20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  Off we sped, the driver looking neither to left nor right, around the Monument of Independence like a ball on a roulette wheel, and down the Paseo as if our taxi were the only car on the street. After several near collisions I asked him what his secret was.

  “Oh, it’s no secret, señor. I just make sure I don’t hit the car in front of me. If someone runs into me it’s his fault.”

  With that illogical answer I concluded that the little image of St. Christopher affixed to his dashboard was on twenty-four-hour duty.

  When we finally screeched to a halt in front of the hotel I didn’t agree with the driver’s conception of “near the center of town,” but since all the other virtues were as he claimed we checked in.

  Mexico City was our last big-city stop before the first gap in the Pan American Highway and Guatemala, and there were several important details to attend to. There was the jeep to service, including the reinforcement of her already sagging springs, provisions to purchase for the rough stretch ahead, and a visa for Guatemala to procure. Since many of the countries put expiration dates on their visas, we had decided to get them as we went along rather than before leaving home. But first there was mail at the U.S. Embassy and we spent hours reading it again and again over cool crisp salads in Sanborn’s, Mexico’s mecca for Americans.

  Within a week our business was taken care of and we had seen the National Palace with its murals by Rivera, the Palace of Fine Arts, the Thieves Market, the new University City, and most of the other things tourists are supposed to see. On our last day we had nothing special planned, and Helen suggested we take Dinah for a walk through Alameda Park. Dinah thought that was a fine idea, hurriedly gulped her dinner, and ran to the door with her leash in her mouth.

  The Alameda was bustling with afternoon activity. Clouds of balloons floated over their vendors, an organ-grinder played a tune while his monkey, in a tiny sombrero, danced, and the park photographers huddled under black cloths and pointed the eye of their cumbersome boxes at fidgety children. Dinah sniffed every flower around the Juárez Monument, ate a taco given to her by a vendor, and broke canine diplomatic relations with a dog of dubious ancestry who was a staunch advocate of the Good Neighbor policy. But the end of Dinah’s stroll through the Alameda came when we were opposite the Palace of Fine Arts. Helen spied a sign proclaiming a new exhibit.

  “But it’s too late,” I protested. “We don’t have time to take Dinah back to the hotel.”

  “Let’s take her with us. She looks like a seeing-eye dog.” “That’s real feminine logic. What would anyone with a seeing-eye dog be doing in an art museum?”

  “Well, let’s try it anyway. We won’t have another chance to see the exhibit.”

  With that dispute settled, we entered the marble foyer and climbed the curved staircase to the galleries. No one paid any attention to us and I was beginning to believe I was wrong in objecting to Dinah’s coming in. She heeled beautifully through the corridors lined with sculptures by young Mexican moderns and lay quietly while we studied the frescoes by Orozco and Siqueiros and the paintings of Tamayo. We were on the third floor before Dinah gave any indication that something was amiss. Apparently the taco had not agreed with her. She looked desperately for the nearest exit.

  “What can we do?” Helen said in despair.

  I wasn’t sympathetic, but said, “Let’s get her out of here.”

  We were not unnoticed as we flew down the stairs to the street. We reached the mezzanine, but she couldn’t wait any longer. While an impeccably uniformed guard looked on in shocked amazement, Helen and Dinah made a beeline for the corner, where our mascot neatly deposited the remains of the taco in a gleamingly polished brass spittoon. With a sheepish but relieved expression she heeled and the three of us slunk back to the hotel and started packing.

  To avoid the menacing traffic—or being a traffic menace—we left Mexico City during the early morning hours. Mexico’s fine Pan American Highway took us across the green farmlands of the central plateau, past the still volcanoes, called by the Indians the Sleeping Lady and Her Watching Lover, over a ten-thousand-foot pass where pine forests crowded the asphalt, and then down to drier country of cactus and sage.

