The Green Machine and the Big City

Ferdi's Green Machine












We spend the night at the bonfire. As expected Lou and Ollie are out of it. We leave them on the plane and meet with Ferdi and the boys at bonfire. Introductions are made and Jerry talks business for a few minutes. He sends me back to the plane to grab the beer.
When I return with the case, Ferdi’s boys crack one with us, then walk over to the plane and have a look. They have never seen a bird like Abby, not this old, not this big, on the air strip. By the looks of the land, Ferdi is a farmer and would only use the strip for a biplane or small Cessna or Piper. As it turns out there hasn’t been a plane land on this strip in five years.

We stand in a small group near the fire. It is dying down now, only stoked for our arrival. But the heat isn’t like the heat of the jungle, it is dry and harsh… and mystical. We watch while we guzzle the beer. Me and three of Ferdi’s boys are standing in silence, just listening to the crackling of the hardwood as it burns, the heat dancing in embered caverns within the structure of the fire.
One of the guys looks at me, and then quickly moves a finger to his ear. I now had the Walker behind my ear. I looked toward Ferdi and raised my eyebrows. The guy looks over and then back at me with a smile and a nod… it was cool.
The smell of that Walker stops all conversation as Jerry and Ferdi both walk up and we all share in a good smoke and some semi-cool beers. Then, like the tide, all the conversation is back. I am amazed. I can understand. Not all of it, but the words I can hear crystal clear are ones I understand.
The three men standing with me now are all brothers. They tell me their names, but I forget them before my eardrums stop vibrating. They want to see the inside of the plane. They dig Abby, they like her lines, her sound. I wave them on and we board her.
It smells like fuel, beer, and stale pot smoke. At least it doesn’t smell like piss. The way Lou and Ollie were partying before we landed you wouldn’t think they would wake up for anything.
One of the boys asks about the snoring Aztec, and the guy in the other hammock. “Quién es el tipo blanco viejo?”
I got it… he asked me “Who is the old white guy?”
“No joda con él, él es peligroso.” I shoot back. No way… I didn’t just say that. Hell this is some good weed.
The body in the hammock moves, “That’s right, amigo, I’m dangerous.” Lou says through the netting of the hammock, eyes closed, might even be asleep.
“El es apenas un tipo blanco viejo, un peso ligero.” I say to the kid. I am quite fluent when using a Walker.
Lou turns in his hammock and opens both eyes, “Remind me to kick your ass when I get up in the morning. I am not a light weight, but I am old, older, oh fuck it.” He rolls back over and closes his eyes.
I take the boys up to the cockpit and show them the view, then we all go back outside. I know with all the gold on board that this is where we will be sleeping tonight.

It isn’t long before the boys and Ferdi retire for the night. We are left with a dying fire and a couple of fold up camp chairs from Abby’s hold.
“Ferdi says we can borrow his car to head into to town tomorrow. The financial district is about twenty some odd miles east from here. We have to go through some shitty parts of the city to get there, but we’ll get there.”
“One of them driving us?”
“Nope, I don’t want to involve Ferdi’s boys in case it gets dangerous.” Jerry takes whats left of the Walker and sparks it back up. It is getting too small to hold, so I get up and grab a needle nose pliers from the tool box.
“The business district will be swinging by nine o’clock, so we should try to be there and get this shit over with.” Jerry takes the pliers and pulls a nice hit off it.
“You think it might get rough?”
Jerry looks over his shoulder in the direction that Ferdi and the boys headed. “We have a few hundred pound of gold, Jake. That’s a couple of million dollars worth, even if it is seventy five cents on the dollar.”
He stops as though he just heard what he said. A couple of million dollars worth, that’s in American money. That is money to die for… literaly. “I don’t know what the fuck we are doing here.”
“Jerry, these are businessmen, right? I mean it’s not like we are going to be dealing with some fucked up druglord. These guys handle transactions like this all of the time I bet.” It didn’t sound all that convincing to me either.
“I just want to get this over with and head back to El Corazon. I just wanted to trade Nester’s gold in for gas and supply money, now we are hauling the shit to this God foresaken place. The fucking law is worse than the criminals up here.”
We both stop talking and let the dying fire calm us. It was just the long day and beer talking. Just the weed and paranoia. Everything would be better in the morning.

