= = = = = = =

An adventure is made up of many tales – some can be told, and others cannot. This is not a tale of sacred secrets nor mysteries. It is a tale of what I can tell.

= = = = = = =

I can feel the stone-mosaicked earth beneath my tennis shoes as I walk from the nearest village to the campsite. I stop for a moment, seeing the Pyramid of the Sun swirled in the low clouds of this morning, and think of how this adventure began.

Months ago, Alejandro, one of the head shamans of the Strength and Harmony Journey,¹ passed through my village in the north. With him came a growing number of runners from the four directions. He asked me to come with them to Teotihuacán, to witness the ceremonies marking five hundred years of the European invasion of the Indigenous lands of Turtle Island – North America. I refused. I did not want to face its Spirit portals again – I feared its power. Still he told me he would see me here. Just before the ceremonies, I moved to Austin with some friends. Even before stepping into our new home, I told them I would return in a few weeks. The wind carrying the rains from the north carried me south, south of the border, south to the Valley of Mexico. I will never understand the why of this tale.

= = = = = = =

I near the gate of the site, shifting the weight of my old knapsack on my back. The air is sharp with the scent of wood fires and of sweet, cinnamoned coffee. Colorful bundles and worn packs are shoved into car trunks. Polyglot goodbyes are shouted. Already car after car is leaving for the north again, carrying home the hundreds who ran from their homes, throughout Turtle Island, to this Valley. Soon this mud will hold only our footprints.

I move toward the murmured voices, the warmth of the kitchen fire. Sara hands me a metal cup full of coffee. It nearly burns my chilled hands. I let the steam bathe my face. We talk softly of our trip home. She and her family can give me a ride as far as Guadalajara.

Our quiet conversation is interrupted by the deep, accented voice of Alejandro. “Lorena.” He puts a firm hand on my shoulder. The morning mist pearls on his silvery black hair pulled back in a braid. With a nod to him, Sara walks away to help her husband finish packing their car. Alejandro looks me in the eye. “There’s a guy who wants to take one of the vehicles that has been donated to the Journey back to the States. It isn’t in the best of shape.” He points to a blue Jeep Cherokee rusting into the earth. “He doesn’t know any Spanish. It would be best if someone could accompany him.”

Sara’s husband calls to me that they are almost ready to go. I wipe a rain-dampened strand of hair back into its place. “It’ll have to cross at Juárez, no?” I ask the shaman.

He is beckoning to a long-haired man, waving his hand down at the wrist as Latin Americans do. “Yes, to go through customs there. The Journey as to prove all the vehicles brought into the country return – or else the bond on them will be lost.”

Ciudad Juárez is on the other side of the Río Bravo from El Paso. “That’s a damn long ways from Austin. It’ll cost me a bundle to get home from there.”

“No, he’ll pay for the gas,” Alejandro says as the man approaches. Yes, an obvious gringo, down to the grin and ratty cowboy hat. “Isn’t that right – uh, what’s your name?”

“Michael.” His grin grows. He pushes his hat back. His dishwater-blond hair is thinning at the temples.

“She’ll go with you, Michael. You pay for the gas, okay?”

Ay, Alejandro once more is presenting me with a new adventure. What can I say? This Michael is a stranger in a strange land – and Alejandro is calling me into service for the Journey. I feel I cannot refuse his request.

“Lorena,” Sara calls. “Tenemos que irnos. We’ve gotta go. Are you coming?”

I look quickly over to her. Alejandro crosses his arms and raises a brow. I toss the last of the coffee toward the fire. Her car horn blows. I shake my head and wave them on. They leave in a spin of loose stones.

Alejandro leads me over to a tailgate where several others are studying a map. We’ll take Highway 57 through Querétaro to San Luis Potosí. From there, 49 goes to Fresnillo and El Paso. We’ll convoy with four others Juárez.

= = = = = = =

Shouts and slamming doors. This convoy is about to roll.

“Oyen, ¿hay lugar?”

“No, no hay. Tal con ellos. Tienen un carro grande.”

Two Mexican shamans stroll towards our Cherokee. One is tall and thin, the other portly. Their bundles-in-hand bump against their legs. “Perdone, ¿pero podemos viajar con ustedes?”

