The north

The North

Dave Francis

Tap tap tap…. Tap tap tap. The sound of the hammers striking the chisels outside of the restaurant floated across the street and into the little restaurant on the square of Toluca. They were there today, like every other day, chiseling statues. Young men, old men, even a few boys working in the midday sun. Daily, they made dozens of the miniature statues to sell to tourists at the ruins at Teotiahuacan. They carved them from the stone that they dug out of the hills overlooking el D.F., the Distrito Federal. That huge, bustling behemoth that was home to 13 million souls, and had been home to the Spanish nobility for centuries. Before that of course, it was the capital of the Aztec Empire, which stretched from the Maya to the south to the Mescalera in the north. From the Pacific Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico, and the home of the Papantecos in Vera Cruz, the first indigenous Mexicans to face off with Cortez and his soldiers.

The Papantecos were also the first to make peace with the invaders. At Cempoala, just north of the modern day city of Vera Cruz, in the Mexican state of Vera Cruz.

In the early 16th century, the Papantecos agreed to be slaves for Cortez and his band of conquistadors. They carried their supplies for them toward the magnificent, snow capped mountain in the east. Just beyond there, beyond the snowy peak of Popocat?petl was the home of the feared Aztecs, and their chief, Moctezuma. The Papantecos carried the supplies, cooked the food, and of course, brought the Spaniards their women. The Papantecos had sold their soul to these Europeans for a few glass beads and the chance to live like dogs under their heel.

Pepe was a descendant of those same Indians. He was a Totonac, from the town of Papantla. He had shunned the traditional ways. He never donned the white traje that his people had worn for centuries. He had never even considered his fathers wish, that he become a member of the famous Voladores de Papantla. What was the use now? Maybe once there had been glory in being a Voladore. Training with the experienced flyers, learning the traditions, passed down from generation to generation. Having your choice of the handmaidens who were in attendance to serve their every need. It was said that once, during his reign, the great Moctezuma sent his artists to draw pictures of the Voladores in flight, and although he didn’t personally attend, many members of Aztec nobility were there. There to see the Voladores climb the pole, then slowly fall backwards, undulating from the pole, the rope tied to their waist twisting in the wind as the whole scene unraveled. Descending in a controlled fall from a height of 35 meters or more. The aerial ballet symbolized the earth in its rotation, the sun, the Gods. Everything that started the magical mystery that is mans existence was represented in the dance.

Of course, then, the dance had been only done once every 52 years. Now it was done every 15 minutes. The difference is, in the old days, the dance was done for the Gods. To please Coatzecoatl, Huichilopostle, or one of the other deities which dominated the lives of the pre-Colombian peoples living in Meso-America.

Now it was done for the tourists, the new Gods. It was done to appease the tour guides that brought the busloads from Vera Cruz. Once, the tourists had all been other Mexicans. Now, it was different. Now there were Germans, Irish, English, and of course, Americans. Always, there were Americans. Just like these two at the table. In Mexico for an adventure. Well, he would help them find their adventure, and then he would go to The North, for his own adventure.

Pepe was 16 years old, and a father already. He had told the gringos he was 19. He had a small son in Papantla, and when he thought of him, he grew very proud. Very proud, then very sad. He was sad because he didn’t have the money to buy him things he wanted him to have. He was sad because he didn’t have the time to spend with him, and wouldn’t have. That was the life now. His Juanito would be raised by his mother and grandmother. They were very poor, but at least they had a house in town, not living on a rancho like so many others.

Pepe was going to go to The North, a los estados unidos and make his fortune. He was going to work hard, and save his money. When he had enough, he was going to buy a big Ford truck, and come home. He could see it now. He would have a green truck, with the flag of Mexico painted on the back. The Eagle, with the snake in its beak. He would come back a hero. With a brand new Stetson hat. Black, like the night. Wearing an oversized silver belt buckle, he would step out of his truck slowly, with its tinted windows; no one would know it was him. They would think it was one of the jefes from the vanilla companies that owned the processing plants outside of town. He would be a big man.

He had tried the life in Papantla. He had worked in the vanilla fields, even worked at Gutierrez’ vanilla warehouse, stacking and moving boxes of the sweet smelling beans, ready to be shipped to the plant to have the juices drained for use all over the world.

