Vera Cruz and The Machete Man

We had been in Vera Cruz for two days. Getting there had been an adventure in itself. It took over 24 hours, was fraught with many members of the group becoming violently ill, and for me, presented the challenge of changing diapers while riding in the car at 60-70 MPH on dumpy, bumpy roads in Mexico.

We were a group of six families from Louisiana on our way to spend a few weeks with a friend of ours who was an anthropologist/missionary living on the edge of the jungles of Vera Cruz, Mexico. Our decision to make the trip was based on our desire to support David in his humanitarian activities. And, he was from our town.

David was a tall, bearded, mountain man with a booming voice. Three years before, he had moved into a house so close to the jungles, they were his back yard. His mission was to take a machete and hatch his way into Indian villages where the residents had never or at least close to never seen a white man. Once he had established trust, a rapport and a sense of language with these people, he would teach them about God and being born again. We felt it was a worthy cause.

[After being assured everything was safe and virtually told to bring my children along, I decided this would be a family trip. Naomi was a year and eight months and Michael was only 6 months old. David, our host, and his wife had three children living there so it all seemed kosher. Only the hard way did I learn that David forgot to mention the intense heat, the spiders including tarantulas hanging out in his banana tree, the larger than life insects and last but not least, the less than sanitary conditions. Here or in next section?]

Floating Away
One of our biggest moments in traveling to David’s place was when we reached a river crossing where the bridge was flooded. Hugh amounts of water were rushing over the bridge like tidal waves. It was the same bridge that just a year ago was the location of a tragic accident involving a school bus and 50 or so children. Then, as it was for us, the bridge was flooded. The driver thought he could make it across. But, about half way, a huge rush of water pelted the bus shoving it into the river on its side. The water carried the bus quite a ways down the river. When it was found and people tried to rescue those inside, they found that all the children and the driver were already dead.

Now here we were, faced with a dilemma. We were almost to David’s ranch as he called it. We were many miles from civilization. There was no place for us to go. We had to take a chance. There was an open bed truck, a bus and a couple of cars on the other side of the river facing the same decision we were dealing with. Finally, we were able to communicate using universal hand signals to the people on the other side. The rushing of the water was so loud it was deafening.

Somehow we managed to organize our side and those on the other side. The truck would come across first. Slowly and diligently the truck’s driver and the multitude of people in the back, hanging over the side, and sitting on the top of the cab made their way to our side. Now, it was one of our vehicles that had to cross. We had five cars in our group.

The first car started to cross with a strong heading. They were doing great. It looked like they were going to get across with no problem. Then suddenly, half way across, the tail of the car began to fish tail. It twisted in the wave of water like a corkscrew. The front end began to tilt downward into the river. We thought for sure that we were going to loose the car and those in it. We could tell the driver was feverishly trying to straighten the car. Then, without warning, the tide changed and the car swung back straight on the bridge. It lunged forward and before we could comprehend it, it was on the other side, safe and sound.

With our new sense of experience in this endeavor, we decided we had to weight the cars down more with people. So a group of our guys crammed into the car and others hung onto the doors.

Sure enough, it worked. The men now on the other side jumped on the bus that was equally as loaded down with people hanging on everywhere as the truck had been. We continued the procession back and forth with the men until both sides were across.

*****
It was the dead heat of the summer. The humidity made the atmosphere intolerable. We were in the middle of nowhere, staying at David and his family’s “house”. Our accommodations were in cement blocks with nothing but a bunk type bed and a door. We were situated right underneath a banana tree where black tarantulas like to hang out.

I had Naomi and Michael with me. Naomi was only a year and a half and Michael was 6 months. David had encouraged me to bring them with me but once there I realized that was a mistake. It was so hot! There was only a well to draw water from to use for bathing. And tarantulas have a tendency to crawl up the wall during the night and drop down on those innocently sleeping. I was terrified that one would drop down on Michael in his crib. I keep Naomi close by me and kept her covered well.

David and his crew had several big wheel trucks that they used to traps through the jungle. He had setup the ranch on the edge of the jungles three years ago. He had a few horses that he used to weed his way into dense parts of the jungle as far as he could take them. Then he would tie them up to whatever he could find, take his machete and hack his way into parts of the jungle that no white man had ever been before.