Michael calls over to me, stowing things in the passenger seat. “What did they say?”

The mud oozes beneath my feet as I walk to the other side. “Muy buenos, señores. ¿Qué quieren?”

I turn to Michael. “They want to know if they can hitch a ride with us. They’re going to Guadalajara. They say we can drop them in Querétaro.”

The back door slams once the last of their baggage is stowed. We are four in this tale of the adventure, Michael and one shaman in front, me and the other in back. Shouts bounce through the aging morning. “¡Vámanos!” “Hold on, I’m coming.” “Voy, voy”

The starter whines with each turn of the key. “Damn,” Michal mutters, “this damn engine.”

“You want me to give it a try?” I lean over the back of the front seat.

“No, it’s a pretty sticky car. Ah, there it goes.” The motor spews bluish smoke into the low-cloud day.

“Well, I can help drive later on, if you need. It’s an automatic, no?” I offer.

“Yeah,” he says looking over his shoulder to me, grinning. “But it’s a bear to drive ‘cuz it always wants to conk out. Gotta drive it two-footed.” He revs the engine, his other foot on the brake.

“¡Vámanos!” The first car of our convoy leaves the camp, its passengers leaning out the windows. “¡Adios!”

“Well, here goes.” Michael shifts into drive and joins the line of vehicles heading out.

Thump, thump, thump – “¡Pare!”

“What the heck!” Michael suddenly brakes. The engine moans in deathly tones.

I lean out my window. It’s Alejandro pounding on our fender.

“¿Qué hay?”

A stocky woman runs up. Her brown hair brushes her shoulders. “Can I catch a ride with you?” Her English is accented.

A second car has pulled out of the site. “Sure, but get in fast,” Michael tells her. The shaman from the passenger seat throws her knapsack in back and sits with me. She gets in front.

We join our place in the departing convoy, hitting bottom as we leave the ruins on the high mountain plateau of the Valley of Mexico. A creak of springs, the crush of rocky desert beneath worn tires. The humph of an old motor hissing steam into the dry air. The cru-u-unch of the underside as we sway precariously over a rather large stone.

And here we are – Michael from Philadelphia and I – with our passengers: two Mexican shamans from Jalisco State, one named Jesús and the other with a Nahuatl name that translates to something like “Jaguar Breath,” and Nadia from Slovenia. Michael and Nadia speak no Spanish; Jesús and Jaguar Breath, no English.

= = = = = = =

The hours and the kilometers pass, and with each our engine coughs and sputters. The tar road sizzles beneath the nearly bald tires. Long ago the last member of the convoy passed from our sight. We are alone on this highway, north of Mexico City, heading north. The warming air of October blows through the Jeep’s open windows. Michal hums as he drives. We others stare out at the desert whizzing by. I nod off to the tires’ drone and the wind’s roar, sandwiched between Jesús and Jaguar Breath.

Clang. Rattle. Scra-a-atch. Boom. The car swerves a bit into the other lane as Michal tries to bring it to a stop on the narrow shoulder. The unmistakable flapping of a blown tire. But what is that metal-on-pavement scraping?

We all get out. The sun is beginning to sear the late-afternoon clouds.

“Well, the right back tire is gone,” Michael declares. We can see chunks of its rubber littering the shimmering highway.

Jesús crawls under the car from the passenger side. His voice echoes up, “Es la flecha. Se quebró.”

“Huh?” Michael asks me.

I shrug and pull myself beneath. Stones bite through my shirt. One end of the driveshaft lies fractured on the ground. “It’s the driveshaft. It broke.”

We settle into the stale heat inside the Jeep and share the bit of bread and fruit we have. The road is barren of traffic. We are someplace, but who knows where? A long walk back from the road is a chain-link fence that meanders for miles and miles. Razor wire atop captures the rays of the now-setting sun. Further back is a low, broad building. “A prison?” I ask the Mexicans. They shrug in unison.

With a pocketknife, Jesús peels an apple. The thin ribbons fall between his fine-boned fingers to the floor. He offers pieces to Jaguar Breath and me.

“So, you all are from Guadalajara?” I bite into the firm flesh.

Jaguar Breath spits a seed into his broad palm. “No, from little villages near there.”

