Forget the Cartel; Beware of Your “Friends!”
My Friends Invited Me on a “Short Hike” In Mexico that Nearly Killed Me
The fear is real
Last week in Mexico, I survived crocodiles, falling coconuts, and being fried alive. I thought the cartel was the danger; instead, my friends tried to kill me on a four-hour death march.
On February 22, the Mexican army eliminated El Mencho, the head of the New Generation cartel in Jalisco state. Since then, I’ve feared the threat of further violence. A random roadblock. Men in masks pointing guns. Being tossed in the back of a van.
As a precaution, I never post where I am staying, where I’m heading, or what route I’m taking. I didn’t know the real danger was my friends
Last week, they almost killed me.
My Dutch road buddy, Arjen, and I had arrived at Paraiso Miramar, a tiny tropical resort on the coast in Nayarit state. We enjoyed the beach, the sun, and the gardens.
As I wandered along the quiet stream that ran through the property, the owner called out, ‘By the way, watch out for the big crocodile! He’s in the stream below you!”
A six-footer. Now she tells me!
Arjen and I crossed the footbridge over the stream, admiring the lush, fantastical tropical trees and plants. A Ceylon creeper vine, with large yellow and green leaves, scaled an enormous fig tree. An Indian rubber tree sent down long brown roots toward the ground.
Either of them could have strangled me.
The next morning, we met a tall, thin, tanned couple from British Columbia, Steve and Roseann. Arjen is tall and thin and fit, like them. They invited Arjen on a hike.
Out of politeness, Arjen invited me. I should have known I was out of my depth.
Arjen is in his early 50s, stands about 6’3”, and has long legs. As a career Boy Scout growing up in the Netherlands, he routinely undertook long death marches.
Steve, who resembles the actor Charlton Heston, had been a champion cyclist back home. A fit guy. “It’s just a short walk to the river,” he said. Roseann was also blasé.
Fateful questions arose, but I did not dare ask: What river? How far away was it?
We began walking at 10 a.m., in our sandals. The three of them soon strolled ahead of me. We began to cross small, shallow streams in the tropical jungle. Were there more killer crocs hiding in the dense foliage on the stream, or was it just my imagination?
The streambeds consisted of small, round rocks. The others had no trouble. When I stepped on the rocks, they deliberately shifted underneath my feet. I lurched from side to side, splashing and grunting. Mr. Bones scampered through the stream easily.
Mr. Bones looked at me. “You need to shape up,” he said. This is embarrassing.” “Thanks,” I said. “Remember who feeds you.”
On the far bank, the others waited. “I’m fine,” I shouted, stumbling across. Mud and sand oozed between my toes, forming a layer of gritty, irritating crud in my sandals.
The others strode on, while I staggered, sweating under the hot sun high above us. The day grew hotter by the minute; the high humidity trapped the heat inside me.
My innocent trust abandoned me. “How long is this hike?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just a little ways now,” Roseann said.
“What is a little way?” I asked Mr. Bones. “Are these people trying to kill me?”
“What did you say?” Roseann asked. “Oh, nothing,” I said.
Now we entered a coconut grove, where the mature palms soared 60 or 70 feet above us. Hidden high in the fronds, I saw large, ripe coconuts, ready to fall on our heads.
Having lived in the tropics, I knew that from that height, a large coconut can kill a man. I thought I heard a heavy thud, right behind me. I whipped around.
“Did you see the coconut that almost hit me?” I called out. No answer.
We arrived in a fishing village. Pangas (fishing boats) sat in the sand. Two men stood eating orange fruit from a plant I did not know, and stared at me worriedly. Under the circumstances, I was wary of them. Who were these men? Were we on their turf now?
How would they react to our sudden appearance? Were they with ... the cartel?
No.
Victor and German were members of the village beach patrol who watched clueless tourists traipse through the jungle, so nobody got lost and died on their turf. Random tourist deaths were hard to explain and caused a lot of legal trouble for the tiny village.
They saw three tall, thin tourists who looked fine. The short, fat one was in trouble.
Victor said, “Ai yi yi, German, the fat one is red like a tomate! He looks like he is dying. Do something!”
