

Cover: Blind Railroad (2'X 3' oil and acrylic)

# Unscripted Journeys

Robert R. Green

**Copyright: Robert R. Green 2013** ©

Smashwords Edition

Illustrations, paintings, sculpture, cover and photos by Robert R. Green

Copyright: Robert R. Green 2013 ©

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Map at end of this book has been provided to show the area and the name places mentioned in this book.

### Chapter 1

### ********

### Journey to Chiapas, Mexico

I have thought a lot about how I might have escaped from Cerro Hueco, the Mexican prison where my wife Debra and I were incarcerated for a time in the early 70's. My plan never got further than the dirt road that ended in the parking lot of the prison.

It ended where the dark impenetrable rain forest formed a wall on one side of the road and the prison stone wall the other side. The road was the only escape route and at the same time, the obvious place where I would inevitably be recaptured.

How Debra and I, along with other Gringos happened to be in this remote prison is still a mystery that we will probably never solve. The motives for the round-up of most of the foreigners from around the town of San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico, by the Federal police has never been explained. For us, it just started with a knock on the door.

In all, there were about 25 Americans and Canadians who were collected. Most were tourists, but the rest were expats like myself; Americans living for various lengths of time in this remote region about 50 miles from the Guatemalan border in the State of Chiapas.

The expats included a wide range of types such as academics associated with the University of Chicago centered around Na Bolom, a large house run by the wife of the late, famous anthropologist Franz Bloom. Trudy Bloom presided over a revolving body of students coming from the US as well as a number of Lacandon Indians from the interior area near the border of Guatemala where they were "discovered" and studied by Franz.

The Lacandon were remnants of "lost" Mayan people who were living in extreme isolation in the low-land jungle south of Palenque. Recently, that area had become a disputed border between Mexico and Guatemala. Oil had been discovered there so possession was an issue when before, nobody gave it a thought. The Lacandon were ignored and even unknown, but now they were a problem.

The other expats were a diverse bunch that included missionaries, misfits, people on the lam, long vacationers, cowboys, artists, retirees, and what-have-you. They were in this particular place because of its beauty, weather, color, low cost of living and remoteness.

It was a very cheap place to live. I paid about $10 per month for a large hacienda style house with many rooms surrounding a center court yard and water well. The wide veranda provided ample shade in the day and shelter from rain when communicating between many separated rooms. Our hacienda had no amenities such as running water, bathroom, telephone or dependable electricity. As typical of these rural areas, toilets are non-existent. There were no septic systems or sewers. Semi-wild dogs clean up as they have done for thousands of years around human settlements. Nobody feeds the dogs because that would be counterproductive. The back door of the wall surrounding our compound lead to a field which served as our "outhouse" as well as pasture for horses that we rented.

One-time Debra had a case of dysentery and got tired of running out to the back field. She just decided to lay down out there and sleep. She woke up to a circle of dogs and horses standing over her.

In other primitive places we have visited, they use pigs in a similar fashion. We were in Ecuador at a restaurant in a small village. We used the bathroom which was an outhouse with a pig hanging around the door that we had to chase away to get in. The toilet was a typical ceramic toilet, but it was not hooked up to any plumbing in or out. When you leave the toilet, the pig runs in to "flush" the toilet. We found it better than Russian toilets. Before they returned to capitalism, there was no underclass that would clean toilets. They would get plugged up and that is how they would remain. Even in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg this was the case. At least the Ecuadorian toilets were licking clean.

The electricity in our Mexican house was occasional and sporadic. In some regards, it was not that different from the farm where I grew up in rural Wisconsin. We had no running water in the house, or telephone or dependable electricity. Our toilet was an outhouse. That was the difference. Was it better? I'm not sure.

At around 7,000 feet, the weather when not rainy is in the 70's to 80's F, but as soon as the sun goes down the temperature plunges to the 40's and in winter, sometimes to the 30's. This was not my first stay in San Cristobal. I had spent two previous winters here and used it to avoid the winters in Chicago. My contracting business was seasonal, and I found Chiapas to be a good fit to do my art work and wait for Spring.

The town of San Cristobal is in a valley surrounded by pine and mahogany forest with foot and horse trails winding through the mountains leading to small hamlets and villages inhabited by different Mayan language groups. Each group could be identified by their distinctive costumes and customs.

San Cristobal is the market center for 9 distinct language groups that also includes Spanish speaking Ladinos. When I lived there, the town had a police force of 5 police and a broken-down pickup that doubled as a garbage truck. Each police officer had to buy his own gun and uniform, so they were not exactly uniform. They couldn't afford a new battery for their broken-down truck, so every time they needed to go somewhere or pick up some garbage, all five of the cops would have to push the police/garbage vehicle to get it started.

If they stop you for a traffic violation, for example, wrong-way on a one-way street, you would be taken to the police station on the town plaza (zocalo) and be asked to buy something off the shelves in the station. The items would be things like "lost" cameras,

an old typewriter, junk jewelry, a pen, etc. Drunken Indians were the standard guests in their establishment.

For the most part, the town was peaceful and quiet and the zocalo was filled up every night with promenading residents eating Lulu's hot cakes and chalupas. A mariachi band played on weekends and holidays. The town boasted a cinema that had wooden chairs. It ran mostly old Hollywood movies dubbed into Spanish. The air was heavy with the smell of popcorn, chili powder and smoke. The smoke was so thick that the movie could be seen projected on it. I can truthfully say that I saw "Cabaret" in 3D.

Until the knock on the door, Debra and I were busy with tasks that are time consuming when there is no refrigeration, clean water, gas stoves and normal facilities of the industrialized world. In addition, I painted on large canvases that I nailed to the adobe walls around the veranda. There are examples of some of the paintings throughout this account.

We lived on the outskirts of town and we would catch our horses from across the road and get them saddled for the daily trip to the market in town where we would buy our provisions such as tortillas, fresh fruit, vegetables, dried salted fish, corn for the horses and occasionally fresh eggs and meat. We also loved to eat breakfast in the market. The best eggs possible, especially, huevos al a Mexicano with fresh chilies and handmade tortillas.

The main market day was Sunday when all of the different Indian groups would descend on the market square with all of their crafts, wares, food, animals and festive adornments. At about four in the morning we would hear the heavy footsteps plodding by. There would be cones of fresh home-made salt, candles, baskets, tiny chairs (not just for children, tiny chairs for tiny houses), hand made furniture, toys, clay pottery, and everything usable hauled in on their backs, or on the top of buses.

**An Eclipse at the Moment of a Discrete Maneuver (** 4'X6' oil and acrylic **)**

On the morning of market day, a continuous stream of barefoot women, children and sandal clad men would be passing by our house. Many of the women would have a pile of charcoal on their backs that towered over them making them twice as tall. Knowing from where they came by their costumes, we knew that they had been walking down the mountain for hours.

We would buy our charcoal from them. Everyone used charcoal for cooking and heating. While riding the trails through the forests on our horses, we would see many charcoal operations going on. In a small clearing in the woods, the men and women would gather fallen branches from the trees and make huge piles about 20 feet in diameter and 10' tall. They start the pile on fire and then throw pine boughs on top to smother the flames. They allow the fire to smolder but not flame. The heat trapped in the covered pile would drive the gas from the wood and leave only charcoal. They eventually smother the fire completely and let it cool. The chard branches are then broken up into the right size pieces for transport to the town by the women. I never saw a man carry charcoal.

Corn liquor is another product that is produced for the town and for festivals in the villages. The brew is called "poche" and is about as strong as a person can stand. In fact, one does not stand long after a few drinks. That's the idea. More about that later.

In general, life for us was fun even under the primitive conditions. We had a rich social life with the various neighbors and not so close neighbors. Close by was an American who had built a house up on the side of the mountain above us. It was referred to by everyone as "Casa Rodunda" because it was round, made of stone and beautifully designed with a spectacular view of the valley and the town. The owner, Ken, built it himself with help from locals and had been living there for some time with a lady, Susan, and her young son Nicky. He inherited a small stipend and was able to live quite well in that setting. His "Thing" was pyramids which he sat under for much time. I can't say whether it did him any good, but this is an example of what people can get up to when they have lots of free time.

We rented our horses from a guy named Feather, who had a homemade house up in the hills about 10 miles from SC, around the town of Ocosingo. He raised horses and had a couple of spares that we traded for a room in our house that he stayed in when he rode into town for supplies. He had a vehicle but during rainy season driving the clay roads was a nightmare. The wheels would pick up the clay and become huge, like cartoon cars with big fat wheels. Soon the wheels would start rubbing the inside of the wheel wells and stop the car. The clay was also like grease and there was absolutely no traction on mountain roads there was little or no control. He was a cowboy from AZ and was friends with another cowboy from TX, Michael. When he and Michael came to town, we would organize poker games with the cowboys, anthropologists, Ken and an artist from Big Sur, Casey. Casey lived with a lady who was a permanent resident from the States named Dorothy and a couple of her kids. Casey was an interesting character who had a great eye for the bazaar and did very wild paintings. One of the paintings that I particularly liked was named "Red Stuff". I can't begin to describe it, but it could pull you under if you got too close. Casey was a free spirit and a poet as well. He was more cerebral and cosmopolitan than the cowboys and the anthropologists. We became good friend.

Michael and his wife and two kids (another on the way) were hiding from the law and couldn't go back to the States. His main income seemed to come from poker and buying and selling whatever. He was a good poker player and usually took me for more than a few Pesos.

The horses that we "rented" from Feather were run-down skinny nags that were wasting feed. In winter, the pasture was very poor in that area and we were doing Feather a favor by feeding them. We had to supplement their pasture with corn which was not cheap since corn is the basic food of the local people. The horses, Little Buck and Digger Roy were not much of a match. Little Buck was a small buckskin that was so slow that it was all Debra could do just to keep him going. In contrast, Digger Roy was a very tall, skin and bones black stallion. One of his ears had been chopped off with a machete. Patches of hair were missing, and the vampire bats were constantly draining his blood. Blood rivulets would run down his neck. Enzymes in the bat's saliva prevented clotting so when the bats left, the blood would run for a while.

Despite the ragged character and condition of this horse, and in contrast to Little Buck, Digger Roy was unstoppable and the fastest horse around. He easily outran the best horse Feather owned. By unstoppable I also mean that he was unstoppable. I could go out in the pasture and swing up onto his back and ride him around with just his mane for steerage. He would walk around as gentle as can be. When I put the saddle and bridle on him, he was a whole different animal. It somehow unleashed a fire that burned the road down. When I said before that he was unstoppable, I meant it literally.

One time I was riding on a long stretch of straight trail and I was getting tired of trying to hold Digger Roy back. So I said, "you want to run? OK, lets see how long you can run". I let up on the reins and let him go. It was I who could not take any more. Debra and Little Buck had become a speck in the distant past. I decided to pull him up. I had his head twisted around backwards but he wouldn't even slow down. Finally, not seeing too well with his head twisted backward, he ran off the trail and into a field where his front leg dropped into a fence post hole. We both went sailing through the air and landed a few feet apart in the soft field. I jumped up and grabbed the reins. Digger Roy laid there for a few seconds as the thought flew through my head, his leg must be broken and I'm going to have to find a way to put him down. No sooner did that thought get out than he jumped to his feet. I swung back into the saddle and off we went. This time in the other direction. It wasn't until we got back to where Debra was still beating on Little Buck that I was able to get Digger Roy to stop. Only by grabbing and squeezing his nose so he couldn't breath, was I finally able to stop him. The guy who chopped off his ear should have gone for his nuts instead.

**The Spirit of Digger Roy** (33"X 51" oil and acrylic)

Like the Old West, the town had hitching posts in front of many stores and bars. People who lived outside of town would ride in on horses and donkeys, hitch them up while they drank in the bars. The bars served snacks with the drinks. The snacks were usually salty and hot; that is, chili hot. The more you ate, the more you wanted to drink. But you could eat all you wanted so it was a good deal. Women were not allowed in the bars. Sometimes an argument would break out and you could hear hammer clicks rattle around the room. Many carried guns, but they were usually concealed under serapes. Everyone carried machetes as it was a universal agricultural tool that served many functions in the field and forest.

There were hitching posts by the baths as well. Many people came to town once a week or so for a bath. We went to the baths once a week. The baths had rooms for hot showers as well as steam rooms where you could soak up the heat down to your bones. It's a cool climate in the high mountains and much of the time you must bundle up to keep warm. The indigenous people all wear hand made wool clothing. Raw wool is one of the main products in the market. The baths were beautiful with colorful tile work; it was clean and well tended. A large boiler from a scrapped railroad engine supplied ample steam and hot water. It was wood fired, and the smoke smelled sweet giving a total experience of a sweet, warm, clean, steamy trance that lasted for the rest of the day and a good night's sleep.

### Chapter 2

### ********

### Visit to the lowlands

Debra and I decided we needed to get really warmed-up and to take a trip down the mountain to more tropical elevations and to the Pacific coast. We packed up the van for a couple of weeks of travel and were off the next day. One thing that is nice about Mexico is that you can pull off to the side of the road anywhere and sleep in your vehicle. There is no need to make reservations or plan anything.

