by Jack Kerouac
Had met priest at Tizimin Cathedral who took me backstairs and smoked and cursed native pagan rite of the feast, and so went with him to his village “Colonia Yucatan” a lumber town a la Levittown or Vet housing project—and he drove me by jeep next day to forests of Quintana Roo and back—then to train and horrid ride. Then another day at great silent Chichen Itza—recalling a dream I once had about a future world of great plateaus covered with grass and levels and plains of plateau leading to horizon with grassy roofs on many levels of dripping stone chambers and wild sculptured ornament all round the sides—stood up and looked from top at jungle spread all around circle to horizon, dream actualized. Who came up but the optometrist, with his nice camera.
Came back to Merida today. Met bunch of Mexico City painters on junket to study provinces and talked French and will go to a big gran baille (dance) tonite (Sat. nite)—and tomorrow look up Professor Stromswich for info on Mayapan ruins—also must pick up letter from Bill from Rome at Consulate and telegram perhaps with money from home—down to $25 dollars, enuf to get to Mexico City but not much more and want to see more Mexico south so sent for some more $ from Gene [Eugene Brooks]. My Spanish is got to point where I can find out what I want easily but I keep making mistakes that have cost me money from time to time—enough to wish I knew—like I bought the wrong kind of hammock and so lost out nine pesos the other day.
Also in Merida a “homeopathic druggist” i.e. I don’t know, different from pharmaceutical druggists—name of George Ubo been everywhere in U.S. and Yucatan and told me how to get everywhere on big ten foot map he has. So far everywhere I have run across someone or other who showed me the town in English or French or English-Spanish mixture but have not met anyone great—except one nite in the rich hotel in Merida last week, wandered into bar for one peso rich-man’s tequila and ran into a drunk brilliant elderly Spaniard who talked to me in French in great world weary monologue full of filth and Paris and N.Y. and Mexico City and who was later led off by his bodyguard to be sick in the urinal—later found out he was the richest man in the area Yucatan Peninsula—famous character who married a whore twenty years ago and owns everything everywhere and gets drunk every nite with venerable looking Jaime de Angulo white bearded spic internationalists at the hotel—who were there that night winking and calming him down—sort of an old evil Claude [Lucien Carr] he was, full of misery and rich and drunken disregard of life.
Mosquitoes down here awful—all beds come with M-nets and I have bought one for my hammock.
Jack, incidentally—they won’t let you past customs in Merida without health card and all the Indians have vaccination marks they wear “proudly”—it’s really a 50-50 necessity. Have had dysentery and took pills and it went away, so no suffer. No such thing as a natural man untouched by medicine around here—it’s not for touristas, tho it’s a tourista routine—it is for everyone.
If I had more money, I found a way to get thru Quintana Roo involving busses and narrow gauge mule driven R.R. and an afternoon walk thirteen kilometers on rocky mule path thru jungle—or else a forty peso boat around peninsula—but cannot go cause too costly for my purse. But will be fine trip for someone someday. Many people all over ready to help the traveler—it’s like a frontier—with engineers building a road thru that never gets done.
Received a letter from [Bill] Garver saying he’s still in D.F. [Mexico City] and will see me there.
The man here, head of archeology, name given me by Museum Natural History in N.Y.—turned out valuable—gave me pass to stay on archeologist’s camps, free, everywhere there’s a ruin I go. Great way to travel and see ruins. Write me note to Mexico City Embassy.
Love,
Allen
P.S. Had a great dream—must go to Europe to make movie about Bill riding on trains from Italy.
Allen Ginsberg [Palenque, Mexico] to Neal Cassady,
Jack Kerouac, and Carolyn Cassady [San Jose, California]
January 18-25, 1954
Palenque, Chiapas, Mex.
Jan 18 ’54
Dear Neal and Jack and Caroline [Carolyn]:
Since I last wrote I have been from Merida to Uxmal to Campeche (a port on the peninsula on the way) to Palenque where I am now.
I am beginning to really hate Mexico and almost wish I were out of it, as traveling with so little money I am continually obsessed with saving it, and consequently making mistakes in spending what I have and building up great reserves of anger at whoever gets in my way—usually a Mexican—when I spend it. As it is I have about thirty-four bucks left to get to D.F. on where (I presume) I have more waiting from the telegram and it better be there—though with dear old Bill Garver around I suppose I won’t become a public charge. However I ain’t going to hit a lot of cities on the way that I wanted to—partly no money to get there (San Cristobaldo Las Casas way down South Chiapas) or time and $ to find out how to get there—travel around here mainly by R.R. but I am sure there are roads. By R.R. it would take days and days to San Cristobal from here, which is only 100 or so miles away as bird flies.
