Tag Archives: Mexico

Memoir

Los federales let us go

In a recent post, I shared a story of how we managed to get out of a jam in Mexico when our VW van toppled into a brush-filled ravine. Now, let me tell you about how we escaped being arrested by los federales.

In the mid-’70s, Hank and I, new in our relationship, and my daughter, Sarah, only 2, wandered around Mexico in our vintage VW camper van we named Rosalita. (The photo above was the one on Hank’s passport he obtained before we left.) We decided to settle for a while in San Cristóbal de las Casas located in Chiapas, a southern state in that country. We had delivered a gift a friend wanted us to bring her brother and decided this would be a good place to stay a while.

I don’t recall how we did it or what we paid, but we rented a small house on the outskirts. The house had water, but the toilet drained into a backyard trench that didn’t work well. I used a gas camp stove to cook our meals, and because of the rats, we kept our food locked in a sturdy case in the VW. We could hear rats running across the tin roof at night, and Hank kept a flashlight and hammer next to the futon we used on the floor to kill them. There wasn’t any furniture, not even a chair, except for a woven hammock we strung beneath the courtyard’s porch.

Every day we walked to the mercado, usually stopping at a café in the town’s center. We met a few other gringos, including a friendly man who was our guide as we traveled to indigenous villages in the mountains. He also taught us some basic Spanish. We also met a family of hippie types who rented a large house in town and hung out there a couple of times.

Interestingly, locals sometimes thought I was Mexican, thanks to the looks I inherited from my Portuguese ancestors, and would comment I was lucky to have found a gringo.

One day on a walk to the mercado, Hank and I were approached by a young man dressed in what I would describe as fake hippie garb and who asked us if we wanted to buy marijuana. No thanks, we told him. We didn’t smoke, which was the truth. We also noticed the same day another man, older, who wore one of those fringe suede jackets, driving a dirty, beat-up American-made car. It got even curiouser when we noticed those two talking on a side street like they were sharing a secret.

A night or two later, after Hank pulled into a Pemex gas station, our van was surrounded by armed federales. I recognized the man with the fringe suede jacket was among them. We were told to leave the van, so they could search it.

We had been warned that whole American families were being arrested, and then they had to pay a ransom to get out of prison. That is what we were told happened to the family who rented that big house by the way.

I held Sarah as we watched the federales dig through our stuff. We didn’t own anything illegal, but perhaps they would plant something. I knew this was a serious situation. 

But, instead, they let us go.

Hank and I were relieved as we drove away. We hadn’t done anything illegal in this country, but we decided it was time to return to the U.S. So, we packed up and left the next morning in the VW van that had brought us here.

Once again, good luck had been on our side.

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Adventrue

Riding Rosalita

We called her Rosalita—a vintage VW camper van we bought for $800 and drove from Boston to Mexico. Hank and I were newly in love in the mid-seventies and ready for adventure with my daughter, Sarah. Rosalita would take us there.

In the state of Guerrero, Hank, bored from highway driving, turned onto a road that appeared to be a shortcut to where we were heading. Soon we were on a dusty trip with no certain destination in a foreign country. We didn’t pass homes. We didn’t see people. Finally, though, we came to a sign. Hank put Rosalita in reverse to read it, but the right back tire slid off the road’s shoulder. He couldn’t do anything as the van toppled slowly onto its side into a brush-filled gully. Thankfully, we were unhurt as the van didn’t have seatbelts.

Our plan was for Hank to hike seven kilometers back to the highway to find a garage with a wrecker, while Sarah, then two, and I waited. But just then, a bus rumbled toward us filled with local folk and livestock, and decorated with plastic flowers and statues of Jesus and Mary. The driver hung out the open window after he stopped the bus. His passengers gawked at the gringo family who had overturned their van. The driver motioned for Hank to climb onboard. I told him to go. Who knew when another bus would pass again? I gave him my straw hat and most of our cash.

After the bus left, I searched inside the van for a blanket, papers, food, and water. Sarah and I found a shady spot beneath a tree, but we weren’t alone for long. People came down a path, presumably from the village whose name was on the sign. They talked rapidly and gestured in Spanish. Even with my infantile knowledge of the language, I understood that Sarah and I were in danger. Men with big hats and guns—banditos—would come after dark. They would take everything we had. I must gather our valuables and hide. Now, I was scared.

It couldn’t have been 20 minutes when a dump truck, heavy with chrome and a fringe of pompoms circling the windshield, barreled from the direction we had come, its air brakes hissing as it stopped. Two men jumped from the truck’s bed with axes. The driver, their patrón—dark-haired and all-muscle, and a gut beneath his t-shirt—dismounted with Hank, who smiled and looked a little silly in my straw hat with the flat, wide brim I had bought in France. The bus driver, bless him, had stopped the truck to explain we needed help.

The patrón began barking orders to his men who chopped down two trees and stuck them beneath the van. Using the trees as levers, and a tow from the chain on the truck, they pried Rosalita upright and pulled her forward until her tires were on the road. I cheered.

The only damage was a cracked mirror. Oil was still in the crankcase. The patrón acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened as he pocketed the cash Hank offered. He went his way with his men. We, too, were on the road, trying to get out before dark, crossing two streams and stopping once to clean the dust choking Rosalita’s air-cooled engine. (Later, an inspired Hank painted Rosalita’s name in gold across her front white bumper.)

We drove to the ocean and eventually to San Cristóbal de las Casas, where we rented a house. That’s a vintage postcard above of the town in Chiapas I never mailed to a friend. Alas, we didn’t own a camera then.

 Rosalita rode high as we traveled to mountain villages, where the indigenous women doted on Sarah and sold us textiles. We left Mexico months later when we ran out of money and one night the federales made a sweep of the town, targeting foreigners. Ah, but Rosalita got us back home safely again.

A version of this story ran in Storied Wheels, a SOMOS Publication in Taos, New Mexico.

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