Queen Califia Comes Home

Deep in the Jungles of a Lost Continent

In the olden times, I resided mostly in peace among the natives of what the light-skinned invaders would call “the New World,” traveling to North America across the frozen Bering Sea many eons ago. However, unlike my frozen buddy Odin, I have always hated the cold! So, I made my way south, passing through the ancient lands of the Olmec, near present day Veracruz, posing for local artisans along the way. That is me, if you must know, as a model for the colossal stone head (though the likeness is not particularly flattering) residing in the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City. 

I eventually found a home across the Panama isthmus whiling away lazy tropical days within the equatorial jungles, rivers, and feeder streams in the heart of the unspoiled wilderness deep in the Amazon basin. There I lived quietly, except for occasional visits north to visit my fellow traveler Quetzalcoatl, who had settled down among the Toltecs as a feathered serpent god. Quite the shapeshifter, that one! 

The city built in his honor at Tula, and the Temples of the sun at Teotihuacán were quite impressive if you could ignore the human sacrifice, racks of skulls, and blood spilled to appease this rather insecure deity. I warned him repeatedly that the bloodletting and continual warfare would have consequences but Quetzy insisted that while he appreciated the efforts, the people undertook their practices on their own, and who was he to judge?

I learned the language of the pink river dolphins, capybaras, howler monkeys, and so many others, eventually settling on my human form: a six-foot-five-inch Amazonian princess warrior goddess with coal black skin and long silky dark hair cascading loosely to my waist. I preferred to go bare breasted with a simple azure loin cloth, numerous silver bracelets on my wrists and ankles, and shell necklaces hung in looping strands. 

My forest dwelling tribal friends were respectfully worshipful, though thankfully refraining from the davening and “we are not worthy” bowing so common when my colleagues appeared elsewhere. That is, until rumors reached our verdant paradise of an invading horde from another world.

Swarthy, hairy and lacking even basic sanitary habits, the invaders came ashore in my sylvan lands clad in metal, dragging cannons and unwieldy harquebuses, fixated on gold, silver, Christ, and slaves, in no particular order. They claimed the "newly discovered" lands for their distant leaders, two humans whom they referred to as their “Catholic monarchs,” Ferdinand and Isabella, rulers of some far-off, newly created kingdom which they referred to, as Spain. 

While cleaving a path of disease and carnage with each blood-soaked step, they planted their silly flags on islands and rocks, proclaiming “ownership” for their royal sovereigns, who they seemed to believe had been chosen by the gods, or at least one of us, to rule over the human beings who had lived here for hundreds of generations. 

They read to the local inhabitants title deeds and proclamations in Latin, an all but dead language, that most of them could not even understand, and pledged allegiance and fealty to their God, his son and his allegedly virgin mother, while marinating in the hubris that they could divine the wishes of we supernatural beings. 

Ever up for a few new tricks we humored them, a tragic mistake as we quickly discovered. Because of the many things these foreigners lacked, among them soap, appropriate attire for the tropics, manners, and women, was any sense of the ironic. No one could own the land or a wild river; everyone, even the most primitive superstitious backward ass cannibals understood that. We all lived on it and among it and took no more than we needed. Certainly, it could not be appropriated for private use, simply because some sartorially challenged priest, holy man, shaman, whatever, read a document in Latin claiming mythical title bestowed upon one human by a far off ruler.

The Christians, as they referred to themselves, were humor impaired, an affront that could never be forgiven. Because if there was one trait we insisted upon, by a unanimous vote of the policy and fiscal committees of the Ruling Council of the Heavens, so that humans could manage to slog their way through the disease, war, pestilence, and natural disasters we would test them with, it was a fucking sense of humor. And these “god-fearing” Spaniards lacked even that!

I first came upon that degenerate mariner Cristobal Colon and his Iberian adventurers at the Dragon’s Mouth in the Gulf of Paria, off the coast of Venezuela, in the year the rancid invaders called 1498. Estos hombres estaban tan sucios y sin lavar! They were filthy dirty and never bathed. 

