20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  The sun was low in the sky as we nosed La Tortuga down a steep embankment to a moon-shaped gravel bar. On the other side of the stream overhanging branches reflected yellow green in the water and tiny fish flashed to the surface after insects. Brushing the accumulated dust from the rear window, we set up camp while Dinah waded aimlessly in the stream, changing it from a liquid gold to a murky brown. After almost two months of living in La Tortuga we had our camping procedure well-organized—in less than an hour we had bathed in the tepid water of the river, the bunks were ready, the screens were clipped over the windows and top hatch, and we were eating our supper of packaged mushroom soup, powdered coffee, and dried fruit topped off with salt tablets, vitamins, and Aralen for malaria. Over the insect noises we heard the creaking of oxcarts as white-clad natives came to bathe. They nodded and went downstream around a bend in the river while their oxen drank thirstily. Then in the purple twilight, with their black hair still dripping, the men stopped to chat, politely, almost casually inquiring where we were from, where we were going, and why. The first two parts of that trilogy were easy to answer, but how could we explain the “why,” the challenge, when to them it was challenge enough to exist, or that we liked to travel when many of them had never been ten miles from their homes? But it made no difference to them that we couldn’t answer that last question; as each one left he waved and bid us sleep well.

  Early the next morning the same creak of oxcarts awakened us and the same white-clad figures came again to bathe, greeting us with a bright “Good morning.” We were feeling very cheerful—we had traveled fourteen miles in only five hours the day before. While Helen was making up the bunks and taking down the screens, I was debating what to fix for breakfast.

  “Let’s try our powdered eggs,” I suggested.

  Accordingly, I opened a can, poured the yellow powder into a bowl, added a little water, and whipped it into a foamy lather. Once it was in the frying pan we soon had the most appetizing-looking omelette anyone could wish for. “How’s this for camping out? Come and get it,” I called with culinary pride. Helen and Dinah both answered my summons.

  “Hmm, this looks good,” Helen said, taking a hearty mouthful. Her mouth puckered disapprovingly. “Have you tried it yet?” she asked.

  After that reaction I hesitated, but felt obligated at least to take a bite. My fine-looking omelette had the consistency of an old inner tube. “Well, never mind,” I said. “It will be good nourishing food for Dinah. Here, girl.”

  Dinah looked on suspiciously when instead of her usual tidbit I ladled the whole omelette into her rubber dish. She sniffed it cautiously.

  “Go ahead, Dinah, eat your breakfast,” I coaxed. Trustingly she took a bite—and promptly spit it out, looking at me with an expression that clearly said, “It shouldn’t happen to a dog.” As we ate our substitute breakfast of dried cereal and powdered milk I wondered what I could do with the equivalent of nine dozen eggs.

  As it turned out, Tres Picos was muy cerquita—less than a mile away—but it took almost an hour to get there. News of our coming had preceded us, especially news of Dinah. Bare little boys ran after us as we rolled between the two rows of grass huts that comprised the town.

  “Reen Teen Teen,” they shouted in unison, “Reen Teen Teen.” There were no theaters, no movies; how they knew of Rin Tin Tin I have no idea, but to them Dinah was Reen Teen Teen and they wanted a good look at her. We obligingly stopped the jeep and opened the door. Dinah put her front feet on the back of the seat and grinned just as if she were Rin Tin Tin acknowledging the homage of his fans.

  “Hola Reen Teen Teen,” they cheered, but when Dinah jumped to the ground they clambered up a nearby tree, hanging and chattering like little brown monkeys from the branches. At our assurance that Dinah wouldn’t hurt them, one by one they climbed down and stroked her gently, murmuring all the while, “Reen Teen Teen.”

  From Tres Picos the trail headed again toward the foothills of the mountains, where the country was more open, and for a time the going was a bit easier although our speed never exceeded five miles per hour. There were always rocks to clear from the path and lightning-struck trees to bypass, and in the arroyos Helen stood like a tank pilot in the hatch to direct me when the long bow of La Tortuga cut off the view of the ruts. The jeep became a furnace. Our thermometer registered 120 degrees Fahrenheit inside. The floor boards became so hot that Dinah whimpered when she touched them as she was thrown from the bunk by a sudden jolt.

