Alltrikes

Chapter Uno, Tales From The Wild Blue Yonder, LIVING DANGEROUSLY

Desperados for México or,
South With The Wind

MAY-hee-ko” hollered Maynard, pointing at the horizon off the starboard bow of the Ford-From-Hell. He pronounced it “MAY-hee-ko”, as I'd taught him and repeatedly assured him that so would the natives. “Sure don't look nothin'like the brochures B’wana, nothin' at all. No swaying coconut palms, no snow-capped volcanoes, no señoritas in skimpy bikinis. Maybe we should just point this wagon elsewhere B’wana. I hear Miami Beach is nice this time of year.”His name isn't really Maynard and mine, isn't really B’wana. I call him Maynard for his remarkable likeness to my childhood hero: Maynard G. Krebs, TV's first beatnik. Maynard calls me B’wana since I'm in charge of this safari and we are headed deep into foreign lands.

“Still not too late to turn us around,” continued my compadre. “Party down some on Sixth Street in Austin and sell off some of these here gliders. I think this wagon handles better when we're not so damn top heavy.”

We had pulled off the pavement on a dirt wide spot for a final pit stop before turning south the last few kilometers to the Mexico border. Due to a strong north wind we were forced to piss in a southerly direction or soil our britches.

“Old MAY-hee-ko!” hollered Maynard again, and pointed south with his pecker in hand. Sure enough: somewhere in the low-lying saline scrub off yonder lay the Mexican border- as vague as my destiny and yet the subject of my considerable stress. Distress I should say. On the stereo the Eagles were singing a sweet tune:

 Desperado
Why don’t you come to your senses?
You been out ridin’ fences
For too long now!

 “Don't start on me Maynard,” I said. “The dye has been cast. You know if I ain't in Xochitenango by this time next week my good name is mud.”

“Hoe chee what the…?” puzzled Maynard above the tunes. “I just hope I can say it by the time we get there.” He grinned his Maynard grin at me and wagged off the last few drops. A large raven was trying to beat to weather just over our heads, but was getting nowhere. As we watched, the bird gave up the fight with a loud “craw”, cranked a turn downwind and disappeared in a flash. I was in a hurry to get my show through the border and wished for a moment I could be that crow. Even the wind seemed in a hurry to get to Mexico.

Oh you’re a hard one
I know you got yer reasons,
These things that are pleasin’ you
Will hurt you someday!

“Check the oil would you Maynard, while I check the tie-downs. Just try to make yourself useful for a moment can't you?” I really wanted to hog-tie him up on the roof rack, up with the wings where he couldn't be seen or heard, but how would that look to the Federáles in Laredo when they got to poking around my load, if I come driving up with a big hairy gringo lashed to the roof rack? I was zipping up my fly when I next heard Maynard's cackle around front of the Ford.

“Check it out B’wana!” he exclaimed. He was looking up-wind now and examining something in the same general direction as Canada. Then I spotted it too.

“I'll be dipped in shit, B’wana,” hollered Maynard. That's another thing I admire about him- his ability to turn a colorful phrase. “Talk about some bad timing.” Maynard checked traffic- nothing coming as far as a Texas eye could see- and strode out onto the highway. “Talk about yer poor timing,” he hollered again. “This may be a pretentious omen B’wana, I say we go no further.”

“Omens are not PRE-tentious Maynard,” I said over the wind. “Maybe POR-tentious. But not PRE-tentious.”

My amigo lifted his slack-jawed face at me. “Whatever, I say let's turn this show around B’wana. It’s an omen!”

Now I too was standing on the wind-lashed Texas blacktop peering at the pavement: a possum had passed over here some few days ago and had some bad timing, indeed. The critter was flattened spread-eagled and squished down to about the thickness of a corn tortilla in the center of the highway. Some very determined bottle flies were trying to nest in his rotten flesh in spite of the odds and, in fact, there were maggots burrowing their nasty way through the carcass. But what really impressed me, and had left even Maynard speechless was the yellow stripe running almost perfectly through this poor critter's carcass. It appeared that the county paint crew had recently been at work on this lonely stretch of road. Whether or not they'd noticed the flattened marsupial, they'd sure enough painted a perfect line through his back. Sort of a final indignity of man toward beast, I guess. Maynard turned his grin upon me once more.