Colon/Columbus was a mercurial, vindictive, deceptive, blame-shifting, narcissistic criminal skull sucker if ever one existed, who would enter his grave in snarling infamy a few short years later, guilty of mass murder at an almost inconceivable scale. His men, an army of psychotic bigots, attacked the new-found lands like a bunch of meth addicts crazy for human sacrifice working through a monstrous, Jesus-based rage.

While my nearly naked friends, dressed appropriately for the equatorial summer, threw caution to the wind in hopes that they might find allies against their mortal cannibalistic Carib enemies with the hirsute mariners from the east, climbed aboard and bartered, I sensed something more ominous and held back, following at a distance as Colon left the Gulf and made his way to the mainland before discovering its outfall and sailing some distance up the Orinoco River in modern day Venezuela.

Colon and his men continually questioned any local they could communicate with about gold and silver and a place they called El Dorado, where they might find copious amounts of those accursed shiny rocks. They were obsessed with it. The Taino, no fools, hopefully believed that the best way to get the new kids to vacate the neighborhood was to play along and so regaled them with stories of tribes so rich in the soft metal that their chiefs covered themselves in gold dust and sprinkled it on their food. The fake news seemingly worked. The wilder the tales, the more the gullible and greedy Spaniards bought in. But the gold was always elsewhere, just up the river, over that mountain, down that valley, in that Carib village!

When it became time for Colon and his men to return home, I decided I needed to learn more. Their obsession with gold likely meant we had not seen the last of them and it would merely be a matter of time before they realized we were not being wholly truthful about the distant location of the mines. We had already heard dark tales from our Arawak cousins on distant islands that once these trespassers arrived, they never left. 

When the Spaniards began slogging through the Orinoco wetlands gathering plants, animals, and birds to carry east to present to their monarchs, I decided I would accompany them - being an immortal goddess does have its upside. 

Taking the guise of a rose-ringed parakeet for the long crossing so as to "blend," I suffered the infernal chattering of my fellow cage mates and brooded in silence until we made port at Sanlucar de Barrameda, before being loaded upon rickety donkey carts in Andalusia where we were transferred to a riverboat plying the Guadalquivir, upriver to Seville. 

Compared to the pure untainted rivers of my Amazonian home, the Guadalquivir was quite a shock. The river was choked with human waste, sludge from shops that lined the river, corpses of sheep and cattle and god knows what else. The respect for nature so central to the lives of the humans from my homeland was nowhere apparent. While their churches were magnificent they treated the river as an open sewer. 

While annoying and loud, my green winged companions received much less attention than a six-foot-five naked Amazonian princess would have in 15th -century Inquisition obsessed Spain. Residing in the beautiful gardens of the Alcazar in Seville, a short distance from the La Giralda Cathedral with its Almohad minarets, a paradise left behind by the retreating Moors, redolent of citrus, roses, and jasmine, life was actually quite pleasant as I reconnoitered this barbarian civilization. 

The gardens went a long way toward masking the putrid scent of the soap-allergic natives of this benighted peninsula. Compared to the unspoiled wilderness of the Americas, Spain was a cesspool. Rats carrying plague were everywhere. Leprosy, diphtheria, dysentery, syphilis, the pox and cholera were constant companions. The scientifically illiterate Spaniards prayed to their gods, burned their witches, blamed Satan and then expelled the Moors and Jews. An exterminator, prophylactics, and a good refuse company could have answered their prayers to much greater effect!

I was not impressed. These people were superstitious, warlike, and best I could tell, hated women and anyone who did not swear obeisance to their Christian god. Seems Colon would never have undertaken the dangerous adventure if he did not fear that twisted little eunuch, Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, reaching to his buried Jewish roots. 

Those low life losers Cortes and Pizarro could not have accomplished their great "victories," absent their belief in their almighty son and virgin, with a little help from smallpox, syphilis, malaria, and the common cold. But I digress. 