Morning comes with the smell of coffee. Lou is up and back from the main house with coffee for the two of us. We had fallen asleep in our chairs and now sat in the smoke of the smoldering ruin of last nights bonfire.
“They got breakfast going in there. Ollie is on his second plate.” Lou says as he delivers our coffee and then turns to go back to his breakfast.
I look down at my lap and see the M-16. Lou must have set it there for effect when he and Ollie went in search of breakfast. You can’t just leave a plane full of gold unattended. I guess he thinks that a sleeping man with an M-16 is more of a threat than one without. I make sure the safey is on and then set it aside.
The coffee is most excellent.
“As soon as we are done with breakfast, we should get the car and get going.”
“Yeah, breakfast.” Jerry took a long sip from his coffee.
We could smell whatever it was that they were cooking. Jerry takes the M-16 and places it inside Abby’s cargo door, grabs the padlock out of the tool box and then slides the door closed and locks her up.

Ferdi’s car is an old 58 chevy four door. After breakfast we go to the little town up the road, an outlying suburb of Mexico City, to pick it up. He had lent it to another friend of his. We walk the mile or so into town.
Once we had the car fueled up, it was time to get down to business. We load the gold into the trunk, as far forward a we can. Ollie sits in the front with Jerry, and Lou and I are in back. Along for the ride are three 9mm from Ollie’s gym bag. I don’t know why we didn’t have four, but the other two weapons are rifles. Too hard to conceal, so we left them in the plane.
No one talks, not a word. It’s one thing to just be driving around in Mexico City when you are three white guys. You stand out like a sore thumb. It’s another thing altogether to be strapped and riding around, and then there is the gold. It was enough to keep you focused. It was a good thing Ollie looked like the kind of Mexican you wouldn’t want to fuck with. He just sits there looking mean. It works well.
Jerry and Ollie talked back and forth. My hyper translating from the night before is gone and I am just another ignorant tourist. Lou is jumping in from time to time, understanding everything. He has been in the business district to the very building we were going to, but flew in each time and didn’t know the way by car. Ollie has been to the city many times in the past and is the best of us to manage the map and directions Ferdi had written over breakfast.
“Give me your phone.” Lou has a business card out of his wallet.
I hand him the phone and he dials the number. The connection is made and some receptionist answers. Lou rattles off some spanish until he is talking to his connection.
“Cooper, you son of a bitch, what are you up to?” He pauses and then smiles, “That’s right, that’s right… fine brother, how ‘bout you?”
We turn a few corners and now we are getting into the newer part of the city. A few high rises start to spring up and before long we are in the business district. There are some beautiful modern buildings, and then there are the old churches and adobe structures sprinkled about.
“I am here to see you.” Lou pats Jerry on the shoulder, “Up here on the left.” “Yeah, Mike, I’m here. Hey, I have a transaction I need your help with.” Lou points to a parking lot next to the building he had referenced, “Just find a spot here.” “Yeah Mike, we are here. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Jerry shuts the old green monster off and we all breath heavy. Jerry turns in his seat. “Lou, why don’t you and Ollie go in first and make sure that everything is ready before we haul all this heavy shit in there.”
Lou nods and tells Ollie the deal, then they both get out and head in to the building. Jerry and I are sitting in this car with a couple of million bucks worth of other people’s gold in the trunk. That is trust. Not that it would even be considered, but I get the feeling that if we screwed Lou out of his gold, he would hunt us down and skin us. He just has that look in his eye.

It is fifteen minutes later when Lou and Ollie come back out of the building. While we were waiting, Jerry and I hide the smaller of the 9mm automatics on our persons. Seven shots is all I have, and it will probably take a couple for me to hit what I am aiming at. I am much better with the rifle.
“Come on, we gotta get up there.” Lou ushers us around to the back of the car and we unlock the trunk. Ollie takes two of the bags, I grab the third, and Lou grabs his bag.
“You packing?” Lou looks at me.
“We both are. One of you should take the other pistol.”
Ollie sets his bags down and goes in the car under the front seat and retrieves the third pistol. When he stands he tucks the piece in the waist of his jeans up front and then covers it with his shirt.
“Well, let’s get some money, boys.” Lou heads off and we all follow. Jerry says something to Ollie, who offers him one of the bags he is carrying. If it is as heavy as mine we better hope there is an elevator in this joint.