The winding mountain road that leads down toward the coast seems to take forever, switching back and forth, back and forth, slowly changing from pine, mahogany and deciduous forest to tropical wet lush jungle and then finally to the dry tropical Pacific coast. Small fishing hamlets dotted the coast. Many only accessible by foot. A small fishing village near a town called Tonala was a favorite. It had a thatched roof, open sided cabana on the beach where about a dozen hammocks were strung from posts and rented for about fifty cents a day. Fresh fish and other great food and drinks were offered and delivered to a few tables under the roof. Swimming was great in both the ocean and a fresh water river that flowed into the ocean. One could swim in the ocean and then wash the salt off in the river.

Manta rays swim with you and could be easily ridden. The feel of their rough skin is amazing. Sting rays were also common so one had to watch one's step. Massive rock formations thrust themselves into the ocean forming protected coves and white sand beaches between their jutting arms. The huge waves swell up as they roll and crash into these great rock structures and then fall in a thundering, booming crescendo. The formations appear as if they are mechanical machine-like structures attacking the ocean. The rock is blood red to burgundy and appears to be meat. The great jetties of quartzite rock are constructed of horizontal layers that erode into rectangular fissures and work down into perfect spheres of polished jewels glistening on the wet sand.

One giant fissure running straight up the rock cliff emanates from a cave in the ocean. With each wave that rolls in, the water rushes into the cave and terminates in a grand explosion that shakes the whole area. After the boom, a blast of water would shoot back out into the air thirty to fifty feet. This happens over and over forever.

The village itself, a hamlet to be precise, has about a dozen thatched roof houses right on the beach. The houses, if you can call them that, have no walls. There are just posts holding up a roof. Hammocks are strung between the posts with an open hearth for cooking. There is no privacy during the day but since there is no electricity, the night and the roof provided all the privacy one would need to enjoy one's intimacies.

The fisherman fish mostly at night in small boats with lanterns to attract shrimp, fish and squid. The climate is warm even in winter and there is no need for even a blanket. The ocean provides a constant cool breeze to keep it neither too warm or too cold. It seldom rains on the Pacific coast. The warm moist air off the Pacific does not relinquish its moist load until it rises over the cool mountains inland. The Sierra Madres Occidental and the Sierra Madres Oriental squeeze together and become the Sierra Madres del Sur in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. The Isthmus between the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico is narrow and was once proposed as a route where ships would be hauled overland from the Pacific to the Gulf on rails. The Panama Canal was dug instead.

The town of Tehuantepec which lies just north east of the village of Tonala is an interesting place because its occupants are a matriarchal society where the women run everything, and they are generally bigger and taller than the men. The language is Spanish and Zapotec. Unlike the rest of Mexico where the women are small and diminutive, the women here are gutsy and brash at the same time. They are beautifully dressed in long flowing dresses with high collars and shawls made of pure white embroidery. We had one woman just get into our car, uninvited, and demand that we give her a ride to some place. We took her! What could we do? The place we took her turned out to be the local jail where she went to visit her husband. The town lost favor in Mexico because they supported the government during the revolution. They may have had a reason. I'm not sure what the story was, but I think it had to do with the fact that they were ostracized for going against the normal patriarchal social order.

**Office of Civil Distraction** (38"X48" oil and acrylic)

From Tehuantepec we took the road up the Isthmus to the city of Oaxaca where the wide desert fills in between the Sierra Madres del Sur and the southern highlands to the east. The Pacific moisture drops when it rises over the Sierra Madres and the land on the other side abruptly changes to dry desert with mainly cactus and scrub. The plots of land are usually bordered with fences made of living cactus. Maize is still grown, but sheep and goats are the common livestock. Oaxaca cheese is famous in the US as well as all over Mexico. A cheese called "string cheese" is made from goats milk and is used for the best quesadillas.

Oaxaca is a very colorful town with a beautiful tropical zocalo. It is known for its vibrant festivals, costumes and carved and painted masks. Besides Spanish, most people speak at least some Zapotec and Mixtec. The original Zapotec culture built a spectacular stone pyramid centered city called Monte Alban, which lies just south of town. Mitla, an ancient cultural capital of the Mixtec people is to the south east of the city. These distinctly different culture and language groups as well as the other 16 distinct indigenous groups around the area make for a most diverse and splendiferous mixture of delightful cultural exuberance. The food is some of the best in Mexico. The many varieties of mole sauces, cheeses and unique dishes collide with the color and exotic flamboyance of the area.

**Journey Inland** (4'X4' oil and acrylic)

The beautiful "El Centro" has great outdoor cafes and restaurants to sit and watch the goings on. We were not disappointed this time. While we were sitting in the cafe, gunshots rang out and everyone dove for cover. Several windows were shot out with the sound of glass exploding. As quickly as it happened, everything went right back to normal as if nothing had happened.

At the time, I was doing a sketch in a notebook relating to the rather strange feelings we had just previously experienced while exploring the tunnels under the main pyramid at Monte Alban. Although the tunnel was pitch black inside, there seemed to be a red glow to the blackness. At one point while feeling our way along the wall, we fell into a side chamber and were abruptly startled by a flash of green light. I turned to Debra and started to say, "Did you see...". Before I could finish, she said, "green light". We backed out and were rather shaken. We could not explain where the light came from as there was no electricity or source. While continuing to explore the site, Debra and I got separated at one point. I hunted around for her and found her unconscious on the steps of one of the temples. She had no idea what happened.

We went back to the city and sat in the cool shade of the outdoor cafe. I tried to sketch the feeling of the tunnel in an abstract sense while it was still fresh in my mind. Our waiter came over and sat a glass of cold water down on the cover of my drawing pad. When we left, I unknowingly closed a wet spot from the glass onto my drawing. The next day when I opened the pad, the water had transferred a part of my ink drawing onto the cover of the sketch pad. The transferred image was a human like face. It looked out at me in a very disarming way and invoked the feeling that I was trying to describe in my drawing. The feelings were very ominous.

Drawing at cafe in Oaxaca

Transferred image from the drawing on sketchbook cover.

Our friend, Leonora Carrington who lived in Mexico a long time, told us that Monte Alban, is a "bad place". She had some unnerving experience there as well.

After gorging ourselves on the local food and local interests, like exploring Mitla and other sights in the area, we headed leisurely back toward San Cristobal. We stopped for a swim in the water falls at Chiapa de Corzo on the way up the mountain just south of Tuxtla. It was our last chance to enjoy the tropics and the warm jungle region before the cool highlands. Around the waterfall, a large palette of butterfly's bubble among the abundant flowers.

Our journey to the lowlands was very relaxing and now I was eager to get back to my painting.

### Chapter 3

### ********

### Invitation to Tenejapa

Back in San Cristobal. Ken came to our house and told me that he had been invited to a fiesta at Tenejapa. He didn't want to be the only non-Indian there and besides, he needed a ride. Tenejapa is a small Mayan village in the mountains above San Cristobal. It's about 12 miles as the crow flies but it is not easy to get to. The road is steep, and winding and it takes more than an hour to drive there.

The Tenejapans are Tzeltal speakers and share their language and customs with a few other villages in the area. Each Tzeltal community constitutes a distinct social and cultural unit with its own well-defined border, wearing apparel, kinship system, politico-religious organization, economic resources, crafts, and other cultural features. Tenejapan women are distinguished by black skirts with a wool belt and an undyed cotton blouse embroidered with flowers. Their hair is tied with ribbons and covered with a cloth. Many men do not use traditional attire. But in some villages, such as Zinnicantan, men wear wide brimmed hats with a ribbon and a knee length white with red strip tunic to the knees. Agriculture is the basic economic activity of the Tzeltal people. All of the men have their signature machete and leather sheath.

It is customary for a fiesta to invite a contingent of guests who are observers and are expected to reciprocate at their respective fiestas. Ken had met the President on some occasion and had invited him to his house because the President wanted to see what Casa Rodunda looked like inside. In return, he invited Ken to the festival. Ladinos (Spanish descendents) are never invited to these festivals so when we got there, we stood out not only as the only non-Indians, but as foreigners as well. There was not a single Ladino there as far as we could tell. Only a few male residents spoke Spanish.

My big white van was the only vehicle there. We parked down the road some distance so as not to be too conspicuous. It didn't help much because when we walked into the village everyone stared. After a short time, people became accustomed and we felt more comfortable. It helped when the President came up and greeted us. There were contingents from other villages in their distinctive costumes. The Zinacantan's were all sitting under one thatched roof open hut, the Chamulans under another and Ken and I just walked around.

The women sat lining the main street with clay pots that were filled with corn liquor (poche). As we passed, small clay cups of poche were thrust forward demanding our ingestion. There didn't seem to be any easy means of refusal, so we obliged. The taste was horrendous. It was probably 10 on the scale of the hardest to swallow.

The town was very primitive. The houses were thatch roofed with closely fitted poles and rough sawn boards lashed together for walls. You could often see right through them. The floors were dirt with a stone hearth in the center on the floor. Baskets and sisal bags were hung for food storage. The beds were woven sisal mats on the ground. There were back-strap looms in every house where all of the clothing was made. Wool and cotton were the primary cloth woven. It is cool to cold here all year. There did not seem to be a single store-bought item in any of the houses except perhaps a picture that had been torn from a magazine. Cobs of corn hung all around the perimeter and inside as well. The only door latch was a piece of ribbon tied to "lock" the door.

For the most part, the Indians eat only a few things. They live on corn (tortillas), salt, chilies, and on special occasions, beans and seasonal fruit and vegetables. Cooking is done on a stone hearth or a brazier made from an empty oil can. Their cooking utensils are very basic. They include only a few clay pots, one or two porcelain plated pots and a flat brazier. Tortillas are made by first soaking hard corn kernels in lime water. The cellulose is broken down by the lime and the kernels swell with water to become large and soft. They are then drained and formed into a dough. The dough is kneaded on a flat rough stone called a "matate" (usually made of basalt). It is then patted out into flat tortillas and laid on a flat iron plate or clay plate over a fire to become a great food for which no one seem to get tired.

Other foods that are grown besides maize include beans, chayote, manioc, squash, fruit and coffee. Beans are usually grown under the corn where it provides both food for consumption and nitrogen to the soil. They sometimes grow tomatoes, but they are not eaten by the Indians. They are a cash crop that they sell in the market and are considered by the Indians as unfit for consumption. Meat is rarely eaten. Their coffee is ground to a powder and drunk grounds and all. It is bitter and strong and often highly sweetened. Their main meal is at around three PM. They do not have beasts of burden such as horses or oxen. Everything is carried on their backs or in the case of women, on their heads. They do not use wheeled carts of any kind. Only Ladinos have wheels and horses. Cattle are not common in this area. There is little pasture land. There are some goats. Skinny dogs roamed the streets.

The Indians own some sheep for the wool. Nearly all their clothing come from the sheep and homegrown cotton. Women spin the wool and cotton with spinning spools adding little tufts of fiber to spinning thread as they sit with their babies on their backs or at their nipples.

The land around the village is common land called "Ejido" land and can be passed down but not sold. Individual families work small plots called their "milpa" (maize patch). Ejido common land became law after the 1910 revolution that divided the land of Mexico into Ejido and Ladino land to accommodate the landless peons and end virtual slavery. Much of the vast land that was owned by the Catholic church was divided up and distributed to the peons. Priests were not allowed to wear habits on the street until recently. The Church was one of the main exploiters of the Indians before the revolution. The Ladino land can be bought and sold and is controlled by Spanish speaking non-Indians. In recent times however, many Ladinos have illegally taken over much of the Ejido land by force or fraud.

In many ways I can not imagine that life in these villages is a lot better or different from before the revolution. But then, having read most of the "jungle" novels by B. Traven, I can see that, on the contrary, in several ways, life is definitely better. Before the revolution, they were often used as slaves in the Monterias (mahogany industry camps). B. Traven spent many years living and writing in this area. He is famous for his great novels, _The_ _Treasure of Sierra Madre_ and _The Death Ship,_ but he wrote six novels about the Indians in Chiapas that are called his "jungle novels" _._ They depict the slavery of the Indians in the mahogany industry. I liked _Government_ and _The Carreta_ the best.

The Indians have their own somewhat autonomous government and are generally suspicious and fiercely independent of any interference by the State or Federal government. They often are mistrustful of even free services such as Centro Medico, the free health system of Mexico.

I was in the market in San Cristobal one day when I saw an old pickup start to roll down the hill without a driver. A young Indian man walked out from the market entrance and the pickup smashed into him, crushing his leg against the bumper of a car. I ran to help push the pickup back and saw that his legs were broken just below the knees. Knowing that he had to get to the hospital, I ran and got my van, pulled up next to him. His mother was hysterical, and several other Indians were crowded around trying to help. We loaded him in the back of my van and I was about to go the Centro Medico. In mostly sign language and a little Spanish, I was instructed to instead go to a house on the outskirts of town. We carried the poor fellow into the house. We were met by an old Indian gentleman who was kind of a healer or something. We put the lad on a large table and the old gentleman went to work.

We all held him down and without any pain killers or anesthesia, the old gentleman jerked his legs and by feel, adjusted his bones to his satisfaction. The poor patient was screaming in pain. It was all we could do to hold him down. The old man then made splints out of slats of wood and bound up his legs.

I left them there and went home. Later, when I told a neighbor about the accident, they told me that I should never have helped. By Mexican law, I could have been held responsible.