I needed a cypher. Someone who would believe a bizarre tale, without asking too many questions and whose writing skills might dissuade more of these disagreeable brutes from undertaking a perilous voyage, or at the least quench their thirst for gold far from my friends. 

I chose an otherwise unknown scribe of limited ability, adventure writer Garcia Rodríguez de Montalvo to tell my story. In a 1510 work, that would be published as, “The Adventures of Esplandian,” Montalvo, a dullard who asked few questions when a parakeet began whispering to him from a perch in a Valencia orange tree in the gardens of the Royal Alcazar in Seville, dutifully took down the story of my life. 

I was expecting more resistance but forgot how superstitious these Spaniards were. With their belief in witches, dragons, and chivalric codes, I guess a talking bird was not that big a stretch. I alighted above him as he sat perched on a bench decorated in lovely blue, green, and white, geometric arabesques, and tiles. 

“Senor, let me introduce myself to your grace.” He looked around, saw no one and went about scribbling with his quill on a piece of parchment, though the verses he had set to paper in a desperate attempt to win the eternal love of his “lady” were fairly pathetic if I might offer an editorial opinion. 

I tried once more, this time plucking an orange and bonking him square on the head to get his attention. “Your lordship, up here, in the tree! Do you see anyone else?” 

To keep his limited attention, I squirted a copious stream of guano directly on his head, which he had concealed beneath a tattered green felt hat. He stood up and shook a fist in my direction, comically shaking his head from side to side attempting to remove a treckly stream of cream-colored bird shit which was dripping slowly into his eyes, while he furtively glanced around to determine who the trickster was.

Staring at the branches above his head, directly at me, I let forth a stream of invectives, “Pendejo! Cabron! Idiota! Imbecil! Cucaracha!”

“Si, soy yo! Have you never heard a talking bird?”

“You wanna story that’ll make you some dinero? I got a good one for ya, but you gotta sit your fat ass down and listen carefully. Forget trying your luck at love sonnets, cause take it from me, that sad little poem is not gonna cut it - not with Dona Maria, or Dona Dulcinea, and not even with the village puta. Stop with stories of Knights errant! Those ridiculous fables will have a short shelf life! They are sooo medieval! I will tell you of real adventures that do not require subduing windmills or beheading giants!”

With that, convinced that while I was likely some kind of enchanted demon bird he sat down and began writing my fabulous tale. Okay, so perhaps I enhanced it a bit, but a girl has to have some fun! 

So, I began. “The kingdom of Queen Califia is a remote land inhabited by griffins and other strange beasts.” I enjoyed planting that story, I must admit. Not sure what a griffin is exactly, but it sure did scare the bejesus out of those friars, which was the whole point! 

For God's sake, who travels across the seas on vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience? And poverty? Did you get a look at their churches? And there they go with the chastity thing - what is it with these people and sex? My goal was to scare them away, to keep them in Spain. 

But so long as they were going to visit, I thought I should put my stamp on the place. 

“Know ye that at the right hand of the Indies there is an island called California, very close to that part of the terrestrial paradise, which was inhabited by black women without a single man among them, and they lived in the manner of Amazons. They were robust of body with strong passionate hearts and great virtue. The island itself is one of the wildest in the world on account of the bold and craggy rocks.” 

I went on in great detail for days, my scribe sitting transfixed as I tried to make the place as frightening as I could.

“There are giant serpents that can devour a man whole! Lizards that drag ships beneath the waves before dismembering the crew! Poisonous spiders and frogs and giants who dine nightly on human flesh!” He took it all down with nary a question. 

I did make one tragic error as it turned out. In describing the cannibalistic one-eyed giants I got a little full of myself and thinking it would be a coup de grace, told him that “the giants hold their human captives in deep caves and instead of salt, they sprinkle gold dust on their victims to tenderize them for months before roasting them alive on a spit for barbecue.” 

