Johnny Cigarini (28 page)

I am also very fortunate to have a wonderful family in Italy. They are the husband and sons of my sister Maria. As I spent so much time with them when I was a teenager, we are all very close. I love my brother-in-law Peter, or Pietro, Rebecchini. In many ways he was like a father substitute for me in those early years, when I hitched to Rome as an orphan. He is now eighty-eight and still married to Maria, although they haven't lived together for over forty years. He still sends her half his pension every month and that is the Italian way. They have three lovely sons, now in their fifties, and I remember them all being born. Jimmy, Marco and Luca are the three brothers, all covering the whole gamut of hair colouring. They are all very lucky to have the Cigarini hair genes; the Rebecchinis on their father's side were all as bald as an egg by the age of twenty.

When I first met my brother-in-law Peter, he must have only been in his mid-twenties, but he looked very old with a bald pate and hair around the fringe. He doesn't look a lot different now, and he's eighty-eight. He tells me that God only gave hair to the people who don't have good-looking heads. All my nephews' wives and children are just a delight. I love them all very much and I am very lucky to have such a great Italian family, thanks to my sister Maria. She still lives in England, in Bournemouth, but I think she would like to move to Italy to be nearer her sons. She should, as she is now eighty. Maria… come.

My other sister, Christina, seems content living alone in Cornwall. Her ex-husband Gordon died a few years ago, but they had already separated. She has a very active social life, partially through the church, and has many friends.

In November of 2012, I treated Maria and Christina to a cruise to commemorate Maria's eightieth, Christina's seventy-fifth and my seventieth. We went to China, Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Vietnam and Singapore. The destinations were wonderful, but I won't pretend it was always easy between us all. There are deep-rooted issues between the sisters, stretching back to their childhoods. I doubt it's different in any other family, it's just that our history is a bit more complicated than most. It was the first time we had spent so much time together for sixty-three years, since Maria and I left Rome in 1949. In spite of that, I hope they enjoyed themselves – I certainly did. We toasted the beloved missing sister, Luisa. It was sad, but life is sometimes.

*

In 2012, I bought myself a Bentley Continental. I decided to buy one when I read Keith Richards' autobiography
Life
. That was the car he had in the 1960s, and I love them. The scene when Anita Pallenberg gave him a blow job in the back of it may have influenced me. Bentley was one of the few makes of cars I had never owned. I was offered an R-Type Continental by Peter Frankel, my dentist, in the early eighties, for £40,000. He used it as an everyday car in Knightsbridge. I have always regretted not buying it, as they are worth twenty times that now. I bought the modern-day version of the Continental, having decided I would like to spend my seventies swanning around Umbria in a Bentley (like a flash git), but my ownership had an ignominious beginning. I bought the second-hand car in England and was waiting for the Portsmouth-Le Havre ferry, to drive it to Italy. I bought a fire extinguisher and reflective jackets, as required in France, at the ferry terminal shop, and put the bag in the front passenger footwell. A short while later, I opened the glove compartment and the lid lightly touched the bag. With a pop, the extinguisher went off, filling the car with white powder. I had to quickly throw the bag out of the car. It was all very embarrassing, as there were other cars waiting for the ferry. I could even hear them laughing and calling to me, “Flash bastard!” They weren't wrong and it got me thinking that because Anita Pallenberg gave Keith Richards a blow job, a fire extinguisher had gone off in my Bentley. Work that one out… 'cause I can't.

“… and so becomes ripe, at last, for the great at-one-ment. His personal

ambitions being totally dissolved, he no longer tries to live but willingly

relaxes to whatever may come to pass in him; he becomes,

that is to say, an anonymity.”