“Portentious, pretentious… It’s an omen for sure B’wana!”

The “show” of which Maynard spoke is Safari Sky Tours: a Mexican hang gliding vacation for gringo glideheads. This would be my third southerly sojourn with a stack of ten hang gliders from Pacific Airwave in Salinas, California. Rolling back on the highway now my determination to see this trip to its conclusion had flagged only momentarily at the sight of poor Mr. Possum pancaked on the pavement. As our self-appointed chronographer and photographer, Maynard had sprawled himself up-close and personal with the beast and recorded for posterity the creature's last stand. Then we pulled back on the highway.

“What was all that fuss back there?” asked a yawning Cheap Steve as he emerged from the plywood and wire cage which is the Ford-From-Hell. Cheap had acquired a bottle of florazepan somewhere, and brought it along for the trip. We'd be driving for about four days straight and I guess Steve wanted to catch up on his sleep. Fatigued and uptight though I was, I didn't want him behind the wheel. Like the wings stacked on the roof, he too, was essential baggage- just not quite so precious.

“That was ‘Possum Plays Dead’ take number seven three five,” spouted Maynard.

“Huh…?” muttered Cheap. He looked like hell in my rear view mirror and I again bemoaned the fact that his presence here was necessary, at least through the kilometer 18 checkpoint below the border. After that I could jettison his ass.

“Huh?” Never known for his eloquence, Cheap was downright monosyllabic under the effects of a narcotic downer.  “wha… who… where are we?” he muttered.

“Third stone from the sun,” hollered Maynard. He'd stuck a new cassette in the stereo and had to yell over Jimi Hendrix, “Planet earth, western hemisphere, North America, State of, formerly Republic of Tejas!” He pronounced it as TAY-haaz, as I'd also taught him.

“Still?” pondered Cheap. “We were in Tejas yesterday.

“If that don't narrow it down enough we got us an E.T.A. of about fifteen minutes to the border Steve.” I yelled. “Get your shit together and have your passport handy. And for Chrissake keep those pills on your person will you? Or throw 'em out the window if you wanna do me a real favor.” Not that I was at all worried about Steve taking illegal prescription drugs to Mexico. Who takes buns to the bakery? The Feds at the border would be much more interested in guns and ammo, and the Ford looked capable of transporting a small arsenal. In fact the Ford looked like a rolling battlewagon. There was war fermenting with the Zapatístas in the south; the Feds on the border were reported to be jumpy.

“You want me to declare my pistol B’wana?” asked Maynard. He was stroking an air guitar and mouthing Jimi’s

“ 'scuse me while I kiss the sky.”

“Oh gimme a break Maynard” says I, exasperated. I knew he wasn't really packing a heater-that none of us were. Guns are highly illegal in Mexico. Only last month an assailant had gunned down Luis Colósio in the streets of Tijuana, the handpicked next-President of Mexico, and there were reports of tension and hassles all along the border. “Throw that hunk out too will you?” I chided him. For all of Maynard's peace-nik looks, I knew him to be an accomplished shooter and that he'd agonized over bringing his piece to Mexico or leaving it home. In the end, hang gliding had won out. Even more than blasting things full of holes, Maynard loves to fly.

“And if any of these guys wanna know how many gliders we’re hauling…?” I queried them. There were ten gliders on the roof rack but they were double-bagged to look like five.

“Cinco,” returned Cheap Steve, who fancied himself the linguist of the bunch. ‘Cinco’ was indeed correct- we would tell the Feds we had cinco hang gliders. This was the most eloquence I'd heard from Steve since leaving El Paso about twenty hours back.

“I say we stop for some televisions, too,” said Maynard. “Kinda take some heat off these here wings, B’wana. I hear them Federáles like televisions.” This was a topic with Maynard ever since the afternoon we'd spent bundling the gliders together and slipping the giant condom-like bags over them, hiding ten wings to make them look like five. Bagged up like that, it took two strong gringos to hoist them overhead for loading atop the Ford's wing rack. Maynard wanted to know why all the secrecy and fuss. “Imagine showing up at the border with ten televisions,” I'd explained. “You just can't convince the Federáles that you're goin' down to Mexico to watch a bunch of tube. That you're going down to the beach to relax and drink tequila and watch CNN. They just won't believe us. They'll insist on import duties 'cause they figure- you show up with ten televisions- it's because you're a television salesman and they want their cut.” As Mexico's top smuggler of foot-launched soaring wings, I could ill afford import taxes, which, for sporting goods like hang gliders is one hundred percent. “So, we'll double-bag the gliders and pray to avoid inspection.” I concluded.

