EDITOR’S NOTE: It was a horrible mistake invading Iraq, but it will be a more costly disaster going to war with Iran. Have we not learned our lesson? This story was written in 2003, but it’s perhaps timely… right now…
Isla Mujeres is a beautiful little island right across the bay from Cancun. Unlike her glamorous, bawdy sister, Isla is laid back and quiet; but a more seductive woman just the same. Isla Mujeres seduced the Mayans with her swaying palms and her pristine waters. They erected temples and married themselves to her. This passionate love affair led them to call her “the Isle of Women.”
A few years ago, Rodney Prescott Campbell III, had succumbed to Isla’s charms. He had used his considerable wealth and influence to procure a few acres of lush beachfront property. Usually, foreigners had to pull innumerable strings, jump through hoops or perhaps marry a Mexican to end up with choice land like this. Rodney, though, was a rich American businessman who saw what he wanted and simply acquired it ‒ no matter what. If there is one thing the Mexican government understands, it is the dollar! Mr. Campbell and his host, the State of Quintana Roo, had a cozy relationship. Unfortunately, he and his Mexican neighbors did not.
Rodney, his wife Mitzi and their three little girls where spending January at their “modest” four thousand square foot cottage by the sea. He enjoyed snorkeling, spear fishing, boating and, of course, going after blue marlin. His wife and the girls spent most of their time on their own private beach with Pepe and Raul waiting on them hand and foot.
Campbell had bought into the quaint little saloon on the Plaza and turned it into a big, glitzy disco. They had succeeded in luring over huge crowds of drunken party-goers from Cancun every night. It was named Bad Bones; but the locals simply called it bad. His next project was to build a big, modern hotel including high-dollar shops and a McDonald’s franchise.
So much for the charm, peace and tranquility of Isla Mujeres! The ancient Mayans were turning in their graves.
Lately, Rodney and his family were having trouble with bees. Everyone had been stung and two of his daughters had been stung repeatedly. Finally Raul discovered the location of the hive and alerted Señor Campbell. The hive was on his neighbor’s property.
The Valdez family resided next door. They were of Mayan descent and had been there for generations. Isidro Valdez was the patriarch. He was short, quiet and considerate ‒ like most Mayans ‒ and spry for his age. He had never uttered a bad word about the Campbells. To Isidro, Americans were from a different, funny world. On one hand, he liked them and was fascinated. On the other, he thought that perhaps some Americans were arrogant and belligerent; and they were always messing in someone else’s business. He had no qualms about Rodney Prescott Campbell III and the other royals. He never saw them anyway, not since they put up the big wall.
Rodney opened the gate in the wall and located Isidro. He rushed up to the old man and yelled, “Valdez! Where the hell are those bees?”
The Mexican peered from beneath his straw hat and pointed over to the little grove of palm trees. “There, Meester Campbell,” he said. “They are dee killer bees.”
Campbell looked over to the trees and focused on a huge dark mass between two trunks. He inched a little closer. “Holy shit! There must be thousands of them! It’s a damn colony!”
“Si señor,” Isidro said.
“Well, what the hell are you going to do about them, Valdez?”
“Meester Campbell, I called dee police. I called dee mayor. I called dee state and they say inspectors come in a few days . . . but that was two months ago, señor.”
The American put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He thought that this sounded all too familiar. “Inspectors. Shit! These bees have been terrorizing us,” he said. “You and I have to do something fast or there’s going to be a big problem here. How can you live with killer bees in your own backyard? Are you crazy?”
Isidro smiled and said, “Señor, I learn to live with swarms of bees, swarms of tourists, all kinds of pests.” He gave Rodney a wicked grin. “Why would I provoke dee nest of killer bees?”
“We have to rid the neighborhood of this threat,” Rodney said with a tone of self-imposed authority. “If you don’t, I will!”
“They say you have to get dee queen and then you can control dee hive.” Isidro was starting to get exasperated with the impatient American. “Besides, dee hurricane season comes and dee bees will blow away. Right up to Texas,” he chuckled.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Valdez, but it’s my duty and my right to get rid of these bees.”
Isidro frowned and said, “I cannot stop you from doing what you want, but I really think you should fog your backyard and let me take care of dees my way.”
“Nonsense,” Campbell yelled, “I declare a war on killer bees! Either you’re with me . . . or you’re against me!”
Isidro walked away scratching his head. He muttered to himself, “Stupid gringo.”
Campbell got Pepe and Raul and drove to town in his new Dodge pickup. They returned with an arsenal: pump spray tanks, gasoline, overalls, goggles, bandanas, helmets, gloves, duct tape, and of course, a 500,000 BTU portable propane torch kit. He laid out the plans in plain English and then the trio suited up.
They cautiously moved toward the hive. Pepe announced that he wanted out of the coalition but the American bribed him with more money. Raul was having the time of his life. All young men find excitement in war and he was eager to please Señor Campbell. They got within ten feet of the hive and took their positions. The two Mexicans got on either side of the bees with their gasoline sprayers. General Campbell took command of the flamethrower in the middle. All three aimed their weapons at the enemy. For a moment Rodney hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all? He was afraid. But he was more afraid of being called a coward than he was of being stung to death.
The breeze from the ocean kicked up as he bellowed, “Let, ‘em have it, boys!”
Pepe and Raul moved in and saturated the hive ‒ and themselves ‒ with atomized gasoline. The bees became furious and started to swarm. Rodney panicked and turned his flame up to full. He had jumped the gun. The air ignited with a loud explosion and knocked the trio into next week. Both Mexicans were on fire! Raul picked himself up and ran for the water cursing in Spanish the whole way. Pepe screamed and removed his flaming bandana, goggles and pith helmet. The bees unmercifully attacked him as he tripped into Señor Campbell. The American fell into the hive with his flamethrower. Suddenly the tall grass was on fire. He extracted himself from the buzzing pandemonium, dropped his flaming weapon and pushed Pepe out of the way.
Isidro Valdez looked out his sliding glass door in disbelief. Just then one of the pressurized plastic tanks filled with gas exploded. He called the fire department while, in the background, his television loudly reported on the American War on Terrorism. A CNN talking head expounded on the dangers of attacking Iraq. What were the ramifications if something went wrong, and was there an escape plan?
Rodney Campbell, arms frantically flailing, ran back to his compound and his family, a huge swarm of killer bees in hot pursuit. Unfortunately, they lived up to their name.
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.