There were tribes of Indians embedded deep inside the jungle. They spoke a semblance of Spanish. Over the years, discovered several of these tribes and brought them religion. He established a relationship with these people that was odd but interesting.

David asked us to go with him to one of the tribe’s villages. He told us all the rules. First, while traveling in the truck to the village, we were to be very mindful of communist guerillas hiding in the jungle. The guerillas had come into the jungle for political purposes. The people there had a legal right to vote in the next election. They were so very primitive, totally unaware of who the rebels really were. All they knew was that these men came to them, built them concrete homes, ran electricity throughout the village and supplied an abundance of alcohol, which the men quickly became addicted to. They introduced them to the concept and gave then instructions on voting – for Communist politicians.

One ploy the guerillas used to obtain supplies while in the jungle was to lie in wait for groups like David’s to pass by. They would hear the big monster trucks that David used to get as far into the jungle as space would allow. Then they would take a donkey and tie it to a tree or place of large log in the path so that someone would have to exit the vehicle in order to clear the way. Then they would attach using the individual as a hostage while they would ransack the vehicle and the pockets of those inside, leaving nothing but the seats. There were even reports of individuals alone being shot to death.

So David always carried a gun. During our trek to the jungle village, we encountered a donkey in the pathway. David, armed and cautious, exited the truck and moved the donkey out of the way without incidence. We were lucky.

The second rule was concerning the outdoor “facilities”. Of course there was no plumbing in the jungle so David explained how the left side of the village was for the women to relieve themselves and the right was designated for the men. This sounded so mind boggling, at least to us women, but he explained that when a woman was menstruating, and after having mastered the art of extreme muscle control would actually hold her blood in and only go to the women’s side of the jungle a few times of the day to release it all. And, of course, there was a specific part of the women’s side of the jungle to do this as well.

Rule three was, “WHATEVER they give you to eat, clean your leaf (plate) or we die”. We thought he was joking until he explained that these people would go for a week without eating just so they could feed us what they considered a luxurious meal. To them, food was their salvation; it was sacred, precious. Not to eat every single bite was like saying you don’t care if they starve and don’t appreciate their sacrifice. This would be a sign of war.

Concerned, we asked David what kind of food they would serve us. He refused to elaborate but said that they did eat a lot of beans. Well, beans didn’t sound so bad, right? In fact, I psyched myself out thinking, “I can do this, no problem!” Oh God was I wrong.

The forth rule was to remember that the man was dominate and to be highly respected. We weren’t to look and certainly not stare at them whatsoever. We were not to attempt any communication with the men. The men were very small. Short, thin and usually just sitting on a stump all day long, they were not the vision of the manly man. In fact, they looked like you could knock them over with a feather.

The women were the extreme opposite. They were taller, fatter, very muscular and generally, toothless. The women did all the work, planting, plowing the sides of the mountains, cooking, and well, anything else requiring physical actions. They were toothless because the men would smack their women around, knocking out teeth as often as possible. It was so hard for me to imagine this when looking at the physical build of the women verses men.

Finally, we arrived at the village. The women and children welcomed us while the men just kept sitting on their stumps like appendages. The children could not get enough of looking at us. But they wouldn’t touch us or get very close.

We were taken into the largest mud hut and seated at a “table”. While sitting there in stark anticipation, I suddenly felt something wet on my leg. Looking down, I found a wild dog peeing on my shin. Not knowing what to do or how to react seeing as though we were told that the animals in the village were considered sacred, I just sat there. Clenching my teeth, wanting to scream, “Go away you filthy animal”, I just remained calm and silent. Sitting there, pondering what to do, I then felt another strange sensation on my leg. Cautiously wondering whether I really wanted to know at this point what was now happening on that portion of my leg, all I could think about doing right now was chopping it off, I glanced down only to find a pig licking the pee off my flesh. My only thought was, “And why am I the only one that these animals seem to pee and lick on?”

With respect, but mostly fear, I sat there without protest. To my surprise, both animals finally just settled themselves at my feet as if to say, “well, we have already depredated you and you didn’t kick us so we’ll warm your feet”. As if it wasn’t hot enough!