I truly thought that the part about Black women living like Amazons would keep the vile corpse defacers moving along. Bad bet. The pervs who worshiped virgins may have been emasculated by the thought of strong Black women, but their greed and love of gold - regardless of the risks posed by demons, griffins, monsters, and the probability of gruesome death in far-off lands - trumped even their weird sexual taboos and obsessions. 

I was to discover all too soon that they were relentless, brave, and fearless, far more dangerous than our Arawak brothers understood. While marveling at the beauty of Seville, the Alhambra with its courtyards and fountains in Grenada, the magnificent Moorish Mezquita of Cordoba, and enjoying the fruits of the vine in the white hill towns of Andalusia, I knew I must return home to warn my friends of the tidal wave to come. 

Finishing my tale, and threatening Garcia de Montalvo with eternal damnation if he did not publish my story, I had to figure a way to make it back across the western ocean before it was too late. This became more difficult as Montalvo had become convinced a talking parakeet might be valuable, and at the very moment I was finished with my story he threw a blanket over me and wrestled me into a cage!

I screamed and squawked to no avail. The ignorant bastard would not free me. In fact, after keeping me in the cage for a week with a blanket over my prison, he decided to sell me in the great public market across the Guadalquivir in Triana. He traded me to the proprietor of a tile shop overlooking the river who was quite kind and after a week, with his shop closed for the evening, opened the cage and allowed me some freedom. 

As it happened, Senor Rui Lopez, for that was the shop owner’s name, had a large shaggy white dog that protected his shop, a sweet Great Pyrenees bitch named Blanca, of whom he was very fond. Watching Senor Lopez interact with his canine companion, I determined that life as a bird was too precarious.  Humans kept birds in cages and were rarely intimate with these creatures. 

But dogs? Now I was onto something. Humans trusted dogs. They talked to them and often slept together. I would have a much easier time carrying out my directive as a dog! So shortly after being released from the cage I exchanged bodies with Blanca and assumed the form I would inhabit for the next five centuries.

First, I had to convince my new master that there was a great opportunity in the new world. That night, while Senor Lopez was preparing a nice dinner of pork cheek and jamon serrano, I sat lovingly at his feet, and with his wife outside, began slowly speaking to him in perfect Spanish.

“Senor Lopez, your grace, if I might bother you for a moment. I have a business proposition I would like to discuss.” 

He looked around wildly, but like many humans he had long ago anthropomorphized his canine companion whom he spoke to like the daughter he did not have and truly believed the dog spoke to him in return. 

“Do not be disturbed, and do not call for the missus because only you can hear me and she will think you have been drinking too much agua de Sevilla. There is much competition here in Sevilla. And truthfully, while your tiles are quite nice, it is hard to stand out when there is a tile workshop on every block. I have heard there is a great opportunity in the Indies where your skills will be greatly valued and far more in demand than here in Sevilla! Give it some thought sir.”

I made the pitch repeatedly over the next month. It became increasingly clear that my master was open to my entreaties as there was serious trouble in the matrimonial bed. The quite chaste Senora Lopez, who at her best was, how should we say, a tad overweight, ok, an extremely large woman covered in carbuncles and warts - she was not inclined nor remotely interested in satisfying her husband’s manly needs. Having only recently left a convent, she disdained sex like a rabbi avoids pork. 

She was continually harping on her husband, complaining of his lack of industry, the modest nature of their dwelling, his lack of piety, not to mention the amount of time he was spending with me, whom she held in quite low regard. 

Every day she rained down on the poor man a stream of vile emasculating invective.

“Gonzalez across the street has purchased a fine new donkey for his wife to take to the river to gather water,” she complained.

“Ramirez’ wife told me that he makes 15 tiles a week and nets 20 maravedíes. He works 6 days a week only taking off on the Sabbath to go to mass! You, you horny satyr, make 10 tiles and spend Saturdays dreamily walking the forest with that fool dog, and fall asleep in mass!”