Pablo, the old man at Gutierrez’s, who had worked there for 40 years, since he had been a boy used to say, “Nowhere in the world do they grow vanilla as good as what we have here in Vera Cruz” his chest swelling up with pride.

“So what?” thought Pepe. “I don’t get enough to live a good life for working 6 days a week. Que mi importa how good the damn vanilla is?”

That was all done now though. Pepe would never work for another man in Mexico. He had a plan. He was going to go to The North, work in the US and return a hero. He would show them. They had all said he was lazy. That he wouldn’t work.

What was the use of working for 120 pesos a week? You could never buy a green truck with that? Even the experienced men had only earned 200 pesos per week. Not . He was going to The North.

Maybe he could get a job as a vaquero. He had ridden horses before. Of course, in the US, the horses would be different. They wouldn’t be these skinny, dead-spirited animals they have in Papantla. No, the horses he would ride would be big, strong, fast horses. He had seen them once when he went to a movie theater in Poza Rica. They were majestic, proud animals. That’s it; he could get a job as a cowboy, on a ranch up in The North.

Or maybe a truck driver. He could learn to drive. He had seen the drivers come by his aunt’s restaurant and have huevos con chorizo in the early mornings. He had admired the big rigs; the tires were taller than he was at the time. Once, he had even managed to crawl inside one of the cabs to get a book for the driver. He didn’t dare even pretend to be driving it, even though he had wanted to with all his soul. Yes, that was it. He would get a job as a truck driver.

The gringos were talking in English, and Pepe didn’t understand what they were saying, but they were poring over a map across the table.

The waitress came carrying pollo. Pepe loved roasted chicken. With onions. Lots of onions. Sitting the platter of chicken down, she went back to fetch the tortillas for the trio sitting in the corner table.

“Mas cerveza?” she inquired, her silver capped teeth showing out from beneath her large, almost occidental eyes.

“Si” answered the older of the two gringos. And she scurried off to bring three more beers.

The map was laid aside, and the gringos reached for the tortillas, laying one flat on their plate, and then peeling chicken from the bone, laying the strips one after another on the hot, round tortilla. The blonde haired one liberally spread salsa over the top of it, saying something in English to his partner.

“Señor, esta pica.” Warned Pepe, pointing at the green salsa.

“Don’t worry about it Pedro. I can handle it. I grew up in Dallas.” Replied the light haired gringo.

“His name is PEPE.” Scolded the other, the one who spoke some Spanish.

The girl returned with the beer, just as the blonde haired gringo was beginning to turn red in the face. He grabbed one of the three, and drank half of it down without stopping. Trying to look nonchalant, he sat it down and suspiciously eyed the remainder of the folded tortilla in his hand before nibbling at a corner of chicken that was peeking out from the side.

Pepe smiled as he lowered his head. In his village, little children were taught to eat salsa on dry tortillas from an early age. Their mothers would dip the corner of the bread into freshly made salsa, then offer it to the baby to chew on. It helped the new teeth come in strong, and made you strong as a man when you were older.

Pepe pulled some chicken off the platter, and took a tortilla, tossing the hot, steaming disc from hand to hand before expertly rolling it in the shape of a cigar, then began to eat. He loved roasted chicken. Especially with onions.

They ate hungrily, as the tapping continued unabated outside. When they were done, the waitress came. “Noventa seis pesos señor.”

“Ninety six pesos!” thought Pepe. “That was almost a weeks salary back in Papantla.”

The gringo with the dark hair reached in his pocket and peeled off 2 50-peso notes and said, “Lets leave.”

Pepe didn’t understand the words, but he understood one thing. The gringo was leaving 4 pesos behind that were his.

‘Señor, lo dejaste mas dinero de que debes dejar.” explained.

“Don’t worry . No te preocupéis. Que ella se quede con él.”

“Carumba!” thought Pepe.

They walked outside and the gringos got into the cab of the truck, while Pepe jumped into the back. They sped off back to camp.

They were camping out in the woods, away from everyone. The gringos wanted to look for some old things. The older one was an archaelogico, he had explained to Pepe, and although Pepe didn’t know what an archaelogico was, he knew that they were rich. Rich beyond his wildest dreams.

