The Jungle

Resting on the roots of a giant Ficus tree

My friend Roberto was looking for interesting places to take gringos on “tours.” Wanting to check out a “Jungle” about 40 kms north of Mazatlán we cruised up that way to have a look. It is in the preserve Meseta de Cacaxtla Refelejos de Sinaloa. While waiting for Roberto’s friend, Jorge from Dimas, to meet us at a small compound near the beginning point of the trek (a small outpost just off hwy 15) we happened upon Edgar, a young man who grows organic fruits and veggies which he sells at the organic market in Mazatlán on Saturday mornings. He was born in an extinct settlement about four kilometers to the east, about half way from where we were to where we were going. Edgar was dark, thin, and sinewy from days laboring under the sun in his vast gardens. He would be happy to help guide us into the unknown.

In preparation for this trip I bought a machete. A good sized one purchased at Home Depot. It seemed like the most logical tool for an excursion into territory about which I knew absolutely nothing. How I imagined I might defend myself and against what I had no clue. I trusted Roberto’s judgment that there was no danger of being shot by nervous narcos, but I was contemplating other unknowns. The long blade did offer me some measure of comfort especially when Edgar produced his. I was not wild about the bright orange plastic handle on mine. It gave it kind of a sissy machete look. I could find a more masculine machete, or just wrap the handle with black tape like the guy who was born in the now non-existent village who was coming with us on our excursion into jaguar country.

Yes, there are jaguars, and panthers, in this reserve – but they really only come out at night (they say) to hunt and drink at the watering holes. And, we had three machetes between the four of us, Roberto having loaned his machete to his friend Jorge who didn’t bring one. What was he thinking!? Roberto was now favoring a long stout walking stick, which he tore out of a tree, preferring it as a better defense against snakes. Certainly we could hack a jaguar to death with three machetes between us or at least force a retreat with minimal losses to our safari. Did I hear him say snakes? Adding up all this new information and activity I asked about snakes. Oh yeah, there are rattlesnakes and others which I can’t remember. Oh, great, I thought.

When Jorge arrived, we scrambled aboard his small, road-weary four wheel pick-up and set out over the first two miles of drive-able track – a barely passable gouged-out, rainy season water course littered with large boulders and low rocky outcrops that periodically scraped across the bottom of the truck, convincing me the transmission was going to be torn from it mounts.

Jorge is small and tough and weathered like his truck. Roberto rode with Jorge inside the cab and Edgar and I stood in the bed, hanging on to the utility rack looking forward out over the top holding tightly to the frame and ducking to avoid thorny branches reaching out into the track clawing at faces and our bodies. Forget to duck once and I could have lost an eye. Looking through the truck back window, watching Roberto being thrown about the cab, it was difficult to discern who had the most hazardous or uncomfortable ride.

Grinding to a stop, finally, thank God I thought, we parked, dismounted and began pounding on foot over a dry path pushing away more of the razor sharp barbed undergrowth reaching out toward us. As we were walking on the track through the “El Monte” – the dry brushy treed area thick with short spindly trees and brush and cactus and agave – on the way to the jungle, Edgar pointed out the place where he was born about twenty-four years ago. Not a trace of civilization. Twenty years ago when the new highway was constructed they moved the village nearer the new road because before then this place was very, very remote. He motioned where houses once stood and I could not perceive it. Certainly, the long ago turned to dust houses had been made of brushwood and a kind of mud-mortar, the same as his kitchen back in “town” which is now ingeniously attached to a new cinder-block structure that is the sleeping quarters.

Edgar steadily, casually, walked along the track and through dry river beds and wet river beds in his well-worn leather sandals as easily as if he were on a stroll in the park, always pointing out parrots, deer, raccoons, free roaming horses, orchids and other curiosities I have forgotten. (Shame on me for leaving my note pad in Roberto’s car.) He casually, constantly flicked away pesky bushes and branches that were in his way, stopping once in a while to deploy his machete with practiced efficiency and hack away a larger tree branch partially blocking the path. And he was kind and considerate, not getting too far ahead of Roberto and me who, being the old guys in the group, were lagging a bit behind him and Jorge. Discovering walking was not for tourists on this excursion, and now in a continuing recon mission, we discussed the possibility of arranging horses to carry future customers to the jungle. With every step I could hear Roberto’s future “tourists” bitching and moaning and demanding their money back.