– Joseph Campbell

It can be brutally cold in Umbria, and it is now twenty years since I spent a winter in Europe… so I seek the sun! I'm sure if I had been born in ‘the olden days', I would have been one of those people who worshipped it religiously. I absolutely adore the sunshine. I spend the winters on the East Cape of Los Cabos in Baja (pronounced Baha) California, Mexico. My great friend since 1970, Roberta Booth, discovered it. She told me there were these gringos spreading up an unspoiled coastline, “Where the desert meets the ocean.” It sounded idyllic. I went down there, and it was. I am only allowed three months' residency in America, so Mexico happened, where the water is warm enough to swim in, eighty degrees every day, and I am allowed in for six months. The property values are also much cheaper. So, I bought a beachfront house, and I am now in my twelfth winter there. I am there now as I am writing this, listening to the ocean, thinking of London. I don't miss it these days, and here is why.

The house is art deco in style or ‘Streamline Moderne', according to Alex Matijas, the Argentinian architect who built it for himself. As you walk in, all you see is the ocean through four huge windows and sliding doors, a curved staircase, walls and ceilings. You can't see the beach or any land when entering, as it is on a point, and from the front deck the sea horizon is so wide it is curved. Here, you really feel that the planet is round. The house has a lighthouse tower, like a minaret – the Casa Divina. Alex told me that after he built the house, he had a visit from the narcotics police. They thought the lighthouse was for signalling to drug smugglers.

On one side of the house, I just have the beach, sand dunes and cactus trees. The nearest house is a quarter of a mile away, but cannot be seen. On the other side, I have a neighbour, Renate. Her house is also set back from mine, so I don't see it. They have dogs, and I always know when I have a visitor. They have a caretaker, Fano, and his Mexican family watching over their home, and they look over mine too. I think people realise I have no family here, no wife or children, so they help me in all the little ways – like people have always done, ever since I was five.

*

The East Cape is a wilderness with miles and miles of empty beaches that run as far as the eye can see. Behind, there are desert forests that run for over a thousand miles to America. There are huge cardon cactus, terrote (elephant trees), pitaya and palo blanco trees. In front, we have the real Baja celebs, the whales. The grey and humpback ones come to Baja to give birth. They live here in the sea for just two or three months from January through to April, until the calfs are strong enough for the journey back north. The mothers are forty feet long, and the calfs sixteen feet at birth. From my house, I can see them breaching (leaping out of the water), or slapping their tails and flippers, causing huge splashes like something from an Attenborough documentary. The mothers seem to be teaching the calfs how to do it. I hear them slapping their tails at night and sometimes I hear them groaning, or is it singing? The annual migration of the grey whales is the longest of any mammal on earth – over 7000 miles from Baja California to the Bering Sea. The whales only feed themselves when they get to the Bering. They gorge on krill all summer and then sustain themselves all winter on their blubber, including milking the calfs. We hear that the great ships create too much noise pollution for the whales and it hurts them. It interferes with their navigation and makes it harder for them to speak to one another. Sometimes, they get lost on their journey. Don't we all?

One great trip we can take is to Bahia Magdalena, or Mag Bay as we call it. It is where the whales mate and give birth. It is a 50km-long bay, protected from the Pacific Ocean by the barrier islands of Isla Magdalena and Isla Margarita. It is more like a lagoon than a bay. On approach, the small plane circles the bay and the pilot points out the male grey whales guarding the narrow entrances, keeping out the killer whales – who will kill the baby grey ones merely in order to eat their tongues. Two open panga boats, each containing fifteen people, go out to the whales in the bay. They are accustomed to humans and will allow people to touch them, but only in the bay – they would never allow it on the open sea. In the bay, even the calfs can be petted. Being so close to these huge mammals is a wonderful experience. It really is humbling to know there are such great beasts living with us here on earth. It helps one remember that we share the planet with everyone, even sea monsters. Their size is impressive, and their blowing of air from close up is a giant and terrific sound. When I was there, I saw one breach from the water, right near a panga. The whales stay in the bay for a few weeks with their calfs before going around the Cape in front of my house, where they are plentiful in January, February and March. They start to leave for the migration by April. When that happens, I wave them goodbye.