German smiled at me. “Señor, come, have some jackfruit.” In his extended hand, I saw a large, orange, unfamiliar fruit. Oh, so this is jackfruit.
I stumbled forward, grabbed a piece of jackfruit, stuffed it in my mouth, and gobbled it down like a starving man. It was chewy, sweet, and tart.
Victor and German side-eyed. Victor mumbled, “He is a wild man, this one.”
“Muchas gracias,” I said. “Sorry if I was a little bit … grabby …”
German introduced himself. I repeated his name with a hard G to rhyme with “Herman.” “No,” he said, with pride in his name. “It is pronounced, “Hair Man.”
Aha. They welcomed us, but we had to pronounce their names right. Seemed fair.
On we went.
About 12:30 p.m., we reached the wide mouth of the Santa Cruz River. Roseann examined it. “We could wade through the river here instead of hiking back.”
The river appeared chest high. I peered across. Did I see … more crocodiles sunning on the far bank? Didn’t she see them? How would we survive the crossing?
I needed an excuse. “Umm, my dog does not know how to swim,” I said.
“Oh, then we can’t cross here,” Roseann replied.
“By the way,” I said, sniffing the air. ‘Do you smell a strange odor? Like charring flesh? I think it’s my skin burning. I need to get back in the shade soon, please.”
Steve sighed and said, “Ok, we’ll take the shady way back.”
We resumed the death march. I was parched.
Arriving in a village, Santa Cruz de Miramar, we stumbled on an inviting, shady cafe. I had run out of water at least an hour ago, after sharing the little I had with my dog.
The others, alien beings, had brought no water and needed none. “Let’s stop here for lunch!” I exclaimed. “We’ve been hiking for over three hours.”
Steve waved off the idea and continued to the resort. Roseann and Arjen joined me.
We sat down and ordered a cold beer. A local man with a colorful accordion stepped up to our table. “Would you like to hear some music?” he asked, politely.
“Yes,” I said. He said, “Momento.”
We started eating our food. In a few minutes, two men joined him. It was Victor and German from the beach! Our earlier encounter now seemed like a mystical meeting.
German told the older man, “Hola, Papa, these are our amigos.” “Bueno, my son.”
“Are you related?” I asked. The young German said, “Yes, this is my father, German.”
I told his father, “Your son is a good man. He saved my life today.” “Ah, bueno!” He gave his son an approving nod. They serenaded us in easy harmony and synchronicity.
The rest of the walk back went uneventfully, other than the third-degree sunburn from the four-hour “short hike” without sunscreen.
Later, Arjen, who was fine, looked at me. My neck had turned a bright, hot red. He said, “That looks painful! You should be more careful.” “Thanks,” I said.
Hey, what are friends for? At least they invited me on the hike.
AFTER WORDS TO READERS
Next time, I’ll take my chances with the cartel. My friends are too dangerous for me.
Have you ever trusted your friends, only to find yourself in perilous conditions? Please tell us in the comments about a time you trusted your friends, then regretted it later.
I trusted Arjen. We had been driving in tandem for four days as a security measure. He had told me of his years in the Dutch Scouts. They went on epic hikes. I realized he assumed my hiking ability and my endurance were about equal to his.
Nope!
He said Dutch Scouts took children to remote areas and left them there to find their way home, sometimes without a compass. Was it Dutch Scouts or Ditch Scouts? I wonder how many Dutch children are still wandering around out in the woods?
A few other random facts.
Few people know that falling coconuts are more dangerous than sharks. It makes sense. Not many sharks fall on people from coconut tree tops. Sharks can’t climb.
For anyone interested in tropical fruits, jackfruit is the largest tree fruit in the world. It can grow to over 100 pounds. It resembles another stinky tropical fruit, durian.
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Your support helps me continue finding new ways to get myself into trouble. New stories appear each Thursday.
This made me laugh, Carl. I can relate, I’ve certainly gotten myself into more than one hike that was over my head!
Carl. So your headed South to Cartel country for.more advenures. Bueno. I We are now back in Arizona. Always great to travel and return home.
BUT you Always at home. Enjoy