Fault Lines - John Knoop

We are definitely the country cousins in the Wurlitzer family. My parents are treated by
some of the relatives with the subtle condescension reserved for bohemian eccentrics. The uncles
practice varying degrees of conservative republicanism and consider themselves successful,
important citizens. I think of them as stockbrokers, advertising executives and accountants.
These aunts and uncles live in a ring around the Cincinnati Country Club and its golf course,
and my grandmother’s house is at the bottom of the circle. My parents have no use for country
clubs, or for churches, and I think they instilled in us a kind of reverse snobbery about joining
anything. I learned early to be proud of being different, and at school this attitude was
reinforced by my lack of enthusiasm for pop culture, especially the ‘bubble gum’ music that all
the girls listen to. We rarely went to movies and didn't have a television until the coronation of
Queen Elizabeth in l952. Then, we were encouraged to watch only the coverage of major events,
the political conventions, or programs like Omnibus and Edward R. Morrow’s See It Now. For
me that was not a problem, since I was busy either farming, running in the woods or reading. I
found more satisfaction in books than from the flickering screen trying to sell me stuff I didn't
want or need. I didn’t connect with the main stream of pop culture; when I finally saw the Jackie
Gleason show on my grandmother’s TV, it was beyond me why my peers never missed it. I had
cynical thoughts about the herd instinct.
What distinguishes Acandi from all the other frontier-like jungle towns on this coast is that it
has a genuine WW II jeep, in running condition. Battered, paint-less, bald-tired, smoking and
incapable of going more than half a mile in any direction without running into a solid wall of
jungle or the sea, the jeep has made Acandi famous as a citadel of civilization all up and down
this road-less coast. We heard of it as far north as the San Blas Islands. Apparently it came to
Acandi back in the late 40s when United Fruit was considering the possibility of a banana
plantation here.
Medellin, Colombia, October 29
We leave Acandi on a boat scarcely larger than the dugout that brought us there, but this
one, the Tres de Mayo, has a neat three cylinder Swiss inboard engine. Although this craft
already has a load of three thousand contraband coconuts bound for Turbo, the owner can’t
resist the eight dollars we offer him. He’s a swarthy and rather surly fellow who does not inspire
Naren’s or my trust, but we want the ride and the little boat looks good, though once the cycle,
our baggage and the three of us are on board, the Tres de Mayo sits alarmingly low in the water,
with about an inch of freeboard. We put to sea in the afternoon and when the wind comes up the
deck is awash constantly, requiring non-stop bailing.
40