The only building in Tenejapa that had thick walls and tile roof was the church in the center zocolo. It was massive and totally out of place in a village where the only other buildings were thatched roofed huts. It had wide front steps leading up to a high landing in front of the huge tall doors that were wide open. The building was whitewashed adobe and looked colonial of age. There were no benches or seats in the church. The tile floor was covered with candles except for a small center area. Most of the candles were burning. The floor had a layer of wax about a half-inch deep that looked like a pool of milk. The alter had a couple of statues of Mary and perhaps a Saint. They appeared to be very old and some of the paint was chipping and missing. Continuous firecrackers were exploding all around the church. Mostly on the front steps. I did not see a priest or anything like a church official, but the out-of-scale structure felt dominating and oppressive.

Most people were drunk including myself by the time the rituals started. A large wicker bull with big horns and two legs, perhaps human, ran around chasing people with great commotion and fireworks. Men on the church steps were shouting something unintelligible and gesturing with great enthusiasm. Two men came out of the church in costumes that we could not believe. One man had on a Russian greatcoat from WW1 and his face was completely covered in fur. The other man was dressed like an American construction worker with bib overalls and a construction hard hat. They proceeded to act as if they were butt fucking each other on the steps of the church. This went on for a while. I glanced over at Ken who had pulled a camera from under his coat and was taking a picture of this. At that very minute, two guys grabbed Ken and hustled him off. Others checked me out to see if I had a camera, which I didn't. I usually never travel with a camera. The men, assured that I didn't have one, left in the direction that they took Ken. I followed but was motioned to stay away. I complied and went back to the church where I waited, not knowing what to do. About an hour later, Ken showed up and told me that he had been put in jail. The President was called in and he arranged a fine of fifty pesos to let him out. It was about five dollars US as I recall. They also took the film.

The sun was starting to go down, so we thought we had better leave. We walked down the road that by this time was littered with passed-out Indians. Their wives were at their sides waiting for them to wake up. When we got to the van, we found that the road ahead was completely blocked by men laying in the road unconscious. We walked back and asked the President if they would help us move some of them out of the road, so we could leave. He told us that they could not be moved, or their spirit could not find them again. It was not possible to move them until they woke up by themselves. It was morning before we could finally get out of there. The wives of the drunken men never left their sides.

### Chapter 4

### ********

### The knock on the door

Debra was getting a little tired of the chores and struggles of the primitive conditions like trying to cook in a sand oven and charcoal stove as well as the chaos of the comings and goings of the cowboys and their wild drunken card games. We decided that a vacation would be nice and decided to go over to Guatemala where at 5000 feet the climate is warmer and the culture was different and interesting. Besides we would be staying in a hotel and eating out for a change.

Sketch of Debra

We were getting ready to leave for Guatemala when there was a knock on our front door. Thinking that it was one of our friends or the lady selling charcoal, I opened it and was pushed inside by five Federales in military uniforms. They demanded that I pack up my van with my belongings because we would be going somewhere. They did not say where. I told them that we were just heading for Guatemala and that we will go straight away if that is what they want. They said that would be fine, but first, we were to go with them.

We threw our things (everything) in the van in no order or organization. When we were finished, we were instructed to drive to downtown San Cristobal. Three agents with rifles rode with us. We parked in front of the police station/jail and to our surprise a crowd of assorted Americans and Canadians, most of whom we didn't know, were standing in a bunch with Fed agents holding guns on them. Ken, Susan and Nicky as well as John, an American missionary, were the only people I recognized. The rest were people that I didn't know. There were about 25 people in all.

We were taken inside, searched, our passports were taken, and we were separated by gender. The next thing we knew, we were put in a holding cell in the center of a large courtyard. It was the center court of the jail. The cell was only about 12' long and about 5' wide. There was barely enough room for everyone to sit down on the floor. It had a roof, but the walls were only bars that after a while dug into our backs. Nobody talked much except in brief exchanges. We were too stunned or something. No one knew what was going on or why they were there.

Around us were prisoners who were going about their business of the daily chores like washing cloths, making things, cooking and so on. They were prevented from talking with us by the guards. It was hot with the low winter sun baking our backs through the bars.

We had no water or toilet facilities. Finally, after we began to scream in unison did, they respond by turning a hose on us. It felt good but did not solve the problem. That first day, we did not eat and only peed through the bars. That night was far worse. We were taken inside to what you might call a drunk tank. It was a larger room with a cement floor and some benches along one wall. It was half full already with drunken Indians, some of whom were continuously yelling at the guards for water, blankets and to be let out.

The night was long and very cold with no way to get warm. The temperature dropped to around 40 F and the cold cement floor was the only means of comfort. All the drunks laid on the floor and huddled together in a fetal position like stacked spoon. Everyone else joined them in the end to survive. There was one toilet that was plugged with shit and the water ran over into a small river running across the floor and out the door. One could barely avoid it by tucking one's legs up as far as we could.

Debra was taken to a women's prison with the other ladies and their kids. The prison was a house like the one we were renting. The house was surrounded by a wall that enclosed the entire premises. Around the walls were several rooms that served as a bedroom dormitory and kitchen. A wide roofed veranda overhung the center courtyard for shade and protection from the rain. The prisoners slept on bunks together in one large room. Several of the women had infant children with them. Almost all of the prisoners were women who had murdered someone. That is about the only crime that results in incarceration for Indian women and they were all Indian women. Most, if not all, had been brutally abused by alcoholic husbands, fathers or other relatives. They were small gentle women who went about their work in the same way as if they were on the outside. They spun wool, wove cloth, embroidered, raised their kids and cooked their meals as they always had. They were very nice to the Americans and insisted on giving up their bunks for them to sleep. They put down mats on the floor and slept there.

During the night, Debra and Susan were taken out and brought before the Captain (Jorge) in charge of the operation. They were asked if they knew an American by the name of Richard who was living in San Cristobal. They both knew who he was talking about but declined to give any direct answer. We knew someone by the name of Crazy Richard and had just recently been at a large going-away party that he threw. He had invited all the expats. He had been living in San Cristobal with his wife and several children and we would occasionally see them at gatherings at various people's houses. Crazy Richard had a large entourage of servants and family that traveled in a VW sedan and a small bus. They were rather mysterious as to there MO, but no one asks a lot of questions.

However, the Feds were quite determined to find Crazy Richard. They told Debra and Susan that if they take them to where he lives, they would let us go to Guatemala. Because Debra knew that Richard and family had left town, she and Susan agreed to show them where they lived. They did not tell them that they were gone, or they figured the deal to let us go would be off.

In the middle of the night, Debra and Susan packed in two vehicles with several heavily armed soldiers and their rifles, drove to Crazy Richards house. When they got there, Debra and Susan were instructed to go to the house and knock on the door. They were clutching each other in fear. The guards crouched down behind them with their rifles pointed at the door and their backs. To their great relief, an Indian woman opened the door holding a baby. Richard and his entourage were gone as expected, but they did not know who would open that door and what might happen. Jorge reneged on his promise and did not let us go.

On my side of the jail, I barely slept and couldn't wait for the sun to rise and longed for the cage and the burning heat on my back. I don't remember much else and how long we were in that hell. I just remember that I was taken to the bank where I had a small account. I put it in a check and closed the account. When I got back from the bank, my van was loaded full of fellow inmates and a couple of guards with rifles. I was instructed to drive down the mountain to Tuxtla de Gutierrez.

The road seemed endless as we caravanned with several other vehicles including a couple of military jeeps, a Volkswagen van, two cars and a Winnebago motor home belonging to a 70-year-old retiree from California. There were also a couple of Canadians who came in late just before we left for Tuxtla.

They brought them into the San Cristobal jail and the Canadian women joined Debra and the other women on a bench waiting to load up and leave. One of the women whispered to Debra that she needed help. Debra asked why, and she said that she had a bag of pot in here purse and she needed to get rid of it.

Debra told her that they would go to the toilet and see what they could do. When they went into the toilet, she pulled out the bag and it was way too large to flush down the toilet. They searched around and found a loose brick in the wall and pulled it out and shoved the pot in. They pounded the brick back in as best they could and left.

We arrived in Tuxtla in the afternoon and proceeded to an army base just outside of town. We were instructed to park in a line and wait for instructions. We were surrounded by armed guards with machine guns. Nightfall came; we were hungry, but we were given no instructions, food or anything. The people who had water and some food shared it and we set up a makeshift camp with the blankets, tarp and what we had available. Debra and I were well off because we had our van with water and some food from our house in San Cristobal. Tom, the older gentleman with the motor home, was well set. The couple with the VW, Dick and Charlotte and their one year old, had their VW van. Some of the others had backpacks with sleeping bags, but the rest had basically nothing but a suitcase. Fortunately, the climate in Tuxtla is warm year around at about 2000 feet. Even though we were all very concerned about what was happening, we were at least more comfortable than in the San Cristobal jail. Being outside under trees and on a grass, lawn was a relief that reduced our stress.

The next day we were told that we could purchase food at our own expense at the Conesupo (a government run store) on the base. The Conesupo sells only basic foods at heavily subsidize prices. It's the Mexican version of food stamps. It had canned beans, tortillas, flour, Bimbo white bread, oatmeal, chilies and salt. So, that's what we ate.

After a few days (we spent about two weeks there incommunicado), rumor got around, possibly from a guard, that they were going to search our vehicles and we would be interrogated. The few people who had drugs, consumed them. There was not much of a chance to get rid of them in any other way. Although there were bathrooms on the base, we were always escorted there by guards that watched us .

Our requests to contact the US council were denied repeatedly. No one was allowed even a phone call. At one point we were required to line up while a "doctor" examined our eyes and mouths. This was to find out if we were drug addicts. According to Mexican law, drug addicts could buy small quantities and use marihuana. We were told that none of us were drug addicts.

After this test, they started a process where each one of us was taken to an office and individually interrogated. When it was my turn, I was taken to a small room in a nearby building. After a brief questioning about what I was doing in Mexico, the interrogator started screaming at me. He took out a bullet from his belt and ground it into my temple. He indicated to me that he would shoot me in the head if I didn't confess to something. I could not determine to what I was supposed to confess. I refused, and he told me that now he was going to put a bullet in my head. I had nothing to confess. I called his bluff and after some buffeting around they took me back to the camp.

Days went by without anything happening. My friend Ken became very combative and they would take him away for a while and then bring him back. They knocked him around some but did not injure him. There was one guy who kept telling the officers that he was friends with Rockefeller and tried to get them to call a number. They ignored him. Tom, the seventy-year-old gentleman with the Winnebago let people use his mobile home to cook and lounge about to get out of the sun. I organized my van from the chaotic mess left from the initial departure from our house. I was planning for the long trip back to the States as soon as we were released.

### Chapter 5

### ********

### The bad news that got worse

After two weeks of animated suspension, the verdict came down. Everyone was going to be deported except four of us. The four selected winners were: John, the preacher evangelist, Tom, with the Winnebago, Dick from Kansas and yours truly. We were to be held over and charged as one case even though we had never met previously. What we were being charged with was at that point still unknown to us. The only thing that we could figure out was that, three of us had vehicles, all of us had some money or income and they figured that we could buy our way out.

That of course is only a theory, but it is my belief that the authorities involved in the decisions thought that they were going to extract a chunk of money to pay for the roundup and deport us in a couple of weeks. That probably would have happened except for two things that they did not anticipate. That was John and Tom.

Dick and I were given a few minutes to say goodbye to Debra and Dick's wife Charlotte and the baby. We were told that they would be deported back to the States. It was very traumatic.

Dick, his wife Charlotte and their one-year old daughter Damian were on vacation in Mexico in their VW van. Dick and Charlotte, twenty something, quasi hippie mystics were just traveling around when they were swept up in this mess.

Tom, a gay man in his early seventies who owned a small plot of land on the outskirts of San Cristobal where he planned to retire in his mobile home/ Winnebago with his adopted son Javier. Javier was a crippled polio victim of about 30 years old. Tom was tall and good looking with a pleasant personality and a slight effeminate gate.

John, a proselytizing Christian fanatic had been living in San Cristobal for many years trying to convert Indians. He was about sixty-five with a thick beard and medium build. His distinguishing feature was a 1/4" hole in the center of his forehead that was like a third eye. The hole passed through to his sinus and often drained fluid. He would sometimes plug it up with a patch but most of the time, he just left it open.

Initially, we were taken to the prison in the city of Tuxtla. It was a large rundown compound with a small outdoor area that was filled with every kind of goings on. It was so chaotic and messy that it was hard to decipher what exactly was happening.

We were first taken to an office where our belongings were inspected. We were instructed to bring clothing, blankets and items necessary for living. Nothing is provided. There are no uniforms, beds, eating utensils, towels or anything that one might need.

We sat on benches in the room while our things were gone through. Guards were sitting around on different sides of the room. The guards began trying on each other's shoes. They were passing them back and forth. Suddenly, the guard that was examining Toms box shouted and gestured wildly. Shoes began sailing in all directions. Scrambling to attention, grabbing for their weapons and stuffing their feet into whatever shoe they could find, the guards snapped to attention.

They then zeroed in on a raggedy looking yellow blanket that had been pulled from Tom's box. Tom was taken from his bench and stood before his box. "What was in his blanket"? There were lumps, that felt like wires and connections. "Was it a bomb"? "Explain"! Tom, smiles and says, "its an electric blanket". The inspector thought for a moment and replied, "Well, what does it do"? No one had ever heard of an electric blanket. Finally, after a long explanation and a great deal of skepticism, they threw the blanket back in his box and the guards settled down to trying on shoes again.