Uxmal where I was last week is the 2nd most important Yucatan Roon [ruin] but is the best to live at I think—more glory though less grandeur than Chichen Itza. Have much to say about ruins but am more concerned with a typical paranoid incident occurring ten miles out of Merida the day before I left—having nothing to do I got on a local bus to a small town twenty miles away where there was a small party (a Kermesse they called it—sounds French) advertised. On the way two young fellers picked up on me—at a time when I didn’t really want to try to talk this rotten language anymore—it’s too exhausting just to work out the necessities like food drink and transportation to carry on further trying to make self understood—(in a very bad mood tonite having trekked in mud for hours in a real jungle too hung up picking my way thru slime and thorn trees to get to see any jungle though it was there—and thirsty, little water around—and slightly dysenteric, and with a lousy cold been with me ten days) so as I say not wanting to try to talk no more Spanish that day, just ride and see and eat tortillas, I got hung up.
The lights there went out (Jan 25 is today) and I have not had a chance to continue this letter till now (a week later) and am not at Palenque and the story is half forgotten—be that as it may I got on the bus and got involved in dull conversation with two youths and got off bus half way to get drunk with them and went on to fair and returned at dark and was given over in the small halfway town to what intuition and all told me was the local queer who began singing songs of Corazon on this road at nite and I really didn’t dig the situation as he was a 35 yr old . . . child effeminate this Mexican, an archetype of a kind—I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere—and I got a bus and returned home. Point is not understanding Spanish I couldn’t make anything of the drunken paranoia—much like Jack’s Mexico.
Well anyway to get off this bum kick of incomprehensible story.
I was walking around Palenque and ran into a woman who grew up around here—the edge of the most inaccessible jungle area of South Mexico—who had returned six years ago after various careers in the States, a professional archeologist whose family had owned the Palenque site so that she knew it inside out. As result I am spending a week on her cocoa finca (or plantation)—have been here seven days—don’t yet know when I’ll leave—located in middle of jungle a day’s horseback ride out of Palenque. Last week we set out on march, took jeep to path, then she, I, another girl (wandered thru forest on foot to Palenque from city on Pacific, a student, ugly), an old Indian retainer and a boy being taken to live at the Senora’s finca—four horses and a mule set out for seven hour ride thru beautiful dark jungle—soldier ants, anthills, lianas, orchids, vast trees covered with parasite cactus and fern, big leaved plantain trees, parrots screeching and wild deep roar of howler monkeys in trees sounding like Tarzan Jungle. First time I ever rode a horse—on mucky path, full of little up and downhill wind, trees fallen over path full of hunky-like fungus growths, small streams—an
d always every few miles a small hill covered with stones which was a part of the City of Palenque (forty square miles)—the woman knowing from childhood all parts everywhere, and more, being a sort of mystic and medium type personality, as well as learned in the subject—perhaps the person in the world most emotionally and knowledgably tied to these ruins and this area—so that I found after a few days talking, she had been on foot and plane all thru jungles down to Guatemala and in lost cities all places, some even she discovered, had written books (her editor is Giroux) and learned papers and worked for Mexican government reconstructing Palenque and others, owned a few cities in her great tract of land here (hundreds of sq. mi) and, most important, was the only person in the world who knew of a lost tribe of Mayans living in Guatemala on a river who still possibly could interpret codices and were specially on a mission to keep alive Mayan flame—and she told me all sorts of secrets, beginning with outline of Mayan metaphysics and mystical lore and history and symbolism, that would have delighted Bill, who doesn’t know—that it is all still extant. This lost tribe apparently had brought her up as child, being in area where her father owned $3,000,000 dollar ranch here and having selected her for confidence. Well all this is sort of corny and amusing but the curious thing is that much of it is true in its most classically corny aspects. It is a great kick to enjoy her hospitality in the jungle—she being starved for ignu conversation tho she is not an ignu herself—and go out everyday with machete and rifle in jungle trails, on 3-4 mile walks, hunting, swimming in great clear little rock pools surrounded by giant ferns, in crystal water, returning at nite in darkness when jungle begins stirring, talking Mayan metaphysics. We live in an open sided room with continual fire for coffee and food at one end tended by an Indian, hammocks strung up across the room, a great unexplored mountain right ahead looking very near—a few hundred feet thru the brush behind the house are six native huts with families—who work on the plantation, a sort of feudal system of which she is queen and we are royal guests. Party includes a young Mexican Point 4 apprentice who is supervising the cultivation of the cocoa (which is chocolate). I will leave here sooner or later by horseback for two hours and then by Kayuko (a big tree hollowed out for a boat) up a river to a R.R. town. Then by plane for 80 pesos to San Cristobal, where I have decided to go after all. Plane is cheapest way—there being no way to get across Isthmus except by five day roundabout rail or five day by horse, just as expensive, more so, can’t afford—tho horses are only 6 pesos a day here. At San Cristobal I meet Franz Blum who is a famous archeologist—Hal Chase in disgrace with universities in States, an old lush now gone tropical, who everybody says is the most brilliant man in Mexico and lived with Sherwood Anderson and Faulkner in New Orleans years ago before he came down here and discovered Palenque, etc.—he being now the foremost authority on Indians and Mayans and a friend of my hostess, etc.