The other highlight from my house is the full moon rising out of the water. For three or four evenings each month, it comes up golden and reflects in the sea. I call it a moon river. The dawn needs to be mentioned also, as my bed faces toward the sun rising through a thirty-foot curving window. If I am awake in time, then I see a red sky every day. I often open my eyes at 6am and say, “That's nice” and then go back to sleep. Because there is no air or light pollution in Baja, the stars are very clear and run down to the horizon. I can lie in bed at night and see the stars all the way down to the sea. Living in a city doesn't allow us to experience the stars, or the sunrise, or moon rivers, but here I get it all and I wish I wasn't the only one. Sometimes it even makes me sad that all the world cannot see it, as it was meant to be.

For me, some of the best things in Baja are the birds. On Saturdays, not only do I get a choice of all the Premier League games on Mexican Sky, but while I am watching them I often see four whales through the large windows either side of my telly, while the pelicans dive into the deep blue, the magnificent frigatebirds soaring on high thermals, and the large turkey vultures flying past my window. Sometimes I see dolphins. Sometimes.

My favourite bird of the sky is the osprey, which comes to visit me each morning at the same time, as regular as clockwork. It is especially exciting for me as an Englishman, because they were extinct in Britain and only reintroduced to Rutland Water in 1996. It hovers in front of my house, and sometimes I get the thrill of seeing it dive and catch a fish in its claws. My house is raised from the beach on a dune, so it hovers almost at my level. The osprey loves to sit on my lighthouse tower, chirping out to sea. I have a fine pair of Zeiss binoculars for whale watching, which I use for the osprey too. I hear they are known as the sea hawk or fish eagle, and they can grow a wingspan of six feet. I like to watch it because it seems wise, and it is also alone. Sometimes I watch it for a long time, wondering what it will do next. I often wonder what I will do next, but I cannot know, so I just keep watching the birds. That's fine for me, for now.

More common large birds are the turkey vultures, which the gringos call buzzards – an American name. However, in the Old World, the name buzzard is reserved for a buteo, which is called a hawk in America. The turkey vultures will always give way to the Caracara birds at a meal. These are magnificent falcons, usually in pairs. They have red heads with a white stripe around the neck, and another white stripe on the wings. The male has a crown on his head. They are only a once-a-week sighting, usually sitting on a large cardon cactus. They are not fast flying aerial hunters, but are usually scavengers.

The pelicans are the most plentiful bird. I see half a dozen of them diving into the water for fish right in front of my house, all day, every day. I think the rocks in front of me are a good source of small fish; the panga fishermen also go there to collect their baitfish in the early mornings. The pelicans are lovely to watch while they are flying in formation. The gringos call it the Mexican Air Force. They either fly in a V formation of up to thirty birds, or in one long line, and ride the waves. They skim the front of a breaking wave, inches from the water, riding the air thermal caused by the wave. The birds take it in turn to flap their wings, those behind riding the slipstream of the bird that's flapping. Pelicans apparently dive into the water with their eyes open to catch fish. Consequently they get cataracts and can go blind, and then starve to death because they can no longer fish. You sometimes see an elderly pelican sitting forlornly on the beach, waiting for its time to become a meal for the turkey vultures.

One bird I see each day is the magnificent frigatebird, and I can usually see a dozen. They have beautiful Z-shaped wings and use them to fly very high, sometimes up to 2500 metres, and soar in the thermals and then descend to near sea surface. They spend days and nights on the wing and never enter the water to catch fish; they catch jumping fish or scraps left by larger fish. They sometimes attack other seabirds and make them disgorge their meal in flight. They were sometimes previously known as the man-o-war or man-of-war, due to their rakish lines and aerial piracy of other birds. They rarely seem to land; I have never seen one on the ground, but I wish to. I hear the males have a scarlet throat pouch that inflates like a balloon in the breeding season.