Without saying a word, a woman went to the cooking area of the hut and returned with bowls of something very red. Looking at the bowl’s content, I had a renewed sense of panic on eating all of it. But, it looked to me that this was a bowl of chili and being from the South, chili was a common meal. So, I thought, “I can do this”. I took my “spoon” and stirred the contents around. Then I struck a hard object. Using my utensil, I scooped the hard item out of the bowl. And there, staring back at me was the head, eyes and all of a chicken. David shouted, “Debbie, you have been chosen as the honored guest”. I was thinking if this is how they are honoring me, I would prefer being a peon like the rest of the group. David explained that the head is a delicacy to these people. There are 2 legs, 2 breasts, 2 thighs but only one head. He told me I had to suck the brains out of the head.

My response to him was, “no way”. I shuddered as I recalled a memory from when I was small. I was having dinner at my grandmother’s house. My uncle had brought a squirrel to my grandmother who promptly cooked it right up. I remember her taking the head and sucking the brains out of it as if she was sipping a cup of coffee. I was so grossed out.

And again, there was NO WAY I could do that kind of sucking. Panicked I eyed David like I was drowning. He must have realized that this was a serious situation because he whispered to me that as is tradition, when the meal had been served, the woman would go and face the corner of the mud hut until we had finished eating out of respect. When that happened, he told me to flop the chicken head over into his bowl, he would suck out the brains and then flop the head back into my bowl. It worked like a charm. I was elated.

Looking into my bowl, I thought, “This will be a piece of cake, just a bowl of chili”. So I took a big ole bite. I swallowed immediately, not wanting to take a chance on the taste. And then it began. The pain, the burning, the absolute torment! I could feel every minuscule bit of my throat that this substance traveled, BURNING all the way! I felt it land in my stomach like lava oozing into a pocket of earth. My body seized, my sweat glades could not produce enough sweaty stuff, my lungs were locked, my heart was pounding, my bowls, anticipating the devastation, began cramping far before the enemy arrived. I could feel my throat swell. There was no water or any other liquid substance served. Looking around the table, I could see my fellow tormented friends desperately trying to survive this substance. The expressions on their faces were distant and non-communicative, just deep in concentration.

It reminded me of the time when I was living in Amman, Jordan. I was on a trip up North with some other Americans. One of the girls in our group came running on board the bus so excited over some photos she had taken. She was going on and on describing this man who was the subject of her photos. She stated that he had this almost complicated expression on his face, as if he were in deep concentration. We were enthralled. As she gestured toward the place where this man had been, I looked out the bus window and bust out laughing. The girl was miffed. I couldn’t help but yelling out to her, “Oh yeah, he is concentrating alright. He is pooping in a field!” She was so embarrassed that she had taken all those photos of an old man pooping in a field, that she ripped out all the film in her camera.

Anyway, my only thought was if I had to do this, which was the case, I should just try gulping all this bowl down as quickly as possible so the suffering and damage would be in one full swoop.

So I began scooping and swallowing, no thinking, just swallowing and scooping. Finally it was down. Now there was the question as to whether it would stay. So I locked my jaws, thought of a cool smooth stream and told myself I could do it.

Just as I was feeling that it was down and would stay there, my friend Cathy kicked me under the table. I looked over at her and she said out of the corner of her swollen, red mouth, “It is going to come back up.” I told her to hold it in to just hold it in no matter what. I told her of my cool stream but nothing was doing. Tears were streaming down her face and she was beginning to involuntarily spasm in her mid section. I turned to David and told him, “Look, she is not going to make it. There is just no way she can keep this down. Just tell them she had to go to the female side of the village to relieve herself and make it work or else we are all going to be reliving this experience.” He agreed.

So, I jumped up and took Cathy to the women’s side of the weeds where she promptly began to re-experience her dinner. Afterwards, she turned to me and said, “Debbie, it was even hotter coming back up.” That I did not want to know. Thank God I was able to hold on to my portion and was the only one at that table who digested it all with grace. And believe me, grace was not the subject of our lives for the next week living together under one stale, smoldering roof.

It was only later that we learned that what we ate really was chili. The only difference In the Texas Chili that we all knew and loved was that chili was exactly what that bowl of red stuff was, chilies. It was a bowl full of extremely hot red chilies that had just been crushed up to make a meal.