“What do you do there?”

“Oh, I work on the railroad,” he responds.

“And I have a stall in the market with my wife.” Jesús passes another chunk to me.

We pass the time talking of their families, their children. Yes, Jesús already has grandchildren. The last tints of the sunset are fading into the grey of dusk.

A battered pickup pulls onto the shoulder ahead of us. I get out with Michael, the shamans following behind. Two men approach us. The older one introduces himself as a mechanic. With a flashlight, he examines the driveshaft. “Sure, I can fix it for you. It’ll be three-hundred-thousand pesos.”

Whew, one hundred dollars. We four go into a huddle.

“This man is not a Green Angel,” says Michael, referring to Mexican mechanics authorized to assist motorists stranded on the highways. “The guidebooks all say travelers should only trust Green Angels to help them out. How do we know …?” He beats his yankee sombrero against one leg. He wrinkles the thin skin of his forehead, sunburned to his hat-line.

“Look,” Jesús says, “we’ve been here now how long?”

Jaguar Breath kicks at a pebble. “Well, we could see if he can drop the price a bit, no? Three-hundred-thousand pesos is quite a bit.”

We approach the man again. We let Jaguar Breath and Jesús negotiate. “Well, since you are coming from ceremonies, I could … How about 120,000? Including the tire,” the mechanic offers.

= = = = = = =

Soon we are left alone again, the mechanic and his son gone with the shaft. The hours pass with only an occasional tire-sizzle, the sporadic whoosh of a truck going by. The stars begin to spin thickly through the sky.

“So, Nadia, where are you from?” Michael says, breaking the silence.

“Slovenia.” She reaches into a plastic bag of bread. “It feels great to have the freedom to travel. We couldn’t before, under the former government.”

Michael takes the bag she now offers him. “And where are you traveling to?”

“Oh, to Real de Catorce.” She breaks a piece of bread off and smears some peanut butter on it.

Real de Catorce. I’ve heard of the place from many other foreigners and from my readings about the indigenous peoples of Mexico. It’s an old mining community near San Luis Potosí. There is only one reason why she would be going. I translate what she said for Jesús and Jaguar Breath. Jesús grunts, “Why, Nadia?”

“Oh,” She wipes her knife off, “because I want to have a spiritual journey. I understand I can do so there.”

“That’s where the Huichol go on pilgrimage to have their peyote ceremonies, no?” I say in English and Spanish. The two shamans nod.

“Yes, and I’m so excited.”

Jesús shifts in his place, his elbow hitting my side as he crosses his arms across his lean chest. “Peyote is a sacred herb, a gift from the Creator,” I translate for him as he speaks. “It has its own ceremonies that must be followed.”

“Well of course I won’t just take it. I understand there are men there who will give it to you.”

“Who will sell it to you. But they do not follow the ceremonies.”

Nadia sighs a laugh. “What ceremonies?”

Jesús turns his hard eyes to her. “The Spirit of Peyote is strong. One must pay him respect or one will not have a good journey.”

I hear Nadia’s sigh again in the dark.

“Uno tiene que cultivarlo de pequeño para cultivar una buena relación con él. Así lo muestra respecto,” I repeat to Nadia, forgetting to translate. It’s been so long a day. “One has to cultivate it from when it is small, in order to cultivate a good relationship with it. In this way one shows it respect.”

Jesús nods at me, then continues, “But before taking it, one must purify oneself. One must go away to a quiet place, and fast and meditate for two weeks …”

Nadia cringes. “What?”

“Then one must sing the songs to him, and say the prayers before asking for the journey. One must pay much respect to him, or one will not have a good journey and may get lost.”

The lights of a passing car silhouettes Nadia’s shaking head. “Ah, that’s all just superstition.”

“Actually not,” I say. “There are several herbs which are considered sacred by the indigenous peoples of the Americas, and they must be taken with great care and proper guidance.” Jesús nods. “Another one is called jimson weed, Datura. It, too, is very strong. Many years ago, I knew a guy who took some. He’s still in a mental hospital. They say his mind is just gone.”

“But I’ve known many people who have taken it without problems.”

“And what luck they are still here to say so,” counters the shaman, settling back in his seat.