This man had a truck, two tents, shovels, boxes with screen they used to sift the dirt they dug, and more money than Pepe had ever seen. He knew that it cost 160 pesos one time to fill the truck up with gasoline, and he had seen the gringo fill it up at least 3 times. He was rich. There was no doubt about that.

The gringos got down in the pit they had dug, and began lifting their spades, filled with dirt, to a wheelbarrow. Once filled, they would sift it in the boxes with screens in the bottoms, picking out pieces that were made from metal, or fragments of pottery. They filled it three times, then stopped to rest in the setting sun. The sun was down below the mountain now, but there were still going to be several hours of light left. Pepe had been bringing water from the river in buckets, and cleaning the pieces of clay and metal the gringos had found.

They drank beer. The first one went down quickly, then the second more leisurely. They had been here for about 9 days now. Pepe had talked to any of the indigenous people who came around. He spoke dialect, which the gringos did not speak, or understand. The old gringo had told him to try to keep people from being overly curious about what they were doing, that it was a scientific experiment.

Pepe didn’t care. He knew he had been promised two hundred dollars, in DOLLARS, when they were finished, and 200 pesos a week in the meantime. Pepe didn’t care what they were doing there. Pepe only wanted to go to The North, get rich, and buy a truck. Maybe a red truck. Yeah, maybe a red one. He began to fantasize about how he would look stepping out of a red truck in front of his family and neighbors. A small smile crawled across his lips.

“Back to it!” said the dark haired gringo, to which the other groaned something unintelligible. He got up though. He got up and walked over to the pit, and climbed down slowly, beginning his spade work as before.

Pepe was coming back from the river when he heard a shout. He dropped the bucket and ran, thinking maybe it had been a snake. He had heard of dangerous snakes in these mountains.

The gringos were in the pit, faces blackened by the dirt, but wide smiles showing gleaming white teeth. They were jumping up and down, the blonde haired one holding something in his hands. It was a box. They scrambled out of the pit, and ran to the small table they had set up, where there was a bag that they after a careful inspection at night, had put some of the things he had washed from the dig. Mainly small rings, or little metal disks, like buttons.

“Que tiene?” queried Pepe.

“Parece que se encontre algo bonito.” Responded the dark haired one.

“Something pretty….Its about time. Everything else you have dug up has been ugly as cow dung.” Thought Pepe scoffingly, as he shook his head at the two locos bent over their find.

“My truck will be pretty. It will be beautiful. Maybe with a girl painted on the sides. A beautiful girls on each side, and the eagle with the snake on the hood. Yeah, that will be beautiful.” Thought Pepe. “I will come back a hero.”

The gringos quit digging and spent the night drinking. They were very excited by the box, and had opened some bottles of wine that was very special. They had been saving it in the truck, away from the other supplies. They offered some to Pepe, and he drank it, but he didn’t like it. They gave it to him in a little glass, with a beautiful stem. Pepe wrinkled his nose up at the bubbles in the drink, then he quickly snuck the beautiful glass into his pocket. He liked the glass. He would keep it.

They told Pepe this wine was called champagne. After one glass, Pepe got a beer from the igloo cooler, and drank it down. It took the taste of the champagne out of his mouth just fine. He sat by the fire, watching the two gringos drink. First the wine, then whisky. They seemed very pleased tonight. He watched from the fire as they drank themselves into a stupor, passing out finally from the excitement, the work, and the whisky.

Pepe had laid his blanket by the fire as if to go to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come tonight. Not tonight. Tonight, he would begin his adventure. Tonight he would go to The North. The North to a job as a truck driver, or a cowboy. The North to riches and fame. His new life would begin tonight.

He knew how he would do it. He had done it a thousand times in his mind. Afterwards, he would clean up the camp, throw everything in the river, fill in the pit, and then walk to the next town down the road. Past Toluca. There, he would catch a bus to The North. He didn’t know where to go in The North, but he knew it was The North.

His new life was going to be wonderful. It was going to show all of them in Papantla that they were wrong about him. He would show them all.

“First,” thought Pepe, fingering the knife at his side as he silently rose, “all I need to do is kill the gringos and take their money.”