I quickly became frustrated with the constant buzzing of small flies perching on my arms and hands invading in my nose and ears – the only one of us apparently so bothered. My three companions didn’t even seem to notice the flies, the mouskas. “Uh, guys, don’t these flies bother you?” I asked. No response. In a brilliant stroke of planning I had forgotten my insect repellant. Roberto had forgotten drinking water. We must work on our team skills. God damn flies, I thought, what – they only like gringos!?

Eventually coming to the first signs of agua in the stream bed, we skirted the first pool of standing water and continued on dry rocks and sand – now moving into constant shade, the trees becoming larger – tall and dense in some places, water now more obvious. We moved along areas of a slightly moving stream coming upon large ponds covered in a bright green tiny plant that gave the pools the appearance of manicured putting greens. Giant ficus trees now loomed constantly, their prehistoric roots spreading out across the stream and streambed, twisting, frequently thirty feet, or longer, like giant scaled snakes, over sand and stones along the riverbed. Butterflies darted about in organized chaos and the screeches of parrots and other native birds sifted down through the leafy canopy. Large red ants were everywhere in the forested area – you had to be careful where you stopped and stood or, especially, sat down. They created constant flowing streams of moving bits of branches and leaves carrying loads twenty times their size, often giving the illusion that the riverbed was alive with pulsating movement. I realized with a sobering shock that my machete would not fend off rapacious ants.

Lagging behind to take photos I suddenly realized I was out of sight of my companions. I was stunned by the urgent awareness of being very much alone and extremely vulnerable. It was a startling discovery to realize that while your hiking party could be only one bend in the riverbed away you felt like you were alone on the planet. There are stories of individuals emerging from the “El Monte” after being lost for a few days, delirious and quite near death. “Roberto, where’d you guys go?” I called. No response. Approaching the last place I remembered seeing anyone, I found a path and pressed quickly on, every second alone becoming exponentially unsettling.

I caught up with the guys as we moved through a huge almost prehistoric grove, skirting around giant twisted trunks over six feet tall supporting trees said to be over a thousand years old. After trudging on to the water source, a prolific spring, we rested. I did at least remember to bring water. While humbled by the place, I thought it doubtful that any “average” tourist would put up with the inconvenience and pay the price necessary to be here. Horses would not make it any more tolerable – you would merely be fending off higher branches aiming for your face and arms and might be surrounded by even more flies. Yep, I could again hear those demands for a refund.

Heading back toward the truck Roberto and I groaned with every step. We’d been walking for over two hours over difficult terrain. Bright yellow fruit growing in clumps like giant grapes at the base of agave cactus hiding in the underbrush was separated from the agave plants, with machetes of course, by Edgar and Jorge. The fruit was tough and stringy – tasted a bit like a lemon/lime combination, and I ate them with some interest savoring the agave bitter-sweetness of it. After gnawing my way through most of about six of the little yellow sinewy balls I remarked about an odd feeling in my mouth. Roberto sheepishly admitted that he forgot to inform me that if you eat too many of that fruit that your mouth will hurt and your tongue will crack open and bleed. Oh great I thought. I dabbed at my tongue with a forefinger. No blood, yet.

Back at the compound we said our adios’s, after arranging for the price and availably of horses to be investigated later. Never happen I thought. Roberto and I then drove the ten kilometers to Dimas for some beers. I sat at the outdoor counter under a palapa and squeezed a lime onto the top of my Tecate, took a sip and my mouth caught fire as if I’d been munching on bamboo splinters. Lime – salt in the wound! Even the tried-and- true multiple beer remedy was only marginally effective in easing the pain. It took about four hours for the burning to subside – but at least my tongue didn’t bleed.