  Back and forth we zigzagged over grassy hills where hidden stumps battered the bottom of the jeep and where sometimes we lost the trail completely, backtracking, finding it, only to lose it again. By mid-afternoon we were heading toward the lowlands once more. Close to the railroad the ruts fell into deep ravines or climbed tortuously up steep banks. With one wheel in a rut and the other on high center we crawled forward in the lowest gear, slipping sideways into erosions and straining even the safety factor I had included in my calculations of the tipping point. We crossed the tracks for the first time, bouncing over them and down the embankment, cascading the contents of the cabinets to the floor of the jeep. On the other side we plowed like a tank through dense growth where branches dragged across the top of La Tortuga, dropping hordes of stinging ants inside. And then the digging began. The still heat hung like a blanket. We cut down high centers and filled in ruts, rubbing our hands in the dirt to keep the handles of the shovel and pick from slipping from our grip. By nightfall we were still digging. With the jeep hemmed in by tall wiry grass, we mounted the screens and sprayed the inside with insecticide. Without even a thought to food we stripped off our sodden clothes. We had covered only ten miles since Tres Picos.

  By midmorning of the next day we had dug our way along another mile. Leaving Helen to drive slowly behind, I walked ahead clearing away boulders too big to pass over and whacking down limbs that blocked the trail. With each step the forest became denser. Long snakelike vines hung from umbrella-top trees, translucent blue butterflies flitted ghostlike over elephant-eared plants, and frequently as I leaned over to pick up a rock I was startled by a slithering in the undergrowth or by the beady eyes of an iguana doing push-ups on a rotted moldering log. To everything clung the dank smell of decay. And then, with no way to bypass it, the trail became a narrow canal, an eighth of a mile of steaming marsh. Where I could reach I prodded with a stick. The water was about eight inches deep, but the bottom seemed firm enough. With four-wheel drive engaged we eased into it. After twenty feet the jeep came slowly to a halt, all four wheels spinning futilely. Quickly, before they could dig in, I put La Tortuga in reverse and backed out. We tried it again, hitting the mud as fast as we could, sending the thick black water streaming to the sides. Twenty feet, forty feet, and then, our momentum gone, relentlessly the jeep began to sink. We watched helplessly as the axles were covered, then the tops of the wheels, the black ooze creeping toward the doors until only the buoyancy of its boatlike body kept the jeep from sinking still deeper.

  “What do we do now?” Helen asked hopelessly. “Wait six weeks for the rains to float us out?”

  “This is what we have a winch for,” I answered encouragingly, though I knew it was never designed for anything like this. There were several trees within reach of our two hundred feet of half-inch-diameter Manila rope. With one end securely lashed to a trunk I took two turns around the capstan. “Engage the winch gear,” I called to Helen in the driver’s seat. As the rope tightened, the jeep moved forward slowly, pushing a wall of mud before it. Straining against the rope, I kept it taut so it couldn’t slip on the capstan, and inch by inch La Tortuga crawled ahead. We had moved only a few feet when the rope snapped and I fell backward, sprawling into the dark mire. I thought it was only a weak spot in the new rope. I spliced it. We tried again, but it broke in another place. Again and again the rope parted, and again and again I spliced it until my fingers ached. Perspiration burned my eyes; black slime covered my clothes. Each time I moved the slippery rope to another tre
e ahead it became a greater effort. With each splice the rope grew shorter until after four hours it was reduced to less than three fourths its original length and we were only halfway through the swamp.

  I tried doubling the rope. It held but continually snarled as the two strands piled up on the capstan in a hard ball and I had to cut them free. Pulling, cutting, splicing, with painful slowness we moved forward, the rope becoming shorter with each foot of progress. A hundred yards, fifty yards, then with barely enough rope to reach to the closest tree we were within fifteen feet of solid ground when the right wheels rode up on a submerged log.

  “Cut the power,” I yelled. But it was too late. Sickeningly the jeep leaned over, the jelly-like mud coming nearly to the door, where Helen sat operating the winch and throttle.