I have two ravens that seem to have adopted my house. They love to sit on the lighthouse tower. They come each morning and sometimes wake me with their clucking and calling. They are larger than a crow, with long beaks, and they are always in a pair. Ravens have coexisted with humans for thousands of years, and due to their ability to solve problems, they have always been considered highly intelligent. In some cultures, including those of ancient Ireland and Wales, they have been revered as a spiritual figure or god. They can live up to twenty-one years, which is much longer than most birds. I don't think the number twenty-one is coincidence – in numerology, it is a power number and the number of the great spiritual masters of humanity. In Greek mythology, ravens are associated with Apollo and are considered good luck, and were God's messengers in the mortal world. In Middle Earth, the ravens of Erebor brought secret news to the people of Thrór. Tolkien had them capable of speech in Ravenhill. I wouldn't rule anything out; they are secretive, and wise ones of the skies.

In addition to the large birds, there are also wonderful small and mid-sized birds. I have a cactus wren, which visits me a few times every day. It sits on a tree in my patio, singing away. I think it must have a nest in my garden. Then there is the woodpecker, which also likes to sit on the cacti. The yellow and black orioles are daily visitors, and the wonderful bright red cardinal birds are more rare, maybe only a once-a-month sighting. Only the male bird is bright red, and he has a crest. Because of the red crest, which is reminiscent of a Catholic cardinal's mitre, the colonialists named them cardinals. I had a real thrill one day when I had five red male cardinal visitors eating the berries off one of my bushes, all at once – as you're in luck to see just one. The people who live in the back get more of these colourful smaller birds; there is more vegetation than on the coast where I live. I get more of the big birds such as the turkey vultures and pelicans. There are many other varieties of birds on the beach, like gulls, sandpipers, terns, cormorants, egrets, and the occasional grey heron. In the garden, I also have quail, doves and hummingbirds. We have beautiful butterflies and moths, too – including a plentiful one about six inches long, which we call the bat moth.

*

The sea in front of the house is the Sea of Cortez. That is the Mexican name, but the Americans call it the Gulf of California. The ancient Spanish name was the Vermilion Sea, as it is called on the old sixteenth-century maps. The reason is we sometimes get wonderful reflected sunsets over the Sea of Cortez, which in turn makes the sea turn red. Hence, the name Vermilion Sea.

Although my view of the sea faces east, I am on the Cape, so I also face south into the Pacific. I have a 200-degree view of the sea from my house. There is no land between me and Antarctica and New Zealand, none at all. That's why there are occasional big waves that the surfers love. It is mainly a summer thing, when I am not here, but when there is a southern hemisphere winter storm in the Pacific, the surf here is huge. Shipwrecks Bay, just a mile from my house, is an internationally well-known surf break. The waves have travelled an enormous distance when they reach us. Fortunately, during the northern hemisphere winter, when I am in Baja, the water is calm and I can swim in front of my house on most days. But I have to be careful; the big waves can catch one unawares. On the Pacific side of the peninsula, you cannot swim unless you are a surfer. People drown over there. A few years ago, and again recently, an elderly couple were taken by a rogue wave while walking down the beach. If people drown in the Pacific, due to the currents, their bodies are rarely recovered. Chances are they end up in Hawaii. Not a bad place to rest, I guess.

The Tropic of Cancer runs near to La Paz, a three-hour drive north. John Steinbeck, in his
The
Log from the Sea of Cortez
, says that California was named after the arch and beach at Cabo San Lucas. The United States bought US California, along with Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Utah, an area known as the Mexican Cession, for $15 million in the Treaty of Guadeloupe Hidalgo in 1848 (just after the Mexican-American war over the Alamo) – not really that long ago if you think about it, in the lifetime of my paternal grandfather.

The Mexican Cession area had been called Alta (Higher) California, to distinguish itself from Baja (Lower) California. After the Treaty, the US took the name California for its Western State, and Mexico retained the name Baja California. When the transfer of the Mexican Cession took place, the few residents of Baja appealed to be allowed to become part of the British Empire, but they were refused and Mexico retained control of the remote region. In those days, the whole area, including Alta California, was desert. It's still like that down in the East Cape; it is like Santa Monica and Malibu were 100 years ago. Just a few houses dotted along the coast, with nothing but desert forest behind.