We were then taken to see the Warden. His name was Cali-Mayor. In Mexico they sometimes use both their mother and their fathers last names. He was the Warden of two prisons; the one in Tuxtla and another outside of town called Cerro Hueco (Hollow Hill). Looking at us, I think he thought that we would become victims of the entrenched criminals in the prison in Tuxtla. The worst of the State criminals were kept there. He also saw us as higher class and there is a definite class hierarchy in Mexican prisons.

We were then loaded in the back of a pick-up truck and with four guards with machine guns, driven off on a dirt road to Cerro Hueco, seven miles out of town. Having seen the insane conditions in Tuxtla prison we were very relieved even before we saw Cerro Hueco.

Cerro Hueco was set in a jungle on the side of a mountain. Looking from inside of the prison to the east you can see a mountain and dense jungle rising from above the stone walls. In the opposite direction to the west, you can not see the walls at all. All you see is the horizon of the hill and the valley spread out far below. If you didn't know that you were in prison, it would be a pleasant view looking out over the valley. To ones left (south) are 2 rows of one-story barracks with tile roofs. Each barrack is about 100 feet long. Next to the barracks to the left is a larger building that houses a work shop and a food store. Down the hill a little way is a medium size building that I am going to say is a mess hall/ restaurant but is not used for anything generally. In the opposite direction (north) are garden plots that terminate at the walls of the entrance hall, interrogation rooms and a few special cells. There is a high link fence between the garden plot and the barracks area. There is also an area that is a women's prison up toward the mountain on the east side.

In the garden area are a couple of free standing, small huts. One belongs to an old lifer (20 years for murder) who tends the garden. We (all four of us Gringos) were first put in the other small hut near the garden. It was about 10' X 12'. The floor was concrete with adobe walls and a tile roof.

With just a blanket, we slept on the floor with just enough space to stretch out and enough room for our few belongings. The toilet was outside next to the entrance of the prison.

Tension soon began to develop between John and the rest of us. He needed much more room because he insisted that he had to line up a long row of pills bottles that reached one end of the room to the other. They had to be in proper sequence and had to be separated just so. He muttered prayers endlessly. As the days progressed three of us became more irritated while he was beginning to really enjoy himself. He saw great opportunity where we saw only gloom. He had souls to save. He saw his calling and we just wanted to escape. This is where things all started to go wrong.

There were two camps. Dick and I just wanted to pay a bribe or whatever and get deported or cut loose just as fast as we could. Tom wanted to get a lawyer, fight his case, stay in Mexico and live on his piece of land. John wanted to stay in prison and convert the prisoners. Remember, we were joined in one case.

Meanwhile, Debra and Charlotte and baby Damian refused to leave. The captain of the military base, Captain DeGanges, who was not involved in the federal operation, was a reasonably honorable sort and was sympathetic and felt sorry for Debra and Charlotte. He tried to make some arrangements for them until something could be worked out. He may have thought that it was a temporary situation and that it would be over in a week or so. My Chevy van, the Winnebago and Dick's VW were brought up to Cerro Hueco and the ladies had no transportation. Their papers were taken away and they were in limbo.

The night before we were taken away, Debra persuaded Captain DeGanges to let her make a phone call to the States. Debra was instructed to meet him in the middle of the night behind the bathroom. He could not be seen taking her away. DeGanges and another Captain of the base named Carlos, put Debra in the back of their car and made her lay down on the floor to smuggle her out of the base. They took her to a phone station in town and waited for some time while the operator tried to get the call through. Finally, after a long time, the call got through to her father in Chicago. When she told him that we were being held prisoner, her father hung up. She broke down and started crying. They got back in the car supposedly to go back to the base. They were driving around for some time when they stopped the car and motioned Debra to get out. Debra got out to find herself on the edge of a massive canyon more than a thousand feet deep. She was sure that they were about to throw her off and she became practically hysterical. DeGanges tried to calm her down and told her that they just wanted to show her this canyon to cheer her up. It was the Sumedero, the largest canyon on the continent; larger than the Grand Canyon. They just thought she would like to see it. They all got back in the car and went back to the base.

After I was taken away, DeGanges let Debra, Charlotte and the baby stay with his family until he could try to make some arrangements. In the end, he called the Warden, Cali-Mayor and arranged that Debra and Charlotte and the baby could stay in the prison with us. The entrance building had a couple of empty rooms that could house us. He most likely thought it would be for only a brief stay. He did not anticipate the dilemma that was about to unfold.

This arrangement was to our great benefit as this was the solution to another great problem- the potential murder of John. For another reason it was also a great benefit. In Mexican prisons, they do not feed the prisoners. They must purchase and cook their own food. Usually prisoners have family members who bring food and needed supplies such as soap, blankets, clothes etc. In cases where prisoners have no one to support them, they have to make do with the one Peso per day that they receive from the State. That was equivalent in food to about 5 tortilla, a pinch of salt and a few chilies per day. They could buy their tortillas from the store in the compound. Prisoners are free to roam about all day until sundown. They turn the lights out about 8:00 PM.

For those prisoners who had money, the guards were eager to serve. Their pay was very small. They made their living off the prisoners as much as their jobs. Before Debra joined me, the guards were more than happy to shop and run errands if there was a few Pesos for them. They would drive seven miles to town to pick up a sandwich if I wanted one. However, this was not a long-term solution. Having Debra there was an unimaginable relief. She could go out whenever she wanted for supplies.

Before we were taken to Cerro Hueco, we were taken to the bank in Tuxtla to deposit my check that I got out of the bank in San Cristobal. They knew that my money would not be safe in the prison. The guards stood in line with me with their machine guns hanging on their shoulders. It was rather embarrassing as one might imagine. I got used to it.

Most of the guards were the bastard sons of the Warden from the red-light district. They were not of the highest intelligence, but they knew how to take advantage of any resource that showed up. The two Captains of the prison did not get their position by merit indeed. They may have been from the favorite whore because they were certainly favored over the others as I will explain later.

### Chapter 6

### ********

### Tar Babies

Mexican law is based on Napoleonic precepts. You are guilty until proven innocent. There is such a thing as bail, but it doesn't become available for at least a year after the arrest. Your case must go through a series of processes whereby your case travels from judge to judge in a different state. In our case it went through a judge in Merida, Yucatan. Presumably, this insures that corruption is prevented by being spread around through unaffiliated jurisdictions. Because this process takes some time for each judge to determine the merits of the case, you can't post bond until probable cause is determined. Once that is determined, you may be able appeal after which you can post bail. Cases do not always go through this process. A case is often settled before it gets any farther than the judge's open hand or unofficial "bail". This is how this case would have been processed had it not been that we were one case rather than four cases. Even though the four of us had never met each other before this ordeal, once a case is been filed in this way, it is nearly impossible to separate the parties involved.

If we had settled the case right then at the beginning, paid the judge his little stipend, we would have been deported and that would have been that. That was not to be. Tom and John were determined to stay in Mexico and could not be persuaded to just get the hell out. Tom had a Mexican friend named Maria and along with his adopted son Javier, hired an attorney. Their goal was to keep Tom from being deported. Because we were all the same case, the attorney represented all of us.

At this point we were beginning to settle in to our quarters. Tom had a small room of his own and Dick and I shared a larger room that was divided in half with a curtain that Debra got in the market. There was a small room at the entrance where we set up an electric hot plate for cooking. All our food had to be dried, salted or eaten fresh. We had no refrigeration, so Debra and Charlotte had to take the bus into Tuxtla frequently to go to the market. It was a jostling ride on a bumpy dirt road filled with people coming and going to the market with bundles of goods including live chickens, iguanas, goats and every kind of produce that one could think of. Some things we could buy in the prison store like fresh tortillas and canned beans. A fruit lady would come on Tuesdays with a large bundle of various fruits on her head. Few of the prisoners could afford to buy fresh fruit but there were a few "rich" prisoners who bought her goods. Debra and Charlotte shopped for Tom as well. But John, who lived off a nice military pension had the guards purchase his food from the market. He would buy loaves of Bimbo bread, a pure white sliced sandwich bread like Wonder Bread that he used for his rituals. It had no nutritional value. It was pure sugar.

Right away he started pursuing his goal of conversion. His cell was outside a high chain link fence that was a barrier between the entrance building and the barracks area. It was meant to prevent attack on the entrance. There was a gate that was guarded so he could go through into the barracks area, but the general prison population could not go into his area.

John would stand on his side of the fence and call prisoners over to the fence. He would get them to kneel on the ground in front of him and tell them to prey to Jesus. He would then roll up a slice of Bimbo and shoved it into their open mouths. He would not let them touch it, only be fed by him. The bread turned to a dry paste in their mouths and stuck to the roof of their mouths where they could not dislodge it or swallow it. They would choke and nearly suffocate until they could get it to go down their throats. In their throat, it would become a painful lump stuck in limbo. You could see their distress and struggle. That was the Holy Spirit and the sacrifice of the penitent. On other occasions, he would peel an orange and toss individual segments over the fence and watch the half starving inmates fight for each piece. He never ceased to be amused by this, nor was he dissuaded from this when we pointed out the cruelty of it.

He admitted openly that he couldn't be happier than being where he was. He could stay there until he died as far as he was concerned. The only three things that he complained about were that he couldn't always get his pills as fast as he wanted, that he hated Debra and Charlotte because he hated all women, and that there was a leaf cutting ant colony near his cell that he was deathly afraid of. At one point he saw Charlotte squash an ant that was on our door step. He was so enraged at her that he grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground. He was sure that the ants would come after him personally in retaliation. In no way were leaf cutter ants of any danger to John. Leaf cutters forage for leaves and other plant material that they transport back to the underground colony to cultivate fungus for food to feed to their larva. The ants themselves eat juice from the leaves. I enjoyed watching the long lines of ants in what appeared to be highways of traffic going in and out of the burrow carrying parts of leaves much bigger than the individual ant. We could not report the incident involving John and Charlotte because we were warned that if there was any trouble with having the women there, the women would have to leave.

Another kind of ant that I will tell you about later was a completely different story that literally almost brought us to our knees.

### Chapter 7

### ********

### The prison enterprise zone

The prison had no telephone and frequently, no electricity. It had one pick-up truck that was used for everything; communication, transportation and profit. If I needed to go to the bank for some money, they would load up the guards with the machine guns and take me to the bank where they would stand in line with me. Fun! If I wanted to make a phone call or receive a phone call, they would haul me down to the prison in Tuxtla (seven miles away) to call from there. I had to call collect. After each trip, I was always expected to take the guards for a licquado. Licquados are like milkshakes with fruit and milk in a blender. On occasion however, they would supplement the sojourn on the way back by pulling over a car on the remote road at gunpoint. They would extract as much cash as they could from the occupants and carry on back to Cerro Hueco.

I tried to alleviate the distress of being in this painful circumstance by thinking that the experiences that we were having were not all bad. They were kind of like one would  
experience as an anthropologist going into a very uncomfortable area to study, like perhaps, the jungles of Brazil. As uncomfortable as it was, I was fascinated by the observation of life within those confines. Besides the exotic aspects of prison life, the jungle setting made it seem even more like a anthropological study.

Everybody in the prison including the guards were hustling in every way they could to make a living. Every conceivable opportunity was exploited. It was a buzzing zone of enterprise. The largest business was the store run by Joachim who was in for murder. In Mexico, no one gets more than 20 years no matter what they did. There is no death penalty. Joachim sold groceries and general supplies such as chicken wire, individual pages of newsprint, flower paste and other supplies for building one's cell as I'll explain later. Next to his store was a business run by the Warden. As far as I could tell, the only thing that it did was saw steel I beams into little pieces. The inmates who worked there used hacksaws to hand cut the I beam into about one-foot lengths. They sawed all day, piece after piece. I learned that they were paid 2 to 4 pesos per day. That was equivalent to about a quarter to a half dollar a day.

Another larger business was run by the Capitan. It rebuilt old mattresses and upholstered furniture. It operated out of a hallway in front of the interrogation rooms. The pay was similar to the hacksaw crew. I was told by a longtime inmate who had been in other prisons as well as Cerro Hueco that the businesses that are run by the prison staff often need skilled labor that they sometimes can not find among the prisoners. In those cases, they would arrest, say, a welder or a carpenter from outside and charge him with a phony crime. He is forced to work for the warden for the year it takes to run his case through the court. He is then acquitted, and they must find someone else to take his place.

The rest of the businesses were small scale operations run by individuals solo or with at the most two people. Examples included a guy who owned a smooth sole of a tennis shoe. With the sole strapped to his knee, he would roll cotton fiber over the tennis shoe sole to wind into thread. By adding more fiber to the end, he would make spools of thread. Once he had gotten a certain amount of thread, he would start lacing the thread like a fish net into hammocks.

Another example was operated by two people in a more industrial process. They rigged an old bicycle wheel on a rickety stand. A rope belt around the wheel spun a thread spool that had a hook attached. Thread was started on the hook and while one person cranked the bicycle wheel, another person fed cotton or sisal into the rapidly spinning thread that would be run out for 20 feet or more. It was then wound up on a spool and the process would start over. The thread was then sold as is or woven into things by other inmates.

When a tree limb would fall in a storm, the first person to get to it had a good resource. They would saw it with home-made saws made from a piece of sheet metal into miniature boards. One fellow whose name was Cantinefloss, was particularly skilled at making toy trucks and souvenirs out of wood and other objects like old light bulbs. They were beautifully crafted in very ingenious ways. He would build intricate scenes inside the clear light bulb like ship in bottles. They were often scenes with messages like, "Recuerdo Mexico" (Remember Mexico). Others made things out of beaten tin, copper and anything that they could scrounge up.