  “Jump,” I shouted. Relieved of her weight, the jeep tottered a bit, slid off the log, and then straightened out. Helen scraped the foul-smelling mud from her jeans and climbed back in to engage the winch while I leaned against the rope for that last fifteen feet. Weak and shaken, we reached firm ground once more. As I coiled the remnants of the rope and threw them on the bow, I felt neither elation nor relief, only a numbness at the thought that there might be more of the same ahead.

  It was late afternoon and we continued only far enough to get away from the clouds of insects that swarmed over the swamp. We stretched full length on top of the jeep, trying to avail ourselves of every bit of air. I barely moved my head when Helen told me someone was coming.

  A white-haired man walked along the trail whistling, as is the custom in Chiapas when approaching a stranger. The old fellow doffed his hat, and the usual questions and answers followed. When Helen asked if there was a river nearby, he shook his head.

  “No, not for many leagues. But I have a well and I live only one league from here in Joaquin Amaro. You may bathe there and spend the night with me.”

  As inviting as was his offer, even after two days without a bath, the thought of traveling the additional three miles to his home was too much when we had covered but a little more than half that distance all day. We thanked him, and he went on his way.

  Dinah slept outside that night, seemingly preferring the mosquitoes to the hot interior of the jeep. As we lay on the damp bunks we dimly heard through a pink haze of exhaustion the omnipresent singing of insects, the discordant squawk of parrots, the rustle in the undergrowth as some small animal scampered away, and toward the mountains the cry of a jaguar and the frightened jabber of a monkey.

  We slept late the next morning, and as we were getting up we heard the same tuneless whistle and a soft voice calling our names. It was Señor Cabrera, the old man who had been so kind the evening before.

  “You must not leave your dog out at night,” he warned. “Several cattle were killed by tigres a few nights ago near my village.” He waved his hand in the direction in which we were headed. “I have told my wife to expect you,” he continued. “My house is the first one on the right side as you enter Joaquin Amaro. Please refresh yourselves before you go on.”

  Thanking him, we eagerly accepted his invitation. He joined us for a cup of coffee and a few pieces of dried fruit, and, after repeating his warning about mountain lions, went on his way.

  The three miles to Joaquin Amaro were made in record time, considering the speed we had averaged the last few days. Slightly larger than the other villages through which we had passed, Joaquin Amaro was situated on the edge of a salt water lagoon several miles from the Pacific. It was a tropical Venice; long dugout canoes were being poled over the tranquil water. White fish nets draped from bleached poles like a Eugene Berman stage set. The green of the surrounding jungle was accented by pink shrimp drying in the sun, orange hibiscus, and purple bougainvillaea that grew along the sides of grass huts. We stopped at the first dwelling on the right, where spread on the bushes to dry was a white flounced petticoat. Even before Señora Cabrera stepped from the doorway we knew she was a Tehuana woman. Her brown face seemed even browner under her silvery hair, and although her ribbons and square-necked blouse were faded she still walked with an air of assurance.

  “I have been expecting you,” she smiled. “My husband told me you would like to bathe.”

  It was nice of her to say that before she took a good look at us. Covered with mud, we were certainly in need of a bath. We followed her to the bathhouse, a three-sided palm-thatched stall, shoulder high, with a stone table and a tin pail from which we ladled water with half a gourd. While I formed a one-man bucket brigade between the well and the bathhouse, Helen scrubbed off the dirt industriously with an estropajo, a fibrous vegetable sponge that soon brought a rosy luster to her skin. Then Helen took her turn at carrying water for me while I scrubbed. Musical accompaniment for our ablutions was provided by the metallic ringing of water in the pail and the happy snorting of two fat pigs that wallowed luxuriously in a soupy mudhole nearby. I knew just how they felt, but I hadn’t derived the same pleasure.