“The priest is very worried you will end up in hell if you don’t get your act together. I told him at confession that you want to copulate for fun! That is a sin! You regularly take the name of our lord in vain. You commit sins of omission, commission, and venial sins on an almost daily basis! If you have not committed any mortal sins, it is only time!” 

She was even less inclined to engage in her wifely responsibilities while sharing the marital bed with “a mangy, flea-bitten smelly hound!”   

Having not been laid in months, Senor Lopez was an easy mark. One night after a night drowning his sorrows at a local bar, as we stumbled home, I decided it was time to raise the delicate subject of exiting Sevilla and his less than ideal marriage. “Master, I cannot help but notice that when we bathe together in the river, your balls look like rotten oranges left out in the rain, engorged and blue in tint, somewhat the color of your azul tiles. Is there a problem with the lovely wife?” 

He growled loudly. “Lovely wife? Have you seen her? Rumor has it that matadors want to bring her to the Plaza de los Toros for sport. I only married her because her father gave me my workshop as a dowry. And now, even the monthly trysts have ended because she says that with you in the bed she cannot get in the mood. She gave me an ultimatum, her or you?” 

“I can tell you that the native girls in the Indies are lovely. They love sex - none of that virgin chaste crap, especially with a big strong manly Spanish businessman such as yourself!” Too drunk to comprehend what I was suggesting, my master only grunted a response before collapsing in the chicken coup that adjoined his workshop,hugging me tightly to him as he grunted and snored loudly, with dreams of foreign erotic exotic adventures gyrating to flamenco rhythms in his provincial Andalucian unconscious imagination.

While initially unresponsive, as the holy week of Semana Santa approached in the spring of 1499, and his involuntary celibacy stretched into months, my master began warming to the idea of leaving Sevilla behind. Under the guise of a morning walk, and to avoid the prying suspicious eyes of his wife and her large extended family, each Saturday morning we would wind our through the medieval streets of Triana, dust motes dancing in the sunlight piercing the narrow, winding streets.  

Here, across the great river from Sevilla, whitewashed houses huddled close together, their upper stories adorned with vibrantly painted balconies overflowing with geraniums.  The air was alive with life and a million scents, some even pleasant. From open doorways spilled the rhythmic strumming of guitars and the throaty melodies of flamenco singers.  Children with dark, unruly hair chased each other through the maze-like alleyways, their laughter echoing off the weathered walls.

As we wandered haphazardly through the neighborhood, making certain we were not being followed, the aroma of spices mingled with the smoky scent of wood fires. Small shops spilled their wares onto the street – colorful ceramics gleamed in the sunlight, intricately carved wooden santos (saint statues) stood guard in doorways, and stalls groaned under the weight of glistening fish and plump, sun-ripened tomatoes.  Shopkeepers with weathered faces and booming voices hawked their wares, their calls adding to the cacophony.

In small plazas, we’d find ourselves surrounded by boisterous crowds.  In one, a group of potters demonstrated their craft, their nimble fingers shaping clay into beautiful functional objects and whimsical figurines. A lone street performer, his face painted white, entertained the crowd with juggling feats and witty stories at the center of another. Along the river women in brightly colored skirts gossiped animatedly, their voices punctuated by bursts of laughter. Turning a corner, we might stumble upon a hidden gem – a cozy tavern with worn wooden tables spilling out onto the street. Inside, a motley crew would gather – sailors with tales of faraway lands, merchants counting their day's earnings, and locals enjoying a midday tipple. Over steaming bowls of cocido (chickpea stew) and glasses of locally produced wine, stories would be exchanged, and songs of adventure sung.

Triana in the early 16th century was a place of contrasts – bustling and vibrant one moment, serene and introspective the next, war always near, as were pestilence and hunger. A neighborhood steeped in history, brimming with life, and pulsating with the creative spirit of its people. Both the best and worst of what this strange half civilized civilization had to offer. A place that is embedded in my memory. A kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells. A testament to the unique character of this captivating corner of medieval Seville.