The spouses of the inmates would bring materials for the industries and take the finished goods away to be sold in the market. They would bring their whole families on Sundays. The wives would often sleep over and could come for conjugal visits on other days. Prostitutes were also available for those who could afford them. They would come by bus or the guards would bring them. I assume the guards were getting a cut.

Because the barracks have no cells and are just one big open area, each inmate may build their own private space-especially when they have wives and need privacy. The barracks have high ceiling so there is no way to attach anything above. The cells have to be self-supporting or be attached to each other for structural stability. The result is a maze of interconnected spaces that average about 8' long by 5' wide and 6' tall. The walls are supported by wood slats for the frame with chicken wire walls that are covered with newspaper glued together with flour paste. A sheet of newspaper is highly coveted and costs a whopping 20 centavo each. For some, it can sometimes take several years to build a cell. The top of the cells is open, and little can be done about the constant noise and chatter.

Inside the cells are also industries like jewelry making, shoe repair, sewing, art and so forth. Some inmates operate gasoline blow torches in paper mache rooms. There was an exception to these conditions for different types of inmates. There exists a class of inmate that are deprived of the comforts and benefits of having support groups. Most of them are Indians who are there because they were involved in the guerrilla war that was going on in Chiapas and they were too far from their families to receive their support. They live on the one peso per day and they were severely malnourished, and some needed medical attention. Occasionally we would watch the guards take someone out on a stretcher who was dying of starvation.

The only time they received additional food, other than the 5 tortillas per day, was when the Governor of Chiapas would have a big banquet. He would send the table scraps up to the prison. The guards would lay out tarp and spread the scraps out. They would then open the fence gate and let the free-for-all begin. Whoever got to it first was lucky. Other times there would be a big feast on the birthday of the warden or the captains and the inmates would get the scraps. On one occasion, there was a huge pig feast in the "hallway of the mattresses" on the captain's birthday. It was before the captain was a prisoner and he could sponsor more indulgences. The roast whole pig was huge, and the party was a drunken orgy of family and friends from outside the prison. What was left after the bash was a long table of grease and gore. It looked like the pig had exploded. Only the head and half its face lay spayed out amongst some bones and mess.

All that was gathered up, tablecloths and all, and spread out on the ground for the cascade of starving bodies diving for the best parts. These anomalies were too infrequent to make a difference to the very bottom of the hierarchy.

The captain, before he was a prisoner, decided that he would solve the problem of hunger in the prison with a generous plan. He would start a restaurant and make a daily nutritious soup. Instead of the inmates getting their one peso per day, he would take the one peso, and give them a bowl of this delicious soup. It turned our however, that there was one catch!

The soup turned out to be water with a few carrot parts floating around in it. After a few days of this, there was a revolt. Everyone demanded their money instead. He was forced to relent. The restaurant was turned over to an inmate who had been a rich landowner. He was in prison for cheating Indians out of their ejido land. According to him, he was just doing standard business of buying ejido land illegally. Unfortunately for him, someone who had more powerful connections with the local authorities wanted the land for himself. They conveniently dispatched him to his present abode.

This was not a new story. A couple of months after his arrival, a guy entered the prison that made a big commotion. The guards were flying from one direction to the other. The new guy was shouting orders and making a great scene. He would stand out in the yard and shout. Immediately, a guard would run up to him, salute, snap his heels together in straight, stiff attention. He wanted this, he wanted that. He wanted a nice mattress. He wanted a cell built, he wanted an attendant to serve him. He wanted to get his women in the gate. We couldn't figure out who this guy was. He had total control over the guards. The only thing he couldn't get was out.

The only information we could get from the captain, who was always hanging around us, was that he was a very important guy who had a lot of important connections. He wouldn't tell us anything else.

The guy had different women "visitors" all the time, he had servants other than the guards and he dressed in nice clothes. Things settled down to a routine again after about a month. One evening we went to the restaurant that had been turned into sort of a cafe. It served snacks and a lunch for the more well-to-do inmates like us Gringos and a few upper-class Mexicans. This new high-value inmate showed up and we all got into a conversation about what we were incarcerated for. While we were talking, a huge fruit bat (flying fox) flew in through a window and became trapped. Its wingspan was about two feet and it was creating a major disruption. Everyone jumped up on the tables and tried to direct it out of a window. We finally succeeded and got back to the conversation.

According to him (his name was Carlos), he was an assassin for the government of Echiveria, the President of Mexico. He bragged that he had assassinated 32 people. The last one that he murdered was a political heavyweight that happened to have more clout than he did, and the murdered guy's associates brought him down. They put him in this remote prison to protect him before his trial. If they kept him in the Federal District of Mexico, he would be dead by now. I didn't believe everything that he said but he was obviously somebody important. The warden and his half-wit sons were certainly convinced that he was a big-shot and they made a huge fuss over him.

### Chapter 8

### ********

### The wardens vacation

The warden would often stop in our compound when he was at Cerro Hueco to chat. He was a nice guy, at least to us. We sometimes talked about our case. He seemed sympathetic but unable to help. One day he came in and he said to Tom that he was going down to the beach for a short vacation with his family. He asked Tom if it would be OK if he could use his Winnebago for a few days for the visit to the beach with his wife. Tom's face turned white and he started to stammer. He finally drew himself up and mumbled that it would be alright, but that motor home was a mess and he would need to have it cleaned up first. I sensed that something was really amiss. I wouldn't want someone to borrow my van in that situation either, but Tom was really panicked. After Cali-Mayor left, Tom was pacing back and forth holding his head and moaning.

I asked him what was up. He said, when the Feds stopped him, he ran to the bathroom in his Winnebago and tried to stuff a kilo of pot down the toilet. It wouldn't go down and it stopped up the toilet. The warden will find it and he'll be screwed. The Feds didn't notice it, but for sure, the warden would when he tried to use the toilet. For the next few days, Tom was a wreak. He sent a letter to his "girl friend" Maria and in a few days, she showed up from Toluca by bus. Maria was used as a cover for Tom who was denying that he was gay. Maria thought that Tom was straight and that they were possibly going to get married. Tom was just using her. Jumping ahead, in the end, she found out and that was it for the relationship. She was a wonderful person and she worked hard to help us.

Tom and Maria made a plan that somehow, Maria was going to drive the Winnebago somewhere and clean out the toilet. One problem; she had never driven even a car, much less a huge motor home. Debra didn't drive either and Charlotte was reluctant to get involved for fear of getting caught. Days were ticking by and the warden told Tom that he would pick up the keys in a couple of days.

They had to do something quick. Debra and Maria decided that they would do the deed somehow. The day before the warden came, Debra and Maria with written instructions on how to drive, got in the tank and while Debra read the instructions, Maria drove, inching slowly down the narrow winding mountain road toward Tuxtla. After a few successful miles, they found a place where they could pull off to the side and park.

They went to work on the toilet. They had brought a stick and found some wire in my van. With their bare hands and the stick, they managed to dislodge the bulk of the pot out of the toilet and got it pushed down to where they thought it was clear. They didn't have any way to put water in the system that had been drained, so they didn't know for sure if it was usable.

While they were working clearing the toilet, the prison truck pulls up behind them thinking that they are having trouble and insisting on helping. It took Maria about 15 minutes to convince them to just go away. Finally, they got the mess cleaned up and they were back in the driver's seat heading toward Tuxtla. They were looking for a place to turn around and go back to Cerro Hueco. There was no place that they could find to turn around. They were scared to back up and they were heading for the town and traffic where they did not want to drive, having never driven before. They were near panic when they spotted a roadside restaurant that had a parking lot that was big enough to turn the juggernaught around. They made it back with great relief. Tom calmed down finally, and Cali-Mayor picked the Winnebago up a couple of days later.

After the warden returned there was no mention of any problem. Whew!

### Chapter 9

### ********

### Second thoughts of escape

Our biggest problem was boredom and not knowing when, if ever, we would be released. I also missed my little daughter Danielle, who lives with her mother in Chicago. I received occasional letters from her, but I couldn't explain why I was not coming back, as I usually did in the Spring.

It was hard to do any work even though we all had tools and supplies to work with. If we just had a date, even if it was a long time off, we needed something, anything that we could count on. It would have given us some relief. We could then settle into some work and adjust to it. Instead, we would get a message to gather up all our stuff because we were being deported in two days. Two days, five days, ten days would go by, not a word. Then someone would come by and say, "Oh, it was the judge's saint's day so it won't be for another week". Or, the lawyer would send a message that the judge in Merida was reviewing the case and you will probably be released on such and such a date. The date would go by, another week would go by, nothing would happen. Another holiday would come, an election, some person's mother's birthday, a funeral and so on, and so on, to infinity. And yet, every other day, it was, "get ready, you're leaving tomorrow". This was the biggest torture of all.

I did a couple of small paintings. I found a chunk of marble on the grounds, so I carved it into a small sculpture with tools from my van. I couldn't get into it, it was too depressing. Dick and Charlotte worked on some jewelry made by cutting up twenty centavo coins. They worked on their meditation and ran around after Damian. Debra found material in the market to do some fabric pieces. I kept thinking about using Dick's jewelry saw to cut the bars out of our window. We had horrendous thunderstorms that I thought would be a good cover for the escape. I worried that the lightning would light up the place and I

would be seen. How about Debra leaving first and she would wait for me near the border of Guatemala? The border was close, and I was sure that I could bribe my way into Guatemala without a passport.

My seriousness about escaping got put on hold when one of the prisoners did manage to escape. The guy somehow got over the fence and then the wall and managed to get a few miles down the road. In about a day, they brought him back and it was not pretty. We were right down the hall from the interrogation rooms and it was as if they were giving me a personal lesson in what would happen to me if I tried to escape. The screams went on for days. They went on all night while we were trying to sleep. The screaming was so loud that the prisoners in the barracks couldn't sleep either. Finally, all the prisoners came out at once and beat on pans and everything they could find to make noise. They told the guards that they had to stop the torture and that it was a prisoner's right to try to escape. It was their job to prevent them from escaping, but the prisoners had the right to try. I thought that was fair.

The torture went on until in the middle of some more screaming we heard a gun shot. There was silence after that and we never heard anything from the poor guy again. It wasn't long before the torture started again off and on for others who may have helped him. The daytime captain was a stupid imbecile. He would come over and hang around asking us how much this cost in the US, and how much that cost. He asked us what his name was in English. We told him that it was, "Pie Face". He would go around saying, "Pie Face, Pie Face" over and over trying to memorize it. We named the nighttime Captain, "Pimply Pie Face". They were half-brothers from a couple of the Wardens red-light "wives".

Mother's Day came and that stopped our case again for awhile, but it turned out not so good for Pie Face either. We noticed something strange was going on the day after Mother's Day. We heard a car come up the prison road (it didn't occur that often) and suddenly there was a great commotion with shouting and gates slamming down the hall from us. We were curious, but we didn't give it much thought. A day or so later we learned from a guard that Pie Face was being charged with murder and he had to lock himself in a cell whenever they heard a car come up to the prison.

The story as told by Pie Face himself to us was that he was in the town square of Tuxtla on Mother's Day and a young man who was serenading his mother, shot himself. As he described it, he shot himself first in the head and then in the stomach; not the other way around. Somehow, people accused him of the murder, saying that he shot the boy deliberately. We acknowledged that we believed him, of course.

He was arrested and spent a day in the Tuxtla jail before being transferred to Cerro Hueco. So, it seems that now he has to pretend that he is in prison awaiting trial but at the same time he continues to run the prison. However, he has to lock himself into a cell when a car comes up because it may be the family of the murdered boy to negotiate the blood money. Many cases like this are simply resolved by a financial settlement. Meanwhile, Pie-face was a prison guard and a prisoner in one.

Marble Sculpture Made in Cerro Hueco

### Chapter 10

### *********

### Manna from the sky and other fauna

Summer came, and we continued to wait as usual. I amused myself collecting new species of insects that the summer brought. The rainstorms were monstrous, and the days were hot and muggy. Mosquitoes were sometimes bad, but the bats kept them at bay. I collected many beautiful iridescent beetles as well as giant rhinoceros beetles that were so strong that I could not hold them in my hands. I would grip it in one hand and grab it with the other alternately to prevent it from getting away. I tied a spool of thread to another huge beetle and let it fly out over the prison wall and reeled it back in when I wanted. It was like a living kite. Scorpions were a real danger. We would find them in our bed and we always checked our shoes before putting them on. Luckily, we were never stung.

One day the sky turned black with flying ants that were about 3/4" long and quite fat. They dropped from the sky and covered the ground dead. All the inmates ran to scoop them up. They were like manna from heaven. The inmates wasted no time to fry them up in corn oil and eat them like popcorn. I have to admit, they were delicious and tasted very much like popcorn.

One day we were laying around inside our compound when we heard Tom start screaming from the other room. We opened our door to find a huge column of army ants streaming from under Tom's door. The stream was the width of the door and solid black. We slammed our door shut and jammed a blanket under the threshold. Looking out of the window in our room, we watched for a good 15 minutes as the huge black column continued out our front door, over a 10-foot wall and who knows where from there. Finally, when they were gone, and we opened our door to the kitchen area, we saw that every bit of our food, fruit and garbage was gone without a trace left. Not a crumb, not a hint that it was ever there.