Nadia turns away, peering into the darkness.

= = = = = = =

The mantle of midnight has spread over the desert. Someplace a bird calls. I pull my blue jean jacket closer around me as I sink beneath my sleeping bag, unzipped to accommodate the three of us in the backseat. Just as I begin to drift, standing on the edge of the Dreamworld, we hear the crunch of gravel in front of us. The battered pickup has returned. We hurriedly get out.

He’s got bad news. He has no electricity. He doesn’t know how long it’ll be out. Yes, he promises, he’ll get to work repairing our drive shaft as soon as he can. He’s sorry.

What can we do? We get back in; I take the seat behind Michael now. Fatigued by the days gone by, and by this day gone by, we settle into the night, hoping for some sleep.

= = = = = = =

I am drifting. I am … some place, I don’t know where. I am … half-awake, feeling a tongue licking the ridges of my right ear, teeth gently gnawing it. I shift under the sleeping bag, chilled by the air seeping through the car. I am … more awake, aware of a cat’s breath on my neck, his tongue, his teeth. I am … totally awake.

“Híjole, cabrón,” I mutter sharply, shoving my elbow into Jaguar Breath’s meaty ribs. “Didn’t you say you have a wife and kids back home?” I pull the bag around me tighter, moving closer to the door.

And I drift back, standing again on the edge of the Dreamworld.

= = = = = = =

A crunch of gravel in front of us. The sky is beginning to lighten with pale magenta. The battered pickup has not yet returned. No, this is a black Mercedes. The shamans are already awake. I tap Michael on the shoulder. A uniformed man walks around to the rear passenger door. A well-dressed man gets out. We slowly tumble into the morning.

He is the owner of this factory. He waves out yonder, to that place a long way back from the road, where a low broad building hunkers into the earth and a chain-link fence meanders for miles and miles. Its razor wire is capturing the rays of the rising sun. His guards called him last night, reporting our presence. If we like, while we wait for the mechanic to return, we may come in to have some breakfast and to freshen up. Just tell the guards at the gate, and they’ll let us in.

He waves a short goodbye, the sun glinting off his gold watch. The chauffeur closes the car’s door. Nadia stumbles out of the Cherokee, her blanket tangled around her legs. “Who was that?” she asks as we watch them pull into a turnoff a few hundred meters up the highway. The earth billows behind them, settling momentarily as they await a gate’s opening. The Mercedes shines in the growing light.

While Nadia and Jaguar Breath are away at breakfast, the battered pickup returns. Yes, his electricity finally did come back on, early this morning. By the time our traveling companions return with some food for us, the mechanic and his son are packing away their tools. One-hundred-twenty-thousand pesos and a new tire later, we are ready to roll.

Once again the hours and the kilometers pass, and with each one our engine still coughs and sputters. The road sizzles. We are alone on this highway, north of who-knows-where, heading towards Querétaro, Fresnillo, El Paso. The warming air of the day blows through our open windows. Michael is humming. The rest of us stare out at the desert. I watch a roadrunner dart toward the shade of a cactus.

Clang. Rattle. Scra-a-atch. The car swerves a bit into the other lane as Michael brings it to a stop on the narrow shoulder. Metal on pavement. Could it be?

Jesús looks under the car from the passenger side. He stands up, wiping sand from his hands. “Pos, es la flecha, Se quebró.”

“Huh?” Michael asks me.

I look into Jesus’ brown eyes. “¿De verás?” A smile cracks his face. He shrugs and turns away to Jaguar Breath. “Uh, Michael,” I wince, “it’s the drive shaft.”

Jaguar Breath crawls beneath and shoves the shaft out one side. “It must have just fallen off,” I translate. “It appears not to have been the right size.”

“Shit.” Michael kicks the side of the vehicle. A chunk of rust falls to the ground. The customary hissing from under the hood begins erupting into a geyser. Michael throws his hat onto the ground. “Damn piece of shit. I should never have offered to take this back. I should have listened. It’s worthless.”

= = = = = = =

We share the last remnants of bread we have. The road is barren of traffic. We are someplace, I don’t know where. There are no signs, no markings of where we are. Just endless desert stretching to either horizon, speckled now and again with nopales and frail trees. The sun moves higher into today’s clear sky, its white light glaring off the blacktop. Nadia shakes a now-dry water bottle.