That got Maynard started, again: “Maybe you should consider TV tours instead of hang gliding tours B’wana. That's it! It's BRILLIANT! You could convince large groups of gringo couch potatoes to come down south and vege out. There's gotta be more couch potatoes around than glideheads B’wana. Much more profitable. Plus- TV's just gotta be safer than hang gliders. A LOT safer.”

There was truth indeed in Maynard's words but, “Too late to change plans now amigos,” I said. “We’re going hang gliding Maynard, just like we’ve been planning all these months. We're gonna slip them surly Bonds of Earth amigos, we're gonna make circles!” Visions of dust devils and high cloudbases danced in my head. “Now- do me a favor and keep your mouths shut.” Navigating through the streets of Laredo, the Ford turned the last corner and there ahead lay the chaos of the Mexican border. Six months of planning and scheming came down to these next few minutes or hours and my stress level was about to max out. “And nobody speak Spanish! Got it?”

“Sí señor!” came Maynard’s reply.

My border apprehensions were unfounded as we all successfully acquired our tourist cards and I my vehicle permit without hassle. The bureaucrat Federále in his official blue Federále uniform had been exceedingly bored with the procedure, he yawned twice as he stroked an old Smith Corona, and banged up the necessary documents. Papers in hand, we offered a quick 'thank you', and climbed back aboard the Ford.

“That was just too easy, B’wana,” said Maynard. “Why all the fuss, anyway? I told you we shoulda brought some televisions. What will we do when we can't fly, huh? Answer me that B’wana.”

I glanced briefly at Maynard. “We ain't completely through yet Maynard,” says I. Putting the Ford in gear I swung out into the chaotic streets of Nuevo Laredo- finally on the Mexican side of the border. “We still gotta pass the 18K checkpoint,” I said.

Maynard's head was swiveling back and forth, taking in the sights. “Well… it looks pretty Mexican out there now, B’wana,” he observed. The Ford eased through a crowd gathered around a street-side taco stand, and was temporarily engulfed in fragrant smoke. “Smells like Mexico too!” he added. “MAY-hee-ko!”

“Brraggh,” intoned Cheap Steve. “Lard and dead cow!” Among Cheap's other contributions to humanity, he also preached vegetarianism.

“There's an Aduana checkpoint at the kilometer 18 and that's where we really enter the Mexican interior.” I pointed out. “Keep your fingers crossed but so far, so good.”

“Aduana?” inquired my amigo.

“Customs, Maynard.” I clarified. “Aduana is Spanish for customs. Nothing is certain until we get past those guys.” The Ford rolled south with gathering momentum and we soon left the tight sprawl of the Mexican border town behind. My thoughts were focused on the up-coming Kilometer-18 checkpoint. “Let's hope they're too busy to hassle gringos,” I muttered.

The Ford was stuck behind a plodding and odiferous truck full of live chickens, the flying feathers from which left a sort of pleasant, if smelly, white Mexican blizzard in its wake. Then the road widened to four lanes and soon the checkpoint rolled into view, where the Ford joined a short queue of traffic headed for the interior. The gringos rolled up to a traffic light set at arm's length from the final stopping line. The idea is that you roll to a stop there and push the button. If the light comes up red you are forced to pull in for 'inspection'. If, however, you are lucky and you get a green light, you’re good to go- a sort of Mexican lottery if you will. Braking to a stop, I said a silent prayer to the Sky Gods.

Pushing the button, I hoped for the best.

Bingo! Got that green light, baby!

I stepped on the throttle and the Ford-From-Hell lurched south. There was nothing between me and a winter of tropical skies and sweet señoritas now except a stout brown Federále lounging against the station wall. As the Ford accelerated we must have caught his attention, because he stepped casually out into my lane and gestured me to a halt. I considered running his sorry ass down for a brief second but, thinking of a life spent in the Mexican federal prison system, and balancing that notion against a winter of Flying Nirvana, I stepped on the brakes instead of the throttle. The Ford-From-Hell groaned to a halt only fifty feet beyond him. The border guard sauntered over to my window and hitched up his trousers.