  In Oaxaca, under shades of glaring white cloth, Zapotec and Mixtec Indians displayed for the tourists gaudy serapes and tiny clay idols of dogs, birds, and frogs. But eight miles away was a better example of the once advanced Zapotec culture, Monte Alban, already flourishing when the Renaissance was born. When we reached the top of a winding dirt road that climbed two thousand feet in but a few miles we found this burial place of priests and kings deserted. Some of the tombs had been excavated and had yielded treasures of gold and jade while others still lay beneath five centuries of dirt and scrubby growth. Alone, we wandered through the quiet pavilions and sunken courts, climbed the terraced pyramids, and poked our flashlights into dark caverns. On the walls Zapotec life lived in stone: shallow bas-relief depicted dancing girls, astronomers, and surgeons with their patients. Added to these rounded forms of Zapotec art were the angular inscriptions of their conquerors, the Mixtecs. These allies of the Aztecs represented the defeated Zapotec upside down. With a thrill almost as if we had discovered them ourselves we crawled on hands and knees through subterranean passageways that twisted between altars and pyramids, but the illusion was abruptly shattered when we passed under a glass and concrete skylight and popped, mole-like, into the bright sun to be greeted by a guide.

  About twenty-five miles south of Oaxaca was another Zapotec site, Mitla, City of the Dead. Built as a resting place for the spirits, the temples and open courts were constructed of stone blocks weighing as much as twenty tons. The temple walls were embellished with mortarless stone mosaics in deep relief, horizontal rows of recessed geometric patterns in contrast to the representations of life that we saw at Monte Alban. Less fortunate than Monte Albán, Mitla had been known to the Spaniards. In keeping with their usual practice, they plundered and then erected a church on the remains of the temple. Beneath the main pavilion, in a dark underground chamber, stood a large stone cylinder, which, according to local legend, when embraced has the power to foretell life expectancy—the gap between the finger tips indicating the number of years one has yet to live. What a popular oracle this could be among twentieth-century gourmands.

  Continuing south from Oaxaca, we headed for Tehuantepec, a coconut palm and sugar cane town at the edge of a brown river that flowed to the Pacific, about twelve miles away. Tehuantepec was on the proposed route of an overland canal where ships were to be carried by rail across the narrow isthmus that separates the Atlantic and the Pacific, but with the opening of the Panama Canal the plans were abandoned. Even before that, however, Tehuantepec had been important as a stop for caravans transshipping cargo from Spanish ships that plied the two oceans.

  When we stopped to buy meat for Dinah and fill our basket with tropical fruit we found a fiesta in progress. In the sandy streets of this matriarchal town Amazons jabbered in Zapotec—even barefoot the Tehuantepec women looked seven feet tall in their pleated and starched white headdresses. According to one story, this custom originated when a ship carrying a load of baby christening gowns was wrecked off the Pacific coast. Not knowing what to do with them, the Indian women put them on the only place they would fit—their heads. Perhaps it was the added height of these headdresses that gave them their feeling of superiority. In any event, these almond-eyed Zapotec Ziegfield girls walked proudly in their square-cut velvet blouses and flowing gypsy skirts. They completed the regal illusion with velvet ribbons braided in their hair, earrings of Spanish coins, and chains of gold around their necks. With flowered staffs in hand and an authoritative manner they stopped us. They were conducting a sort of community chest drive, but instead of a red feather they gave us each a brand on the cheek. The red dye took days to wear off.

  The market, also run by women, was literally a no man’s land. Though I paid for the meat, the butcher lady ignored me completely, wrapped it in a ban
ana leaf, and handed both the package and the change to Helen. I took the not so subtle hint and decided to wait outside while Helen finished the shopping. Stepping over three-foot iguanas that lay trussed on the floor, I threaded my way to the entrance between baskets of gardenias and roses and stacks of pineapples, papayas, and mangoes. Outside I leaned against a column under the eave of the building. That was apparently the correct thing to do, for I had company while I waited. A young Zapotec staggered over and thrust a bottle of murky yellow mescal, fermented cactus juice, at me and hospitably insisted that I have some. After one swallow I coughed and blinked back the tears; it couldn’t have burned more if it had been molten lead. I wasn’t partial to his choice of liquor, but I was very interested in his choice of conversation. He was in a mood to expound the virtues of Tehuantepec’s matriarchal society, which, according to him, boiled down to this: We don’t really mind if the women run things. They’re so beautiful, and they’re probably more efficient than we are. Besides, they outnumber us.

