Strange encounters.....
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Porto Petro,
Spain
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The Varadero kitchen staff is composed of three Italian chefs who don't speak any English and hardly any Spanish. The dishwasher boy was a Dutch 23 year old who was suffering from some sort of Schizophrenia, because he was constantly having conversations with a non-existent person while he washed. At one point during the night he came up to me while I was drying off some cabernet glasses and yelled "I DON'T CARE OK??!!" right in my face. I had no idea what was going on but as soon as I saw the Italian kitchen staff laughing their heads off with a don´t-mind-his-crazy-ass look on their faces I relaxed. They later told me in Italian (which I am still amazed at how much I understand) that he had begged for a job in the restaurant. The owner and manager, after learning he had been sleeping in the beach, had no money and was taking strong drug-rehab medication, took pity and hired him and gave him shelter.
I couldn't help but feel sorry for Ivo, the delusional dish-washer, and marvelled on the encounters we could have. I wondered if I would be able to have a normal conversation with him.
That same night after a few attempts of striking up some sort of chat, I realized the poor guy was lost. Everything he said lacked logic and reason and I couldn't follow his train of thought. He ranted a lot about God and wore a wooden rosary around his neck. After much inquiring, the head chef told me that he had started drinking alcohol which messed up the effect of the medication he was taking which consequently worsened his condition. They told me he had starting harming himself: burning his skin with cigarettes and cutting himself. I was instantly alarmed and wondered why he hadn't been hospitalized. A boy this sick should be in constant psychiatric care, not washing dishes for a restaurant. But then again, who was responsible for him?
The next day at the restaurant even though I tried to keep my distance from the unpredictable Ivo, he continued to talk to himself most of the day until he suddenly asked for a break and never came back. The hours passed and Ivo still hadn't returned. Thinking maybe he had gotten upset after he had been reprimanded for not looking after his mental health (ie. drinking, smoking pot, etc) I grew worried something had happened to him.
I offered to replace him in his dish-washer duties that night, and although I later regretted it due to sharp back pains, I couldn't help but imagine Ivo ranting and raving in some bar, scaring people by his shouting and wicked laughter. Maybe he had hurt himself and was bleeding dry in some beach. I imagined the worse and even though I did not know Ivo well, the thoughts about him that ran threw my head saddened me. That, combined with the seven millions plates that piled up in the kitchen and my feet ache, made me nervous and emotional.
Had I the means, the time or the energy, I would have gone to Cala d'Or to look for him. The previous night he had mentioned there was to be a party held for him in a bar there, where people were waiting for him and where he was going to "set things straight", although he never clarified what there was to straighten out, as he mostly spoke to the air.
Convincing myself I was exaggerating and Ivo was probably out walking to clear his head or something, I went to bed that night feeling nonetheless restless.
But when the next day I learned Ivo had had a run-in with the police having been found dirty and delusional, aside from feeling horrible, I pondered on the thought that people, including myself, are way too selfish. I don't hold myself responsible for Ivo's mishaps but there's always the slight chance that if I had followed my instincts that something was wrong, and ignored my aching feet, maybe Ivo could have been spared one more day of his free life. He's probably restrained in some psychiatric ward in Palma, and although I know he's probably better taken care of there, I know he's not happier. And that pains me.
I try to imagine myself as demented as one can possibly be (shut up Juani) but I can't imagine anyone being happy when one's freedom is taken away. Even though one's mental faculties can be weak, when you have your legs to run through the white sand or your arms to swim through the turquoise Mediterranean water, there's no insanity that can chain you down. Being able to use one's freedom is the basic ingredient for happiness, no matter how insane you are. And maybe that's why my heart went out to Ivo. I hope he's ok.
And as for the Varadero management who hired him and later realized he was more of a burden than an asset, who didn't move a finger when he disappeared, who didn't bother to look for him or even call the police, who to this day still hold his personal belongings and his ID card, how can you sleep at nights?