  Much refreshed after more than an hour of cool water, we put on clean clothes. Along with the children who had been watching us curiously all the while, we joined Señora Cabrera under the overhanging eave of her home. Like the other huts in the village, it was of mud and thatch with no windows. The dirt floor of its one room was swept clean, from the walls hung several hammocks, and in one corner were a few rolled reed mats. Across the room was a tiny blue shrine with a lighted candle flickering in front of a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  Helen and I swung in a hammock in the shade of the eave outside where the señora was making tortillas, grinding the limewater-soaked corn on a large flat stone, flattening the meal between two banana leaves, a Tehuantepec custom, and lining the inside of a bowl-shaped clay oven with the round flat patties. When they were done she handed us each a hot crisp tortilla and a handful of dried shrimp. For the first time we realized how hungry we were. We had eaten nothing but powdered milk, coffee, and a little dried fruit since Tres Picos. As we sat there cracking the shells of the shrimp between our teeth, savoring the little bits of white meat, we answered the eager questions of the señora about Tehuantepec. Only a hundred and fifty miles away, she hadn’t been back there since her marriage forty years before.

  Lazily enjoying the idleness, we swayed back and forth in the hammock for a while. More children came, shyly looked, and left. The only thing that kept us awake was the antics of a scrawny chicken that flapped to the table top intent on a kernel of corn, only to be thwarted by the señora. I almost forgot that there were still almost two hundred miles ahead of us to Tapachula. Though Señora Cabrera invited us to spend the night, there remained several hours of daylight in which we could travel.

  “Thank you for everything, and please give our regards to your husband.”

  “Que le vaya bien,” she called as we drove off, and then hurried to shoo away the chicken, which had taken advantage of our distraction to land in the earthenware crock of corn.

  The rest of that afternoon and the days that followed were one continuous nightmare of digging and cutting until blisters formed, of more swamps where our rope grew shorter and shorter, of fording rivers, of hacking down trees and levering out rocks that had lain undisturbed for centuries. Scouting ahead of La Tortuga, we searched for a path through tall grass, where ticks covered our clothes and, despite our precautions, many mornings we awakened to find some of them, bloated and gray, clinging to our bodies. And there was the dulling heat that drove from our minds everything but the thought of the next obstacle and water. We looked forward eagerly to the type of vegetation that indicated the presence of a stream, many times only to find it clouded with mosquitoes and covered with green scum.

  But there were interludes when we found clear-flowing streams, and, stretching full length in the shallow water, we let it play over us, for a time bringing relief from the heat. Lying with only our faces above the ripples, we watched flocks of parrots or long-tailed birds of glistening blue or yellow in the canopy of trees that overhung the ba
nk. Elongated leaves, like huge African war shields, flicked from side to side, changing color from blue to yellow green as abruptly as the reversing of a Venetian blind. Purple morning glories bloomed from tangled masses of vines, and if we looked intently we could usually see a tiny green lizard sunning himself on a vein of a giant heart-shaped leaf. Dinah, completely in harmony with the jungle fantasy, peered from between feathery ferns like a Rousseau lion.

  The rivers, where we could bathe and wash our clothes and replenish our supply of drinking water, were as important to us as they were to the people who lived there. Our river camps became a meeting place of two cultures. While I serviced the jeep surrounded by curious natives who had left their oxen and horses to drink in the river, Helen washed our clothes amid amused but friendly women. They looked askance at her two-piece bathing suit; although they worked bare from the waist up they would never think of exposing their legs. But Helen’s attire was no barrier, and the women patiently tried to instruct her in their efficient but none too gentle methods of washing clothes. Standing knee deep in the water, long skirts clinging to their ankles, they whacked the clothes resoundingly on the rocks while Helen, attempting to imitate them, produced only a feeble squishing sound. They demonstrated the finer points, kneading together balls of homemade black and white soap in the proper proportion according to the degree of dirt and rubbing soiled spots vigorously with a handful of grass. The native women, rather than carry each piece to the riverbank as it was washed, coiled the clothes on their heads, allowing the cooling water to trickle down their faces and backs. The last time Helen tried this she dropped the soap, and with clothes piled on her head she waddled unsteadily downstream to retrieve it. The comedy ended, and so did her efforts to acquire this very practical art, when she slipped on a mossy rock and tumbled headlong into the water. The soap and several of my socks drifted on to the Pacific.