  As Helen and I left the market, I wasn’t surprised to see a pedestaled bronze statue of a woman centrally placed in the plaza, no doubt erected by the town mothers as a daily reminder to the men.

  For a short distance out of Tehuantepec the road led through more palms and sugar cane, past whitened salt marshes, and then as it turned inland again the sun-baked land became the color of straw and heat waves made the horizon dance. Since Mexico City, La Tortuga had been riding high on her new springs. The extra leaves in the front and rear made her take the bumps like a tank, but the extra road clearance they gave her would be essential if we had to repeat the same route taken in 1951 to enter Guatemala.

  Mexico claimed a completed highway from border to border. Guatemala made the same claim and, while both claims were true, there was still no connection by road between the two countries. Their respective roads touched the Mexican-Guatemalan border on opposite sides of a mountain range. The normal way to enter Guatemala with a car was to follow the road we were on some seven hundred miles from Mexico City to Arriaga and load the vehicle on a flatcar. From there a railroad ran for a hundred and fifty miles along the southern slopes of the mountain range to Tapachula, where a road continued south into Guatemala.

  At Arriaga, in 1951, we had made our first departure from the normal route. Instead of loading our jeep on a flatcar we had continued another fifteen miles over a narrow dusty road to Tonalá, where we were flatly told that that was as far as we could go. As we sat on the edge of Tonalá and studied the map of Chiapas, one of the least developed states in Mexico, oxcarts clattered through the streets. One in particular attracted our attention. Driven by an old man, the cart was piled high, apparently with all his possessions and with his whole family riding on top. As we watched it disappear through a tangle of matted growth, the same thought came to both of us—there might be a cart trail to Tapachula.

  Enthusiastically we had followed the cart over a pair of dust-filled ruts and asked the old man where the trail led. “Tres Picos,” he replied. We checked the map again. Tres Picos was the next little town along the railroad. Hopefully we continued. Soon we learned never to ask for the trail to Tapachula—that was too far away. Instead we inquired from village to tiny village, developing an instinct for which path to follow when the pair of muddy ruts turned into a web of tracks. There were trees to fell, swamps to bypass, mudholes to fill with branches, and high centers left by four-foot-diameter cart wheels to cut down. At night, in the stifling heat, while mosquitoes whirred outside our screens, we had climbed into the jeep too exhausted to eat and fallen asleep to the sound of Dinah’s heavy panting. Although it was only 135 railroad miles from Tonalá to Tapachula, we had traveled 220 miles in eight backbreaking days to get there.

  As we left Tehuantepec the memory of those eight days was still vivid, and we had no desire to repeat them if there was another way. While in Mexico City we had heard encouraging rumors that Guatemala was working on a new highway to connect with Mexico’s at El Ocotal on the north side of the mountain range. Before heading for Arriaga we wanted to see if there was any possibility of getting over the new route. Bypassing the branch road to Arriaga, we continued an additional two hundred miles to the border.

  The drive took us north of the Sierra Madre range, home of the handsome, light-skinned Chamula Indians. Many of the men trotted beside the road wearing their ancient dress of short pants and broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hats of thick straw festooned with streaming colored ribbons. We heard two stories as to the significance of the ribbons. Some said they indicated the number of sons the man had, while others said that the ribbons declared the man was a bachelor. Perhaps they are both right.

  At El Ocotal there was no sign of a highway into Guatemala. The Mexican road, paved right to the border, stopped at a barrier of heavily forested mountain. Two Guatemalan border guards told us that construction was progressing from the other end, and that there was still a twenty-five-mile gap. We could see that there was nothing but a footpath, and the guards added that even a motorcycle had been forced to turn back a few months earlier.

  With some misgivings, but with no alternative, we retraced our way along the main road to the cut-off that led to the lowlands and Arriaga. We made camp on a dry plateau amid the squawks of parrots, incongruous in the barren land of spiny cactus and stunted trees with only a few stemless gourds affixed to their naked branches. While I lubricated the jeep, Helen transferred the coffee tins of dried fruit and nuts, powdered milk and eggs and other concentrated foods from under the bunks to the cabinet above.

