud of then and these days would deny any association with it, if asked.
(Not everything in First Life is to be admired, as I’m sure you understand. But the budget was huge and like anyone else, I’m a sucker for a spot of free tourism.)
The volcano is about 40 miles from Mexico City. It felt like 400, in a battered campervan with no air-conditioning, or suspension, and with a lunatic at the wheel.
We finally arrived at Base Camp about 9pm in the evening; starving, thirsty and filthy. I stretched and stumbled out of the van, eager for food, drink and company, followed by a long, deep sleep.
I really should have known better.
Base camp turned out to be nothing more or less than a glorified Youth Hostel.
There was no bar or restaurant, just a canteen. The toilets and shower block were a brisk, cold walk away, possibly to discourage any loitering. It was difficult to distinguish between the two, as various unsavoury-looking deposits were lodged in both..
And then, there were the dormitories. Actually, dormitory singular. No distinction whatsoever was made between the two genders.
It was a huge hanger of a place filled with two tier bunk beds and absolutely no privacy. Everybody slept here. The Director, the producer, the agency lot, the crew, the artists. Everybody.
After the luxury of Mexico City, it was….interesting.
I rescued a bottle of brandy from my bag, put on the warmest jacket I could find (stolen from the next bunk but one) and sulked outside for an hour; smoking, drinking and thinking dark thoughts.
When I returned, all the lights were out, but the hubbub was volcanic. There were girls in here, after all; some of them very attractive girls. And there were men, definitely. The stink of male testosterone was unmistakable.
Lying in my bunk, it was impossible to ignore the padding of feet, the stifled giggles, the hoarse, suggestive whispers.
And the farting.
Sweet Jesus, it was like being at boarding school again. Wind of every kind was released freely into the darkness, accompanied by a chorus of sniggers and guffaws. Now and then it would cease for a moment – until a high tenor or a deep bass would cause another eruption of snickering. I sucked on the brandy bottle and finally found blessed sleep.
Which was abruptly terminated by a blowing of whistles and the excited cries of "RAUS ! RAUS!" from our German second Assistant.
As if in a bad dream, I found myself herded back into the camper van and being driven towards the summit or top or whatever it is you call the highest bit of a volcano.
I was unwashed, unshaven and I hadn’t brushed my teeth. (I may have mentioned the ablutions ?)
Worst of all, I hadn’t the foggiest idea why I was here. This particular shot was a simple beauty shot, no actors, no dialogue, nothing that needed my humble skills.
And so I growled to myself, occasionally muttering aloud some obscenity no doubt, until I became aware of something rather unpleasant; I was having difficulty breathing.
Now, as a boy I suffered badly from asthma and recently, the London fog had induced the occasional bout of it. And of course, we were nearly 18,000 feet above sea level where the air does get a bit thin.
I groped into my bag and found the inhaler, which brought immediate relief and a curious look from the crew’s nurse, who was sitting opposite me.
"You are asthmatic, Mister David ?" she asked.
"Only now and then," I replied. "Er..do you mind if I smoke ?" I didn’t wait for her reply and lit up a full strength Marlboro ; such bliss.
She looked horrified. "Mister David, the air at top will be very thin and bad for you. And smoking !! It is very, very not good." Now, normally she would be quite right. However, for some asthma sufferers, a fag at the right time is just what is needed. Smoking relaxes you. When you tense up, your pipes close up. Light a cigarette, chill and eventually, the pipes open again. As they did now.
I smiled back at her and blew a perfect smoke ring above her head.
"Don’t worry," I said.
"I’ll be fine……………."
(To be continued)