I am sending this by Kayuko ahead of me, will leave in a few days more. If you get this letter send me a note care of U.S. Embassy Mexico D.F.
Allen
Have no place on which to write and can’t write comfortable so excuse this sloppy letter effort—can’t concentrate and compose.
What is the situation in Frisco—I am dawdling here and will dawdle in Mexico as long as my money lasts—another two or three weeks perhaps? Then will go to your cheerful household—I have many photographs too with me I will develop in Frisco—about 200 photos, maybe 25 interesting ones.
I had a dream: Everyone I knew killed (by knife) frightening series of murders as in a movie—Gene, Jack, Bill. Police called me in for questioning.
Allen Ginsberg [Tacalapan, Mexico] to Neal Cassady,
Carolyn Cassady, and Jack Kerouac [San Jose, California]
February 18-19, 1954
Tacalapan, Palenque
Chiapas, Mexico
February 18, 1954
Dear Neal, Caroline [Carolyn], Jack:
Well I am still here in the state of Chiapas and don’t know for sure when I will leave, maybe next week maybe next month. Doesn’t depend on anything for sure, just when I come out of a sort of retreat or limbo and push on for bright lights alcohol and sex joys. Here, I am on the brush field surrounded by big forest trees looking over typewriter past leaning thin palm to a great long green mount, a tropical Greylock nobody’s ever been on, supposedly Mayan and enchanted with gold and an old guardian and ruins near a white rocky bluff, triangle shaped, which can be seen on some days; and the contour of the mount changes daily, sometimes can be seen as being far far away, sometimes seems close up and detailed, especially in eerie cloud light of dusk; sometimes seen as a series of ridges with huge valleys unknown between, which it actually is, tho looks daily most like one solid long green mount, name of Don Juan.
In daily walks thru jungle (or nightly) saw a huge rust reddish colored spotted blossom which when smelt appalls the mind with a fetid charnel house odor, stink of flesh manufactured by blind blossom on vine to catch flies.
Feb 19, ’54
Have a beard, a goatee, black and mustachio, long hair, heavy shoes, ride horses, go fishing at nite in streams with natives giggling with focos (flashlites) and long stick with prongs to catch great crawfishes size of lobsters. Or go walking midday naked up a mile of rocky clear stream, bluey sky, with lianas and elephant ear trees and angel hair trees of plantain leaves and giant saibol (mahogany) trees filled with monkeys, on bank or dank islands midstream, ankle or waist or neck deep walk. A few mosquitoes.
And every hour or so get up from hammock and sit and idle with my drums, especially at dawn, at dusk, and during dark hours by fire before mosquito net is opened over hammock. Drums: smallest is three and a half feet, longest is seventeen feet and stands on a vine and stick support for vibrations to hang free. I went out and tapped rubber trees for black hard balls to tip heavy foot long sticks with for proper bong. I play several hours daily, mostly very soft listening, and when a file of Indians rides in thru the trails from Agua Azul, Eden like little town in hills an hour ride away, I break out in African reverberations which can be heard for miles around. Am known as Senor Jalisco.
I read the Cloud of Unknowing, anonymous 14th century handbook of abstraction and in this limbo have developed a feeling again for possibilities of sitting and with stark blankness conceiving a familiar uncanny sensation which never comes to me whole, presumably too divine. Time spent here has been mainly contemplative of this fixed idea, and I had one day of excited agitation thinking I should go be a monk, but no need to do that, can develop anywhere and such agitations are passing. What hung me up on Cloud of Un. was the lovely and obviously true idea that a contemplative doesn’t have to do anything but what he feels like, sit and think or walk and think, don’t worry about work, life, money, no hang-ups, his job is to have no job but the unknown abstraction and its sensations, and his love of it. I have a tentative offer if I want to stay here till August alone when owner of ranch goes off to make money in states and manage it passively, no duties, just be here and see nobody sets fire to house or steals cocoa. Probably a very small pay like 100 pesos month, but perfect refuge and learn a lot. However want to get back to states and am lonely for someone to share pleasures with, wish someone were here to understand beauty of the drums, they’re so big they would make Newman93 for instance cream if he were not beyond the creaming state in his bald sunburned pate age.
Plans: Every several nights I have a melancholy dream that I am embarking for the ancient parapets of Europe: passageways, captains, gangplanks, staterooms, bunks, huge decks cluttered with people in furs a la ’20s or deckchairs, nite lunches, foc’sls, arrangements with family, breaking up of apartments, foghorns in N.Y. harbor mist near docksides, Front Street or Telegram Street; and one night as summary I had a picture of N.Y. in color, in oval frame, enclosing Hohnsbean, Kingsland, Dusty, Keck, Anton [Rosenberg], D. Gaynor or others, Durgin, Merims, was Cannastra?, a compressed proustian moment in oval frame of all characters in activity at a psychic party Technicolor, all NY i
n one picture as you, Jack (are you there?) must have had many times over from road to road.