  Arriaga, a town of blinding whitewashed adobe, was only slightly above the level of the Pacific, fifteen miles away. The air was heavy with humidity, and the Chinese storekeepers stood fanning themselves in front of their stalls. Arriaga had not changed in the four years since we had last seen it. Insistent railroad workers followed us through the streets—as they did any vehicle alien to the town—wanting to load us on a flatcar. The only visitors Arriaga ever had were those who were shipping to Tapachula by rail.

  Tonalá had not changed, either, despite the fact that where before there had been merely a rude trail from Arriaga there was now a rough gravel road. Before hitting the oxcart trails again Helen and I stopped for a cooling refresco. The temperature was no in the shade, and children played naked in the street. But the old lady who ran the open-air cantina evidently had delusions of grandeur. She disdainfully refused to serve us until Helen put a jacket over her sunback dress and I exchanged my knee-length shorts for a pair of soggy long pants.

  While Helen sipped a lemonade and I took lingering swallows of good Mexican beer, La Tortuga was subjected to her usual inspection. One man, about thirty-five, wearing khakis and a ten-gallon hat in place of the usual straw sombrero, noted with interest the license plates. Ordering a beer, he pulled up a stool and in only slightly accented English said:

  “I see you’re from the States. I used to visit Texas once in a while. Where’re ya headed?”

  “Tapachula,” Helen answered.

  “You’re in the wrong town. Arriaga is where you load your car on the train.”

  I explained that we were not planning to take the train, that we were going to follow oxcart trails to Tapachula.

  “Ha, that’s a laugh.” After gulping a long swig of beer he pushed his hat back and said, “Well, kids, see ya in Arriaga.”

  We watched him swagger away. “He must have done more than just visit Texas,” Helen commented.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOUR years before, in the same town and in much the same way, we had been told the same thing: “You can’t drive to Guatemala; the only connection is by rail.” We knew now that, in a regular jeep, it could be done. But La Tortuga was a little higher, a little wider, a little longer, and had considerably less road clearance than a regular jeep, and size was all important.

  With clouds of dirt billowing inside the jeep and branches crackling beneath the wheels, we again followed the pair of dust-filled rut
s through brown underbrush. It was near the first of March, the height of the dry season; for months there had been no rain. And yet there was evidence everywhere of the four rainy seasons that had passed since 1951. The six months of tropical downpours each year had wrought a great change. Nothing seemed familiar.

  The trail led into more open country, over arid hills and down into barrancas where the ruts were deep from erosion and countless generations of oxcarts. For a while we wondered if we were on the right path. When the trail forked, our only guide was the knowledge that we were north of the railroad, and that the trail should turn in that direction somewhere near the next village. Once we lost the tracks completely at the top of a rise where the sun-baked earth was like granite. Backtracking to another fork, we came upon one of the high-wheeled oxcarts lumbering along behind two immense hump-backed beasts, their driver sound asleep. As we pulled up behind him, he raised his head wearily and squinted his sun-wrinkled eyes. We had learned before never to phrase a question so that it could be answered simply “Yes” or “No.” Instead we asked, “Where does this trail lead?”

  The wizened old man had the uniformity of age; he could have been the same man we asked four years before. Scratching his grizzled beard, he thought a moment and then slowly answered, “Tres Picos.” As we thanked him, he prodded his oxen up on the bank so that we could pass, and called, “Que le vaya bien [May things go well with you].”

  The going was rougher as the trail led again toward the railroad down to lower country, through a dry river bed where green bushes lined the steep sides. In the rainy season it would have been impassable even to oxcarts. Of each person we passed we asked the same question to make certain we were still on the right path. One friendly coppery-skinned native on foot was going in our direction so we invited him to ride with us. Although Pablo could have made more progress walking he seemed to enjoy jouncing over fallen trees and around stumps in our “boat-car,” as he called it. Repeatedly he assured us that we were “muy cerquita,” very near, Tres Picos, but we recalled the time we had traveled for three days in this same area looking for a town which was supposed to be “muy cerquita.” Twenty minutes away, they had told us, but they neglected to say it was twenty minutes by train. After two hours of Pablo’s “muy cerquita, muy cerquita,” when we came to a clear stream we decided to make camp. Pablo continued on foot.