Leaving Triana, the midday sun beating down on our backs, heating the city as spring gave way to the stifling heat of a southern Spain summer, we crossed the Puente de Triana, a sturdy wooden bridge spanning the Guadalquivir. Below the bridge, the water churned, carrying with it the promise of exotic goods from the New World and whispers of faraway adventures, as well as dead animals, human waste, and offal, not to mention cholera and dysentery, carried from upstream abattoirs and tanneries. Reaching the opposite shore, Seville proper sprawled before us. 

Making our way through the narrow alleyways of the old Jewish quarter, now overrun with squatters since the expulsion of that heretical race in 1492, La Giralda rose before us. Its towering silhouette, a former minaret repurposed as a Christian bell tower, piercing the azure sky. The Giralda still retained some of its Moorish heritage, however, hints of terracotta peeking through the newer limestone.

My master and I would make our way through the gathering crowds, entering through the Puerta del Lagarto off the Plaza del Triunfo on the south side of the Grand Cathedral. Stepping through the grand entrance, we’d leave the bustling streets of Seville behind and enter the serene embrace of the Patio de los Naranjos, the Orange Tree Courtyard. Lush greenery cloaked the space, offering a welcome respite from the Andalusian sun. Rows of mature orange trees, some likely centuries old, dominated the scene. Their dark, gnarled trunks twisted upwards, supporting a canopy of glossy green leaves.

The air was filled with the intoxicating fragrance of azahar, the delicate white blossoms of the Seville orange tree.  Beneath our feet, a network of red-veined tiles wound its way around the base of the trees, occasionally punctuated by trickling water from a central fountain.

The Moorish influence on the courtyard's design was evident in the geometric layout and the calming presence of the fountain.  While the orange trees are the undeniable stars, I noticed remnants of the courtyard's rich history. There were numerous architectural details hinting at its time as a mosque in the Moorish era, of which my master could tell me little. The Patio de los Naranjos was a peaceful oasis in the heart of Seville, a place to soak in the city's history, breathe in the fresh, citrus-scented air, find a moment of tranquility amidst the churning energy of Seville, and conspired about our future.

Leaving the gardens late in the afternoon, we’d have to snake our way through the various processions inching slowly towards the Cathedral.  Men shrouded in pointed white hats, called Nazarenos, later copied by the American Ku Klux Klan, their faces hidden, shuffled barefoot along the cobblestones.  Their penitential robes, emblazoned with religious insignia, whispered of past “sins.” 

Massive floats, borne aloft by unseen costaleros, hidden beneath, dominated the scene, often blocking the narrow cobblestone roads and alleys.  Carved figures, painstakingly lifelike, depicted scenes from the Passion of Christ. The Virgin Mary, draped in mourning black, her face etched with sorrow, seemed to weep real tears. The sight could be beautiful, but with the Inquisition in full fervor, terribly frightening at the same time.

The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of orange blossoms sold by street vendors. Women in black mantillas, their faces veiled in lace, clutched handkerchiefs to dab at welling tears.  Occasionally, a voice pierced the throng, a heartfelt saeta – a spontaneous flamenco song sung in praise of the Virgin or Christ – would erupt intermittently from the crowd.

On Good Friday, our last day in Seville, as we made our way past a procession, the rhythmic thwack of a giant drum echoed off the cobbled streets and stone walls of the massive cathedral. The air vibrated with raw emotion, a testament to the deep faith that permeated the city during Semana Santa. It was a sensory overload. A captivating blend of religious fervor, artistic expression, and raw human emotion that has stayed etched in my memory long after the echoes of the saeta faded, clouded over time by the impacts of that very same religious fervor/fanaticism on the tribal peoples in the lands across the sea from which I had come.

Senor Lopez decided he had had enough. That night, while the lovely Mrs. Lopez slept, he snuck in, gathered his meager belongings, and we set out from Seville, making our way stealthily south along the Guadalquivir until we reached Sanlúcar de Barrameda, where my master signed on as a ship's mate on an expedition of discovery to the Americas.