One evening after dark we heard Charlotte say, "Dick, is that your hand"? Dick replied, no Charlotte, I'm over here". Then came the scream! The light went on and there was a huge black tarantula that Charlotte knocked off her face. Even the cockroaches were formidable. Some of them were an inch and a half long and incredibly fast. I'm sure they were commonly eaten.

To my great disappointment, my collection of fauna that I had collected and coveted for the duration of my time at Cerro Hueco did not survive. I had planned to catalog and label the butterflies, beetles and arthropods when I got back to the States. Unable to get a proper container and packaging, my collection was attacked by bacteria, fungus and cockroaches and basically devoured from within. By the time I got back the collection was reduced to only the most durable parts. The rest was dust.

Bats of many kinds including the flying fox that I described earlier, were extremely common dashing around the sky at night with some of the most spectacular sunsets one can imagine as a background. A wide-open view of the western sky and the great storms and cloud formations combined in mythical proportions. It gave an almost spiritual significance to the torture of our confinement.

### Chapter 11

### *********

### An interview with the judge

At one point, I was informed that I would have an audience with the judge. I thought, "OH boy! Finally, maybe we will get somewhere". I'm put in the back of the pick-up with the four guards and bounced and pummeled down to the municipal building in Tuxtla. I waited for the judge for about 2 hours on a wooden bench until my ass fell asleep. At last I am escorted into his office and am seated on a chair in front of his desk. Still there is no judge. Another half hour goes by. Looking straight ahead behind the judge's desk is a room that is about 10' X 10'. The door is open about half way and I can see the entire room is shelves to ceiling. On the shelves from floor to ceiling are stacks of papers. On the bottom shelves, the papers are brown in color and crumbing on the edges. As the stacks of papers reach the higher shelves, the color of the papers goes from brown, to dark beige, to lighter beige, to off-white and then, bright white on the very top of the top self. This gave me feelings of great confidence as I will explain later.

On the judge's desk were piles of papers that covered his entire desk. I knew I was in those papers somewhere. And sure enough, when the judge did finally arrive, after several minutes, he found them.

After staring at the papers and fumbling through them several times, he spoke with great authority. He asked me my name, where I was from and a couple of other questions that the answers to were obviously in the paper that he was looking at. I answered politely, after which the interview was over. That was it! There was no mention of the case, the offense or the result. I was taken back to the pick-up and whisked off to the liquado stand where a good time was had by all. Except maybe me.

That was my day in court; my only day. Now I had only to look forward to my papers turning brown and the principles of thermodynamics converting the energy in them to useful heat. The thought of them in lonely repose, spontaneously combining with oxygen, brought tears to my eyes.

### Chapter 12

### *********

### The Nixon connection

I never met my attorney. I heard his name and paid my money to him even though he was just working to keep me in the prison. My ticket out of there depended on getting the case separated away from Tom and John who were fighting to stay. Dick and I were trying to be deported, and Mexico was trying to deport us. The only reason we just couldn't get on with it, was that Tom and John had a lawyer fighting to keep them there. I was even paying the lawyer to do this. If that doesn't make sense, I can't help you. The lawyers angle was to get our case separated so that Dick and I could be deported and they could stay. We were stuck to Tom and John like tar-babies. Nobody seemed to know how to get us apart because the legal system was the tar that was holding us together.

The summer moved out into fall and the limbo turned more stressful. Friends came to visit from time to time. I wrote to friends in Chicago. They wrote back and sent reading material and news. We had no access to newspapers, radio or any news from the outside. Our friends in Chicago and the Chicago Surrealist Group organized demonstrations at the Mexican Consulate in Chicago and got Senator Percy to inquire. We had people from the Embassy visit us to make sure that we were OK. They were no help.

One bit of news that we received did spark some interest and may have had some bearing on our case. A couple of months before we were rounded up by the Federalies, Nixon, goaded on by his right-wing Republican constituency, ordered hundreds of Mexican farm workers deported from the US. They were accused of taking jobs from Americans. Of course, they were doing jobs no American would ever consider, but it was a good political maneuver during an election year. It turned out that a large number of the deportees died of starvation that winter. In retaliation, it is surmised, the Mexican government rounded up and deported many American expats and tourists. The timing fit perfectly with our incarceration and could be a viable explanation of what this was all about.

There was no censorship of our mail in or out. There was no one in the prison that could speak English anyway. They searched Debra and Charlotte coming back from the market, but the women guards who searched them were very nice and very friendly. Debra would give them little gifts like lipstick and sometimes bring them little treats from the market. She bought Valium in the pharmacy and had no problem bringing it in. It helped to keep our stress level down. There was pot in the prison and all the guards smoked every day. The smell would waft down from the rooftop guard posts above us.

I attempted more painting, but nothing seemed to inspire me. By this time we had been in custody about 9 months and we were still being told every week that we should get ready because as soon as this person or that person gets back from somewhere, our case will move forward and we can post bond a leave.

Meanwhile, John was having a good old-time saving souls and stuffing Bimbo through the fence into the mouths of his choking desperados. He had a routine that was as good as any clock. I could just look to see what he was doing, and I knew what time it was.

For the first several months, a guard would check in the morning to count out loud, 1-2-3-4 as we slept. After the escape of the poor guy that I previously mentioned, the four of us men would have to go out at muster and stand in line to be counted at roll call. We would have to answer "presente!" when our names were called. This was the only time other then when we received our monthly pay that anybody ever checked on us. Pie Face would stop by and tell us the same lie about his case over and over again. He was still running to lock himself in when they heard a car approach. After the warden brought Tom's Winnebago back, we saw him briefly. Tom was very relieved that nothing was mentioned about the toilet.

### Chapter 13

### *********

### The payoff

In November we got a message from the attorney through Maria that he was able to speed up our case that normally takes a year, and that we could now post a bond and then we would be deported. The bond would be $1200.00 USD or the equivalent in Pesos. That came as a great relief except that I was about broke and only had a couple of hundred in the bank. Alternatively, we could stay in prison and wait for our trial that may be in another year or so.

I thought, maybe this is it. It came from the lawyer this time and not from the other side. Just maybe it was for real. In any case, I was not going to waste time. I had to get some money somehow. Tom was whining because he didn't want to go to the States. He just wanted to get out of prison. John thought it was great! He just wouldn't post bond and he could stay in prison and save more souls. Dick wrote to his parents for money and was jumping for joy. Anyway, it would still be another month before this would happen.

I had a loft in downtown Chicago that was being looked after by the neighbor upstairs. I also had a sculpture studio and wood working shop in another location that was being used by another sculptor while I was away. I wrote them and told them that I needed money to get out and asked for help. None of my friends had any money. They were all artists living from hand to mouth and I couldn't ask them for money. I was beginning to panic when I got word from a friend that an opera singer named Annie was interested in buying one of my paintings. The painting was one that I had done on a previous sojourn to Mexico. It was a mountain landscape with a nude woman sprawled across the landscape in a restive repose. She offered $4000.00. I didn't bargain as I might have under different circumstances.

The question now was how to get the money to me in cash. Time was ticking away and communication was by slow mail. To telephone from Tuxtla was difficult because often it would take hours to get a call through. Sometimes Debra would go to Tuxtla and wait for hours without getting through at all or the party was not there. Nobody had phone machines then. The sculptor who was using my studio arranged the sale. Fortunately, he had a helper working for him who was a Mexican-American. His name was Alex. When approached about taking the money to me, he jumped at the idea of a free trip to Mexico. He had never been to Mexico, and he always wanted to see what it was like. He spoke Spanish. He wanted to drive, not knowing that Chiapas is a 7 day, 12 hours a day drive from Chicago. We discouraged that. There was not enough time. I paid his way to fly instead.

When Alex got to Cerro Hueco by cab from Tuxtla, he asked the guards to have Debra come out to meet him. Debra and Alex went out behind my parked van and Alex gave Debra the cash. She slipped it into her boots. Debra had also instructed Alex to bring some lipstick and some other cosmetics from the States. When they went back in, the male guards searched Alex very thoroughly, removing his shoes and patting him down. Debra on the other hand was searched by the women guards in another room. Debra told them that she had Alex bring some gifts for them for being so nice to her and handed out the cosmetics. They didn't even bother searching her and she brought the money in without a hitch. For sure, that money would have ended up with the guards who were of course, as "honest as the day is long".

### Chapter 14

### *********

### Deportation to hell

Naively, I had visions that when we were released on bond, we would just be on our own and self-deport at our leisure. Silly me! The first thing that we needed to do was to get our vehicles ready for the trip back. My van had not been used except for a few attempts to let Charlotte drive it to Tuxtla. The battery was shot, and Debra and Charlotte had to roll down the hill to get it started. I was afraid that they would get stuck somewhere and wouldn't be able to get it back to Cerro Hueco; so, it just sat there in the parking area for months.

I was able to get the guards to let me go out and inspect the van to see what shape it was in. Besides the battery being dead, the dampness of the weather caused the clutch to weld itself to the flywheel. It was not drivable as it was. With the guard's help, we attempted to break the clutch loose by rocking back and forth. We were unsuccessful. The guards helped me find a mechanic from Tuxtla who came to Cerro Hueco and worked on the van. It was very interesting to see the mechanic's approach to the problem. Instead of suggesting buying a new battery, he offered to fix the one in the van. I had checked it and found that one of the cells was very low on water. I knew that meant it had a bad cell. The mechanic sawed the battery up and extracted the bad cell. He then took another old battery that he had with him and sawed one of the cells from it. He joined the good parts together and soldered the connections. With a small torch he melted the battery case together, sealed it with a tar like substance and filled it back up with acid to complete the job. He jumped it, got the van started and after running for a time to charge up, the battery worked like new. Amazing! As for the clutch, he simply removed the cover on the flywheel bell housing and pried the clutch loose. I had never heard of fixing a battery before. Mexican mechanics are very resourceful.

We were ready to go and eager to get the word. The lawyer came to pick up the money but there was a hitch. Tom didn't want to go. He still wanted to fight to stay and was refusing to pay the money. John, who was defending himself in the case came in and said that he was being released and that he was going back to San Cristobal. It turned out that this was not the case, but it served to give Tom the idea that he could do the same. I was furious! I was ready to murder him. I told him I would kill him if he held us up any longer. I wasn't serious, but I wanted to scare him. He was responsible in the first place for us being there so long.

Had he not relented and agreed to leave, I may have gone out of control and done something just short of killing him. It was all I could do to restrain myself before he finally relented and agreed to go. I didn't know it then, but it didn't end there.

Instead of being simply released and sent off individually to self-deport, the tar-babies continued to be stuck fast together. First John was "released" under escort. He came over to say goodbye and gloat that God had favored him, and he was now going to work harder serving the Lord in San Cristobal. He wished us luck and blessed us on his way out with an air of superior righteousness. We waited another few weeks.

Contrary to what he expected, John did not go back to San Cristobal. Instead, he was taken by bus with a guard to the immigration prison in Mexico City and after some ordeal, to the US border. He wrote us from Padre Island, Texas where he ended up and gave us a preview of what we were about to experience ourselves, only perhaps, worse. The rest of us were quite sure that the reason he had been living in San Cristobal was that he was hiding from the law. Our speculation was that he had killed or assaulted his last wife. He was bitterly misogynist. He had told us that one time he found out that his wife was using birth control and that he assaulted her.

When the day finally came, we were unprepared for the insane, unorganized task ahead. Each vehicle was assigned a guard from Immigration who would be riding with us. Our guard would not tell us his name. We were not told to prepare anything like food or water or told if we would be stopping along the way or where we were going. Any inquiry was ignored. We loaded all of our belonging into our vehicles and I was told just to drive in the direction I was told. Tom's Winnebago went first and Dick was behind my van. Even though it was confusing, I was overjoyed to be leaving Cerro Hueco. Even under guard, I felt as if I was free at last.

Fortunately, I had filled my water cooler that was a fixture in my van with fresh water. We wound our way down from the mountains of Chiapas onto the plains of Oaxaca. Hour after hour we caravanned through the dry desert of cactus and scrub of the Oaxaca valley, across the Isthmus of Tehuantipec, east up over the Sierra Madres toward Veracruz State. We were getting extremely hungry and tired. The guard kept pushing us on. He was in a hurry and bragged that he was trained to not sleep. He was a complete paranoid and acted as if we were highly dangerous criminals who would try to escape at any chance. He was in charge of the operation and he would say when we would stop. We stopped only for brief toilet stops in remote areas on the side of the road and to refill our gas tanks. We had only water to drink and no food. Asked when we would stop for food and rest, our nameless guard said that we would stop when we got to where we were going. I knew if that was Mexico City, we were in for it. It's usually at least two days minimum from Chiapas to Mexico D.F.

From the States of Chiapas, Oaxaca, Veracruz and into Puebla the mountains are relentless. The old Winnebago was grinding away in first gear dragging itself over the mountains. The automatic transmission was smoking, and I was worried about what would happen if we broke down on these narrow, barely passable two lane roads. I had instructed Tom to purchase extra heavy oil when we were preparing our vehicles. Fortunately, he took my advice. When things looked like we were about to stall, I moved my van up bumper to bumper and pushed the hulk over the next steep grade. I was also worried that my clutch would give out pushing the mammoth piece of crap. Every now and then we would stop and dump more oil into the Winnebago's engine and transmission. The engine would overheat going up and cool back down going down.