A battered pickup truck pulls onto the shoulder ahead of us. No, this is a different battered pickup truck. The shamans get out of our Jeep, with Michael and me following behind. Two men approach us. The older one introduces himself as a mechanic. He looks at the drive shaft lying on the shoulder of the road.

“Well, what do we do now?” asks Michael, rubbing his many-day-old stubble on his chin. We form a loose huddle.

Jesús shakes his head. Sweat pearls on his close-cropped, silvery-black hair. Jaguar Breath throws his hands to the sky.

“Look, why don’t we strike a deal with them?” I suggest.

And strike a deal we do: a free tow to their garage, a letter to the Mexican customs explaining why we had to abandon the vehicle, a free ride to the nearest town.

= = = = = = =

In the limp shade of a small copse of trees, I am rolling up Michael’s clothes, packing them into a large duffel bag. I promised Alejandro – and Michael – that I would make sure this gringo arrives safely in the States. I shake my head, single braid swaying. I cannot believe that this man decided to bring this much stuff with him for a three-month running journey. Before I began this task, I asked him if, indeed, all this were his. I suspected it might be castoffs of the other runners. Michael only shrugged and nodded, then turned away.

I look over to him. He is sitting in the open door of the passenger seat, looking at some papers.

“What you got there?” I ask.

“Some of my kids’ drawings.” He looks up at me as I approach him, shuffling them in his hand. “I guess I won’t be able to take them.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” I pull some more clothing out of the back of the Jeep Cherokee and resume packing the bag. “Look, here are some book bags. Perhaps you can sandwich them between some of those books you get, eh?”

He nods absently. His hat shades his grey eyes.

“So, Michael, how many kids do you have?” I push the contents of the duffel down harder, to get a few more things in.

“Two. They’re nine and seven. My wife … my ex-wife has custody of them.” He places the drawings in a large book about Teotihuacán. “We got divorced just about four months ago.” His flat voice is spiked with pain. “I figure I can try to start anew once I get to Las Cruces. Perhaps get a job teaching science.”

= = = = = = =

The silence of these afternoon hours drift on insect songs. Jaguar Breath and Jesús are sitting on some rocks under one tree. Nadia is by herself, reading.

All I can think is to do my best, salvage as much as possible for him. The duffel is full. Two big book bags, and now a third are packed tight. “I can help you carry some of this, but I don’t know how much more we can take on the buses and trains, Michael.”

I see the mechanic leave his brick-block office, a piece of paper in hand. Michael shuts the driver’s door quietly, and gives the keys to the mechanic. “Well, perhaps the tent and my sleeping bag, too?”

“Okay.” I look at the receipt the mechanic has written. Jesús and Jaguar Breath read over my shoulder: broken drive shaft; engine in bad repair; carburetor needs rebuilding; leaking radiator; threadbare tires. Is there anything else?

“No,” I tell him. “I guess we’ll be ready to go.”

“The man motions to his sons to load our stuff into the back of his pickup. Nadia climbs up and sits on a wheel well.

I see Michael looking at the stuff we have to leave behind. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want? We can find a way …”

“No, it’s okay. You all can have it,” he waves to the several coolers, the milk crate of books, the god-knows-what-else piled to one side. Jaguar Breath grabs one of the ice chests and tosses it in the back as he gets in.

= = = = = = =

Hours ago that battered pickup abandoned us at the small bus office in San Juan del Río. Together, we five – Jesús, Jaguar Breath, Nadia, Michael and I – caught a bus for here, Querétaro. The shamans assured us they’d be fine, and blessed our journey. They caught the first bus for Guadalajara and home. Nadia left without a goodbye and headed for San Luis Potosí. The sun has long since set, and the chill of the night desert is beginning to creep into this steel and glass station.

Michael is looking at one of his children’s drawings. I prop my feet up on my knapsack and lean back in my orange plastic chair, marking my place in my journal with its red binding cord.

= = = = = = =

1. All names have been changed to protect those involved.

– published in : Drive: Women’s True Stories from the Open Road (Seal Press, 2002)