“Donde van ustedes?” he demanded. Where are you going? He stuck his head completely into my window to get a good look about, tilting it this way and that. I could suddenly smell his sour breath, see the blackheads in his swarthy complexion and the waxy buildup in his ear. Difficult to pretend I don't understand; just play stupid I remind myself, and shrug my shoulders.

“Buay-knows know-chay,” I spouted with a weak grin. Clearly, it was not 'know-chay' as a hot sun shown down from a cloudless sky and a bead of sweat clung to his brow. I said it anyway, to indicate what a stupid gringo I was. “Buay-knows know-chay, seen-your!” Good night sir!

The Fed stood back and stared suspiciously at me for a moment, and then proceeded around to the stern of the Ford. I could see him now in my rear-view mirror, studying my load of gliders. He raised a finger and began counting, “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, hmmm…” Then he peered through the cage of the Ford at Cheap Steve's dusty visage and Maynard’s grinning mug and counted us gringos, “Uno, dos, tres!” Next, he strode back to my window and said, “Porque las bolsas señor?” What are those bags, sir? I had to play stupid again, and just grin and shrug.

“You speak Eeenglish Seen-your?” I asked, and I grinned some more, trying to act cool and calm. I really didn’t want him to decide I’m a wise guy. The señor stepped back from my window and motioned that I should exit my vehicle. Uh oh… not good! But with weak knees and mounting unease I did as he instructed. We stood behind the Ford as he gestured at the ten hang gliders stuffed in five bags and mostly concealed under the Ford's custom wing-smuggling tarp.

“Estos, que son?” he inquired. These, what are they?

I played stupid once more as the señor asked his question again, this time with a gesture towards the gliders. Saying nothing, I turned to the Ford and grabbed a Hang Gliding magazine I'd kept handy for this possibility. Handing the magazine to the señor, I turned the page to show a glider in flight. It was a photo of another gringo-Kenny Brown-soaring the dunes at Marina Beach. I could even recognize my friend's face and his silly grin.

“Oh, sí, sí sí!” declared my Federále with sudden insight. “Sí, sí, son papalotes!” he said nodding enthusiastically. Yes, yes, they're kites! He spread his arms like a bird. He flapped them feebly as if in flight a couple times, and glanced up at the Heavens Above. I nodded and grinned in agreement and enthusiasm. Turning back to the Ford now he frowned and pointed once again: “Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco,” he counted, and then turned back to the gringos. “Uno, dos, tres. Porque?” Why have you five papalotes when you are only three gringos?

I allowed him to go through the routine twice before I registered a look of vague comprehension. “Oohhh,” says I, the big stupid gringo. “You mean… why are we only three gringos… but we have… five kites?” The señor frowned and nodded his head, crossing his arms over his chest. We were starting to look like crazy gringo papalote smugglers. Maybe he really had something here… A Big Haul? A contraband of kites? It was the critical moment, my time to shine or suffer failure. They just couldn't turn me back now, nothing could stop me now!

Spreading wide my arms like wings and rising on my tiptoes I decided this had better look convincing. “That's easy seen your,” I explained, “because we crash a lot, kaboom!”, and I pretend-crashed into the dusty Mexican dirt at our feet, adding some throaty sound effects of pain and disaster to embellish my point.

The old señor's brow unknit with a sudden look of surprise and delight, “Oh sí sí, sí, señor. Porsupuesto!” he said, happy now. “Comprendido!” Yes, yes, yes sir. Of course! I understand now! The loco gringos have come to Mexico to kill themselves! Spinning on his heel and turning his back to more urgent matters, he gestured benevolently with a hand. “Pasa les, pasa les!” he dismissed us: “Bienvenídos a México!”

My legs still felt weak as I jumped back into the Ford-From-Hell and stepped on the gas, headed south for who-knows-what adventures, towards a promise of sunny winter days, ripping thermals, high cloudbases, cheap cervesa and fragrant, willing señoritas.

“We’re outta here B’wana!” rejoiced Maynard as the throttle pinned him back in his seat. “MAY-hee-ko here we come! WAHOOO!”