Senor No-Name was keeping himself awake by blasting away at things along the road with his 357 magnum. Someone else must have been paying for his bullets. He didn't seem to care how many he wasted. He killed many cacti but not much else. He claimed that he was the body guard for Queen Elisabeth when she came to visit. He acted more and more impatient when we would have to stop for anything. Stopping for food was out of the question. Dick and Charlotte switched off driving. Tom and I drove straight through without a break. We were getting very exhausted especially with the constant switch-backs and dangerous roads with heavy truck traffic the closer we got to Mexico D.F. When I did get out to pee or stop for gas, I was so dizzy I could hardly stand up.

With great relief I could see the great volcanoes Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl in the distance. I knew then that we were getting within a couple of hours of Mexico City where I was sure we were going. John told us that he was sent there first before being shipped north. No-Name was still not forthcoming with any information. I figured that we would at least get to sleep and eat. It had been over 30 hours of continuous driving with no food. I could not go much farther without collapsing. I could not imagine how Tom was holding up; not that I felt particularly sympathetic towards him by any means.

After maneuvering through Mexico City traffic, we finally arrived at a large unremarkable one-story building somewhere I did not know. I just followed directions blindly not caring. We entered with nothing but what we were wearing. Debra and Charlotte were taken somewhere, and the men were processed and taken to a large dormitory with bunk beds packed in with barely enough room to squeeze in between. The room was packed with people from all over central America. Most were Guatemalans and Hondurans. I was assigned to a top bunk and I immediately passed out. I don't remember much for a couple of days. Twice a day we were given a small bowl of beans and coffee that was pulverized coffee beans in hot water. At first, I gobbled them down with great gusto. Soon after, I found them harder and harder to swallow. After a few days, I only drank the coffee.

During the day we were ordered out into a large open yard with walls all around. There was no shade and the sun were beating down without mercy. Most of the time I sat with my shirt over my head. At night, the temperature dropped to near freezing and the scant blanket that they provided was inadequate to say the least. I worried how Debra was getting along. We had no contact and no one to ask. The only other food was a person who came by selling raw eggs. As hungry as I was, I feared getting sick from uncooked eggs. Tom on the other hand bought the raw eggs and seemed to enjoy cracking them open above his mouth a swallowing them right down. If I had done that, I probably would have faired better. After several days of only the same beans, I could not get them down.

A week went by and we were at one point taken into an office and told to sign some papers that we would not come back to Mexico for ten years. Tom refused to sign and asked to appeal his case. We were informed that this would have again delayed our deportation and we would have to wait for his appeal to process. I could not contain myself. I was out of my mind. I was just able to control myself long enough to get back to the dorm. When Tom came back, I jumped on him and told him that if he didn't retract his appeal I would make sure he would not make it to the border. I would not push him over the mountains and I would abandon him on the road. I would refuse to help him in any way. It was the only lever I could pull.

A couple of days later, in the middle of the night, we were woken up and taken into a room, photographed and told to sign some more papers. Tom signed to our relief. We were then rejoined with Debra and Charlotte for the first time. Debra looked gaunt and weak. She could hardly speak and could barely see. Anemia had caused her vision to shut down.

We were then taken to our vehicles and after a brief preparation, we were back on the road. I had found a small package of crackers when I took the water tank out to fill it. I gave them to Debra who began to cry. She was so weak she could hardly walk. Everything was starting to shut down. The crackers and water helped a bit but she was very shaky.

The darkness began to fade into morning by the time we were out of Mexico City. We were climbing over the mountains heading north. It was still cold, and the Winnebago ran better and was making good time. I knew that we were in for the long haul through some of the hottest parts of Mexico. I wasn't looking forward to what was ahead, but I was happy to be on the road again heading out of this nightmare.

The same guards were with us and they were still just as much the bastards as before. Our guard sat fixated on the road, staring blankly, silently ahead. There were no rear seats in the van so Debra sat on the engine cover most of the time. She couldn't lay down because the constant motion back and forth on the winding roads made her nauseous.

By the trajectory on which we were headed, I guessed that we were destined for Nuevo Laredo and Laredo, TX. That was fine with me. As the sun rose and we climbed to the top of the mountain, layer after layer of mountain ranges spread into the distant horizon. They graduated from pink to purple to grey undulating across the wide breathtaking expanse. The beauty briefly mitigated our pain from hunger and distress. The scene brought out the contradiction of the love for this country and the urgency to leave it. I had often said that one of the best reasons to live in the US was that it was so close to Mexico. Having traveled extensively around the world, there are few countries that can hope to compete with the many unique facets that this country claims. Only India comes close. It is art, artifact, and natural beauty spun into a whirling caldron of diversity and intensity, none of which we will ever see again when the world finishes its drive into monoculture. Monotony is bearing down on it from all sides. I fear for it! I will leave, but I will never leave.

### Chapter 15

### *********

### The border of insanity

Many opportunities came and went to abandon Tom. Just as I predicted, a burning stinking smoke rolled up from under the Winnebago as the day got hot and the mountains got higher. I pushed and shoved our way over every long climb. We stopped and poured heavy oil into the beast to coax it over the next range. It was drinking oil like a dinosaur. The smoke was choking us from behind. I had no air conditioning, so our windows were wide open just to breath. Twenty-seven hours of this torture brought us finally into the Mexican border station.

The station was a tall one-story building with a parking lot on the side. We parked and got out. I could not stand without some assistance from Debra for balance. My head was spinning, and the road kept rolling in my brain. If I shut my eyes, all I could see was the road coming at me. We got into the station and we were pointed to a reception desk. The guards handed some papers to the receptionist and we were led to a door and told to go in. We opened the door and found a huge, dimly lit room with very high ceilings. It was about 30 feet long and completely empty except for one small desk in the far corner of the room. Behind the desk was a man in military uniform with a brimmed military Gestapo type hat. He had a typewriter on the desk in front of him. He motioned Debra and me over.

For some reason, I don't know why, I started to laugh. I began laughing so hard that I could not stand up. I was hysterically laughing and for all my great effort to stop, I could not. I just leaned my back against the wall wailing for about 10 minutes. Debra got caught up in my laughing and she started to laugh. We were just holding each other from sprawling out on the floor.

Finally, we pulled ourselves together and dragged ourselves over to the desk. The officer looked dumfounded but kept to his sober detail. He presented us with some more papers to sign and told us again that if we come back to Mexico before 10 years, we would be put in jail and fined thousands of dollars. At that point my mind flipped to the office of the judge in Tuxtla and the stacks of brown and yellow papers in the storage room. I started again to laugh but struggled to stop myself. We were given our passports and exit papers and told that we were free to go.

The short drive to the US side of the border was stop and go in a long line of cars waiting to go through customs. When we finally got to the check point it was night. We were motioned off to the side next to long tables. A border agent came over and told us to unload all our things onto the tables. Everything! This was exactly what I feared. The van was full of stuff like clothes, paintings, tools, sculpture, cookware, and everything that one would expect that we needed for a typical stay of six months. I could barely stand up much less start unpacking and repacking all that stuff. I protested but was not successful. Slowly and methodically we complied.

The American border agents tore everything apart searching with flashlights for who knows what. I supposed evidence of dope. I thought, "these people are insane. They are stark raving mad". In another time they will be judged as lunatics of the first water.

After some period that seemed to be an eternity, they motioned for us to put it all back and go. All we could do was to throw everything back in a pile and we headed for Laredo, a motel and food. I don't remember getting a motel. I remember that I went out to get food at a nearby fast food place. I came back with a bunch of hamburgers. I took one bite and passed out. Debra ate everything. Every crumb. She was under 90 pounds by this time and I was down around 125. We slept until checkout time the next morning.

It was hard to get used to being back in the States. The people were too big, too fat; the food had no gusto and people could understand everything that we said to each other. We liked having our own language that no one else could understand. The good part was that the roads were wonderful, and it was less tiring to drive. Although we were eager to get back to Chicago, we dreaded going back in the middle of winter. As we went north, the snow and cold became more and more intense. We pulled into Chicago in the middle of a major snow storm and we felt like turning around and heading back. But, we were exhausted and starved and we needed to get our life back to normal.

It was nearly a year after we were back before we could eat a normally full meal. When we went out to eat, we would always split a dinner. By the next fall, we were ready to go back to Mexico.

### Chapter 16

### *********

### Journey to the Yucatan

That next winter we were back in Mexico. We haven't been back to central Chiapas except to Palenque, which is in the eastern part of Chiapas in the lowlands. We have been back several time without any problem. There was only one occasion that gave us a scare.

We were in Mexico City, waiting at a stop light. While we were waiting for the light to change, a policeman motioned for us to pull over to where he pointed. We complied as he ordered. He walked up to my side of the rental car and leaned in and said," you just went through a red light". I replied that he had instructed me to do just that. He wanted a "fine". I refused. He said that he was going to take us to the police station if we refused. We discussed the price, which was about $20. I refused. I offered about $5. He said, "no". He told me to follow him to the station. Debra and I started to get a little nervous about our 10-year deportation. As we followed him for a few blocks, he pulled over and came back for more negotiations. He came down to $10. I said no. We drove some more. He pulled over. We bargained again. Finally, we agreed on about five bucks. Other than that, no problems.

We never heard from any of the other people that were deported before us or with us except for Ken. We were in the zocolo in Veracruz a couple of years later, when by some weird luck, we ran into him in a cafe. He was just stopping there on his way to Panajachel, Guatemala, were he was living. His Casa Rodunda had been ripped off from him by his Mexican partner. Foreigners have to have a Mexican partner to own property in Mexico. Ken had a business in Panajachel renting old wrecks to tourists to drive around Lake Atitlan. We exchanged stories for a couple of hours. How strange that we should, from far distant places, at the same moment in time, converge in the same spot; a particular cafe, on a particular street in a particular city, in a particular country not our own.

The discovery of oil near San Christobal brought a lot of development and disruption to the indigenous people of the area. An airport was built, and a lot of oil workers moved into the area. Recently, the Chiapan Indians revolted against land grabs and disruption of their lives. The revolt was led by a mysterious individual named, Commandante Marcos. The Federal troops moved in and put down the revolt. There was some attempt by the Mexican government to pacify the Indians with some reforms and protections, but I am sure whatever they did was not sufficient. Life for these people is not going to change much. It has not substantially changed in hundreds of years. Racism, class division and cultural separation are all working overtime to prevent any relief.

The land that B. Traven described in the early nineteen hundred in his "jungle novels" has changed by only small incremental degrees from the past. It is both good and bad. Assimilation is not necessary to bring about a fulfilling and prosperous life. Exploitation and repression are diseases spread by dominant colonial cultures. There are many Pentecostal missionaries working in the area of southern Mexico and Guatemala. They are trying to gain traction in a Catholic dominated myth system. It is one colonizer fighting another. Their motives are not different. They are not interested in the welfare of these people. They are only interested in their own pool of exploitable resources.

On this trip that Debra and I were on that year, we decided to explore more of Yucatan and Quintana Roo. We visited some of the more famous Mayan ruins that I had seen before we met, but thatDebra had not seen. Sites like Chican Itza, Uxmal, Tulum, Coba and several other smaller sites. After visiting Chican Itza we headed east toward the city of Valladolid. On our way, we stopped along the road to stretch our legs when we noticed a large bolder a short distance from the road that seemed to be moving. On closer examination, it was an ant hill covered with ants. While we were examining it, a old gentleman waved at us from near-by. We walked over, and he began telling us about a cave that he wanted to show us for a suggested price of a couple of pesos. It sounded intriguing, so we walked with him a little way to a small opening in the side of a low hill.

There was a wire strung through the opening and a light bulb hanging from it. We could see into a fairly large chamber with stalactites hanging from the ceiling. He went in with us and pointed out a small opening at the far side of the cavern and told us to crawl through the tunnel and we would find the main chamber. There was a wire for lights, so we would not need to take a light. He waited outside.

The tunnel was just big enough for Debra and me to squeeze through single file on our bellies and was about 10 to 15 feet long. Coming out of the other side we entered into a huge cavern with stalactites that reflected in a lake that mirrored the ceiling. Around the lake were mounds of rock and red soil with clusters of stalagmites. There were stone carved figures and pottery around charred remains of hearths. In the middle of the lake was a large carved stella with what was apparently Mayan inscriptions and relief figures. We examined everything as closely as we could. It was an undisturbed site of rituals that seemed as if they could still be going on in present day.

It was so interesting that we rather lost track of time until suddenly, the lights went out. The darkness was so absolute and solid that we could not see each other or anything. There would be no way that we could even find the small opening of the tunnel for our way out. We could not move for fear of stumbling into something or falling into the lake.

To our great relief, the lights went back on after about three or four minutes. It seemed like hours. We immediately headed for the entrance tunnel. If that was a cue to tell us that our time was up, it certainly worked.

After we left, I tried to figure out where exactly the cave was located. There was no distinguishing marker in the jungle on either side of the road. The ant mound was back from the road, so it was not a useable marker. All we know is that it was about half-way between Cichan Itza and Valladolid on a road called Valladolid/Merida.

