Wadley, Mexico 2000
"Bohemian Rhapsody" ~ Wadley, Mexico © 2011 Skip HuntAfter what seemed like an eternity, a rusty 3rd-class Bluebird bus blew in envoloped in a cloud of fine dry dust. No too many passengers on board except a dusty dread-coiffed hippy couple. The young fella looked as if he might be Mexican but I couldn't tell for sure. His lady companion was Asian... Japanese I think. I generally avoid these bohemian types because they're fairly cliquish if you don't sport the same rasta uniform.
That... and, they tend to attract la policia.
When we arrived in the desert train depot town of Wadley, Mexico, the rasta-boy asked me in English, "Is this Wadley?" Couldn't make out the accent, but he sounded Israeli. Boy was I off on that one! I confirmed it was, and said, "See ya 'round... It's a small place.", then bolted for the hacienda of Don Tomas to find a room to rent for a few days. The camp compound was fairly deserted so Don Tomas helped me remove some piles of metal rod and wood planks that had taken up residence in my preferred larger tin-roofed cinder-block room that had accumulated since my last desert visit. As always, Don Tomas reminded me not to carry peyote into the town and to keep it out of the camp compound. He said to just eat it in the desert and you'll have no problems. In the last ten years I'd rarely seen la policia, nor encountered anyone who'd been busted in the desert, but the 3rd party stories were always rampant so I usually heeded his advice.
After I was settled in a bit, grabbed a bottle of water, my knife, and off I went into the desert (called Huiricuta by the Huichol indians) to get my first vomit laden "break-in" trip over with right off the bat. After the first peyote induced bout with severe abdominal distress, I tend to acclimate to the desert faster and can avoid the whole ugly digestive mess altogether on subsequent journeys.
I started out with a heavier dose than I should've. Ten plants, and I paid quite dearly for that miscalculation. I won't trouble you with the details, but the sickness portion of the excursion lasted 3hrs. After paying my dues in radical abdominal helter-skelter, my body got into sync and the rest of the evening was awe-inspiring. Magical in fact! And after a few hous of pure bliss, Mescalito finally gave me a break and I was able to drift off into a Technicolor dreamland.
The next morning, after I'd stocked up on fresh goat cheese, tomatoes, tortillas, and water the young dread-locked hippy couple stopped by the empty compound. They'd also taken a room from Don Tomas, but he'd put them down in the camp closer to the railroad track. Don Tomas has some formula dictating how he assigns different people to one of three differnt compounds he runs. I'm guessing he separated them from me because they were a couple and I was flying solo? I have no idea, but he seems to have some system I haven't deciphered yet. The couple got a less desirable locale because the train passing only about 10 meters away feels like a mechanized earthquake every hour or so. Very tough to sleep, but you do get used to it, eventually.
The couple introduced themselves and we made a bit of the usual comparative travel small talk. After I realized these were the same "new arrivals" who earlier Don Tomas was asking me if I'd indoctrinate with instruction of the proper harvesting, cleaning, and dining of peyote, I asked if they'd be ready to head off in an hour or so. They seemed nervously thrilled to have an English speaker run them through the ropes the first time, as they didn't speak a word of spanish. We all parted to pack our essentials, ie. a few oranges to choke the plants down, a good knife, water, smokes, toilet paper, etc. and an hour or so later we were hiking our way out into the desert
I was a little apprehensive about volunteering to hang with a couple of dread-headed neo-flower children because they always seem so pretentious and full of their percieved "individuality. However, I'd recently misjudged the character of one straight-laced and allegedly American attorney in Mexico City who ended up robbing me, so I figured I'd give these two a chance before I judged them too harshly.
As the afternoon blazed, and after we'd all made it past the complimentary nausea hump, we built a nice fire and drifted through loose conversational threads from one topic to another as we gazed at occasional stars shooting down from the milky way. I told stories, that looped back into other stories, and they shared related tales as well as the conversation wove into one bohemian rhapsodic tapestry blanketing the desert night.
Turns out the young fella had spent his mandatory three years in the Israeli army, had to do a bit of fighting here and there, except he said it was never much of a fair fight. I asked him to elaborate and he simply replied "They had rocks, we had machine guns." The memory seemed to weigh very heavy on him and I asked if he'd ever had to kill anyone. In retrospect, that wasn't I'd normally ask, but when you're connecting with other souls under the infuence of peyote, you just say what's honestly on your mind. I can't even fathom what it must feel like to be ordered to kill another human being.
He paused for a little while and I could actually feel the pain in his eyes. It hurt to know that such a gentle soul I'd just started to know had to endure such a horrible experience. It was almost as if I telepathically feel the pain as well, or perhaps it was just intense heart-felt empathy. He fought breaking down, and then said he thought he probably had killed, but he couldn't be sure. He said there was so much violence and gun-fire and a lot of people were going down. He wasn't sure if his bullets struck their targets, but he figured at least some of them likely had.
The mood got so heavy and the peyote seemed like it was getting even stronger, so I quickly changed the subject. As much for his benefit as mine. I've learned from experience that it's not generally such a grand idea to delve into such topics when the mind is so vulnerable, but it's also best to let the mind flow as freely as possible and not restrict it with old perception and stale knowledge.
It was a beautiful rest of the night and I was sad when they had to move on the very next day. I'd certainly miss them, but would look forward to catching up to them one day in India where they now make their home in-between trips to Japan to sell handicrafts and jewelry and music festivals.
They'd already been gone for a few hours when I retired to my room to take refuge from the heat scorching heat. I rested my head on an old matted pillow and could hear paper crumpling. Underneath the pillow I found a dear letter from them as they each thanked me kindly for showing them "the way" and urged me to look them up the next time I'm stumbling through India.
Skip Hunt
Austin, Texas
"Wadley Cup" ~ Wadley, Mexico © 2011 Skip Hunt