### Chapter 17

### *********

### Journey to Copan

The next year, Debra and I and our friend from Chicago, Dave, decided we would like to see a particular ruin called Copan. Copan is a Mayan ruin discovered fairly recently in a remote area of northern Honduras. We flew to Guatemala City and rented a compact car. After spending a couple of days in the Capital, and a few days touring around Guatemala, we headed for the border of Honduras. The road progressively became more rugged until it turned into a dirt trail. There were frequent streams that crossed the road and a couple were quite deep and required a good run to get across. Dave and Debra had to get out and push on more than one occasion. Dave had a camera on this trip. I almost never bring a camera with me. I find it distracting and I would rather have the experience than the memory. It also sets you up for hustler and venders of tourists.

We finally, after a full day of slogging through, reached El Florido on the Guatemalan side of the border with Hondurus. The road came to a dead end at the border station and a shallow river. A small hut served as the border station. The border guards showed us a place to park our car and stamped our visas and passports. We were a little concerned about abandoning our car, but they assured us that it would be safe.

We were told that we could get a taxi the rest of the way to Copan Ruinas. Copan Ruinas is the closest town to the ruins of the archeological site, Copan. We waded across the river that was about knee deep. There were a few huts on the other side that sold drinks and some food for people waiting for taxis. Women were washing the dishes in the river. It was a jungle setting and was hot and sticky and the taxi didn't get there for about an hour. There were several local people waiting as well.

Road to Honduras

To our surprise, when the "taxi" showed up, it was a Datsun pick-up. There were no seats, only overhead bars or pipes to hold on to over the bed. We soon found out why there were no seats.

Taxi

The road was just rock and dirt and was so rough that it would be impossible to sit while we were moving. We were jousted around like on a carnival ride. It was all we could do to just hang on. The taxi ground along proceeding from lowland jungle up into dry, rocky mountains. The views were spectacular, but the narrow mountain road was scary looking over precipices that seemed bottomless. There were no guard rails and the road had gaps where landslides had occurred. In some places where there were a few houses, huge pigs lay in the road. The driver had to drive around them because they refused to move. On the hood of the taxi were two huge truck horns. We initially laughed when we saw them, but we soon learned what they were for. The cows and pig were in the road at every turn.

Hondurans are a contrast from people in Guatemala where the people are mostly Indians. Hondurans look more like cowboys and are Spanish speakers. The men wear cowboy hats and boots. They ride horses and heard cattle and raise pigs. The cuisine is bland and meaty. It does not resemble Mexican or Guatemalan food. The country houses in that area are woven and thatched.

### Honduran Cowboy

In contrast, the people of Guatemala are mostly Indians

### Woven House

After a torturous hour and a half ride to the town of Copan Ruinas, we could barely stand up. We found a funky hotel right off the town square and collapsed. The hotel was a dump with water running from the bathroom across the floor. We were too exhausted to care until Debra slipped on the water and landed smack on her back on the tile floor. The mosquitoes were so bad that we drenched ourselves in acetone which we found in a store downstairs. I presume it was acetone because it was called Atune and it smelled like gasoline.

The next day, after asking directions, we headed out for a three-mile trek to the ruins. Walking was the only choice. Debra was rather sore from her bad fall, but she was miraculously unbroken. A huge brown snake crossed the trail in front of us. It did not seem to be afraid of us. The jungle on the side of the trail was dense and full of birds. Parrots were noisy and busy. Even though it was early in the day, the sun was rising, and the heat was climbing as we walked. Finally, we arrived and we were not disappointed.

The stellas and sculptures were magnificent. Some of them even had remnants of the original color. There were giant ceiba trees with their roots engorging themselves on the pyramids. The trunks of the trees were perhaps sixteen feet in diameter and the roots were rearranging the huge stone blocks of the temples. Only a portion of the site was excavated but the beautiful park like grounds set the structures off in great contrast. The ball court looked as if it were played on just yesterday. The pyramids at Copan are not really tall like they are at sites like Palenque, Coba or Chican Itza, but they are nicely scaled, and the art is the best I have seen. It is not a large complex, but there was enough to keep us there for most of the day. There were only a few local people wandering around and no venders trying to sell souvenirs like there are at other sites. It is just too hard to get to this location.

### View from the Main Pyramid with Ball Court Below

### Ceiba Trees Eating a Pyramid

### Stella and Turtle

Sculpture at Copan

We walked back to town and were pretty worn out from the heat and the trek. When we arrived, the town was in the throws of a national election. Cars and trucks were blasting their horns and circling the town square. People were shouting campaign slogans and chants over bullhorns. Music was thumping and at least a hundred people were in the tiny town square. Party flags were flying on every vehicle. Our hotel was just off the square and the noise prevented any possibility of a pleasant quiet rest from an exhausting day. We walked around town looking for a restaurant where we could get away from the blasting campaign. We settled on a small place well away from the square. After dinner, we retired to our hotel, a shower of cold water (not our choice) and hope of a good night's sleep before starting back to Guatemala in the morning. Hope of that sleep died. The noise went on until about three or four in the morning. The roosters took over from there.

Our jaunting ride back to the border was survivable and as hoped, our car was where we parked it. We wanted to check out other ruins called Quirigua that was in a remote part of Guatemala not far from Lake Izabal. It would be a slow haul on dirt roads, but we had heard that there was a hotel that we could stay at a couple of hours from the ruins. We decided to make a run for it.

### Chapter 18

### *********

### The Road to Rio Dulce

We made it to Quirigua after eight hours in clouds of dust on dirt roads through banana plantations. The banana trees hugged us like walls on both sides of the road and added monotony to the heat and dust in a car with no air conditioning. When we got out of the car at the ruins, we were descended upon by swarms of mosquitoes which were after our blood. Fortunately, we still had some acetone left and we doused ourselves liberally.

Quirigua was not as spectacular as Copan, but it had its own remarkable distinction. The carvings and stellas were particularly tall and beautifully executed. At the time we were there, very little of the site was excavated. Some of the more interesting artifacts were round carved boulders where the carving rapped completely around. The stellas were also carved on all sides as well.

### Boulder at Quirigua

After a few hours exploring the ruins, we left Quirigua in a swarm of mosquitoes and headed off in the direction of the hotel by Lake Izabal. We were looking forward to quiet relaxation and a good bath. As we had calculated, we arrived about two hours later and drove directly into the lobby of the hotel and screeched to a stop right at the front desk; or where we thought the front desk would be. The palatial hotel in fact was nothing more than a concrete foundation sitting a few feet from the waters edge. We rolled out of the car and sprawled out on the ground exhausted and covered with dust. Our car was the same color as the road. According to our map, the closest hotel in any direction was about eight hours away. It was turning dark and we were hungry on top of it. We had a few bananas and some water, but that was the extent of our provisions. We had two choices- to head out, or sleep in the cramped little car with the windows rolled up.

As we lay there dwelling on our dilemma, we heard a putt, putt, putt coming from the lake. We ran over to the shore and saw a launch going along near the shore. We thought, just maybe they know of a place to sleep and get some food. We waved at the driver who pulled in and disembarked.

The launch was a water taxi that plied the Rio Dulce, the river that runs from Lake Izabal to the Caribbean. He told us that there was a place down the river where we could stay. There was no other way of getting down river than the water taxi. It was solid jungle on both sides of the river and there are no roads. At first, we were a little hesitant about leaving our car and going down river to an unknown destination. And then, Jorge, the launch driver smiled broadly. That was it, when we saw the gold star inlayed into his front tooth, how could we resist. We jumped into his taxi and we were off.

Water taxi pilot Jorge

Water Taxi

About a half hour down river we arrived at an island in the wide Rio Dulce. There were about a half dozen huts around the island on stilts and a larger one-story thatched roof building on the edge of the small island. There was a dock with a Chinese Junk and some dugout canoes tied up.

### Our Cabin

After arranging for Jorge to pick us up the next day, Jorge docked, and we walked onto paradise. The place was called the "Catamaran". When we walked in, the owner and a British guy were sitting at the bar. The owner was in army fatigues and a little bit tipsy. We checked in in a non-formal way and were directed to our cabin. The cabin had two bedrooms and three beds to a room. It also had a shower and a toilet. Each cabin had a porch with a view of the wide river. People in dugout canoes were continuously passing and the Great American egrets flew non-stop overhead.

After a shower and a brief rest, we went back to the bar/restaurant for a great fresh fish dinner and good wine. This was truly heaven on stilts. We couldn't get over our great fortune of landing in this place. The owner was a Viet Nam vet from the States that was a little nutty but good natured. He was still in Viet Nam and the jungle setting was as close as you can get to the real thing. The Brit with the Junk had been living there for some time. It seems that he had been sailing around the Caribbean until he discovered that his wooden Junk was about to sink from worm holes. It was literally being eaten through. He was trying to get repairs done before it sank. The Junk was a fabulous piece of art. Every part of it was masterly crafted. The problem was that it was not going to be easy to get the repairs in the area and every day that he waited, the worms were that much closer to sinking it.

The night air was cool but the fish below our cabin were jumping and made considerable noise. We were so tired that we were not deterred for a great night's sleep. The next morning, we ate breakfast on the outdoor deck of the restaurant. While we were having our leisurely breakfast, we picked out the fish that we wanted for dinner as they were being thrown up on the deck by a local fisherman in his dugout. The fish were still squirming and flopping around as they landed on the deck.

Jorge picked us up on schedule and we negotiated a 30-mile trip down the river to the Caribbean. A wall of jungle on both sides of the river appeared to be impenetrable. Thatched roofed houses on stilts dotted the forest wall on occasion. After about three hours, Jorge pulled up to one of the houses, got out and his brother took over as pilot.

Houses along the Rio Dulce

Eventually we arrived at the Caribbean and proceeded up the coast to the town of Livingston.

Livingston is a town founded by runaway African slaves. The people are black, and they speak a pigeon English. We were starving by this time and we headed straight for a restaurant. The town is small and the first person we saw was able to guide us to the best restaurant in town, the Africa Place. It was a short walk from the boat dock. There are no cars in the town and the only access is by boat. No roads lead to or from the town.

Livingston

The meal was unbelievably good. It was an African shrimp and rice dish with a hot curry sauce. After lingering over our lunch for an hour or so, we walked around town and looked in the shops and took in the unique architecture. It was very distinct from the usual Central American style. Although it was typical adobe construction, it had no resemblance to the Spanish style. It appeared to be completely African in design. Fishing was obviously the basis of their economy. The land around the town was solid jungle except for garden plots around the edge.

After our walk we went back to the dock where Jorge's brother Jamie was waiting. It was mid-day and hot and Jamie suggested that we have a swim at a place back along the Rio Dulce. We agreed, that sounded like a good idea. About a half hour of putt, putting up the river, Jamie pulled up to the bank of the river. The bank was a solid wall of jungle that looked impossible to penetrate. We thought, where are we going to swim here? Jamie instructed us that if we went straight up the mountain from where we were, we would come onto a series of pools and water falls where we could swim.

With a little apprehension, we waded into the canopy. We found a very steep trail that lead up the mountain and with the help of vines hanging above the trail we were able to ascend upward. Struggling upward we could hear the sound of water crashing over rocks and soon we came to what we were looking for. It was a series of seven cascading water falls with their associated pool of crystal-clear water. We worked our way to the top pool and jumped in for a ride down from one pool to the next over the water falls. We stopped in a larger pool half way down and just lingered in the cool, clear water.

### Seven Sisters

The name of the place is the "Seven Sisters". Back in the 50's, they filmed one of Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan movies here. It was the best swimming experience I have ever had.

When we were satiated, we worked our way back down to the river. Jamie was nowhere to be seen. We hung out on the bank for about a half hour and finally we heard the taxi coming down the river. We were quite relieved to see him. Our next stop was the Manatee/Jaguar Reserve that was along the river heading back.

The Manatee reserve encompasses an area of narrow canals around spits of land in the wide Rio Dulce. There are trails on the land around the reserve that are a wonder of giant ferns, bromeliads and orchids that will overwhelm you with the smell of earth and nectar. The wet exuberance and intensity of the living natural jungle can never be duplicated by an artificial botanical garden. The sounds of the birds, the buzzing of the insects, skittering of lizards and the rotting and the renewing of the vegetation is an experience that is almost sacred. It commands a feeling that one is violating a private realm that should be isolated from human civilization at all costs. Yet, I couldn't help myself from needing to see it and touch it in person.

Jaguar/Manatee Reserve

Back at the Catamaran after a very long and eventful day, we collapsed for a brief rest before our perfect meal of fish that we had picked out that morning at breakfast. The wine was excellent as well and we finished off the evening in conversation with the Brit and the owner at the bar.

The next day it rained, and we laid around listening to the rain on the tin roof of our cabin. The fish were busy jumping and the canoes quietly paddled by with colorful umbrellas hoisted above the occupants. The rain was warm, and the air was calm so we swam and floated in the pool that was in the middle of the island for a long time thinking and talking about what we had seen in the last several days. We were at the end of our journey and lamented that we would be going back to the cold winter in Chicago. The trip was magnificent, and the last part was a fitting finale that could not have been better if we had planned it. We stayed a couple of more days and hitched a ride with Jorge back to our car.

The car was on its last legs by the time we got back to Guatemala City. The left rear wheel was grinding so loud that we thought we would have to abandon it. It was covered with mud and dust. Afraid that we would be charged with the damage, we cut out of the rental place as fast as we could under the pretence that we were late for our flight.

We all agreed that the adventure had been one of the best of our lives. It was totally unscripted as most journeys and adventures should be.

Map of Area and Places described in this Book

### The End