The Guiding Light

Ferdi's Bonfire to help us find his place











On the way back through town, Jerry stops again at the Cantina and grabs a dozen bottles of that Guarana and a case of cold beer and a bag of ice in a foam cooler. He likes the way we respond to that Guarana. Apparently it works better on some than others. By the time we get back to the compound, the beer is getting warm. Lou reaches for one and Jerry stops him.
“Hey, Lou, we have a little work to do and then you can play, Capiche?”
“What are you, my fucking mother?” Lou pulls back from the beer and rolls his eyes. “Let’s make this quick then.”
We all have our tasks. I have to check the sending unit, and then top off Abby’s tanks. Jerry and Lou head into the hanger to grab supplies, some ammo, and another cooler and case of beer. Four guys, six hours, two cases of beer. Some how it doesn’t add up. Jerry will only have a couple.
Ollie moves Nester’s gold from the truck into Abby’s cargo bay. He comes up to me with two of the bags… strong guy, and asks me something in Spanish. I do get his drift, though. “Put them forward, behind the net. By the cockpit.” I make my hands like I am steering a car. He seems to under stand.
I pull the sending unit and clean it out. I know I have a good spare in the hanger, so I don’t fuck with it. I walk over to my bench and dig in the drawer.
“What’s the matter with it.” Jerry is pulling a box off the shelf and handing it to Lou.
“Hell if I know. I have a good one here.” I hold up the one I just pulled out and cleaned. “This one might have just been in need of cleaning, but why take a chance. I’ll deal with it later.”
Lou sets the box at his feet and opens it. “What is this?”
“Those are hammocks. There’s only two of them, but that is all we need. They hang forward in Abby’s cargo bay.”
“Nice.” Lou is tired of sitting on the floor, or standing between the seats in the cockpit.
Ollie steps up and asks Jerry something. Jerry answers him, then translates. “Behind the cockpit wall, not in the cockpit. In front of the net so it won’t slide.”
Ollie turns and heads back to the plane to move the gold out of the cockpit. I follow with my new sending unit and do my install.
Within the hour we have her refueled, along with five auxillary cans tied down in the cargo bay. Jerry raided our food stash and brought plenty of jerky, trail mix, a bag of apples, twenty gallons of drinking water, beer, some dried papaya, and a couple of bags of hard candy. It would be enough to keep the four of us satisfied in both directions.
I took the right seat and we fired her up. I don’t know how many hundreds of times I have heard these engines fire up, but I love it every time. I look at the oil pressure gauge and it moves right on up. “Sending unit.” I confirm.
We taxi out and make the turn. Jerry pours the coals to her and she rolls out.
“Hey, big boy, you alright?” Lou asks Ollie.
I turn to see a huge pair of eyes staring back as the hammock he is in swings with the acceleration.
“First time?” Lou asks, getting a rapid nod in return.
Abby speeds down the dirt strip and lifts off fifty yards before the treeline. We are on our way.
The trip to Mexico City is long and boring. I have been there twice before, both times with Jerry and Abby. It takes about four to six hours depending on the headwind and if we make a fuel stop or not. Today we have full tanks. That should get us there and back. Jerry always carried aux tanks just in case. Without correct registration, we can’t just fly into the nearest city airport and fuel up. We have landed on a few vacant strips of highway to gas up with the aux cans.
Just after take off, I can smell one of Lou’s “Walkers”. Before long, it is passed up my way. I take a hit and pass it back. I have to stay relatively sober just in case we have an in flight emergency. But several times in the past that just meant not passing out.
“You want a beer?” I ask Jerry. He nods.
“Hey, you derelicts, hand me up a couple of beers.”
I hear Lou whisper something to Ollie.
“Go fuck yourself.” Ollie says in a thick accent. Then he giggles. Totally out of context for an Aztec giant.
“You fucking stoner bastards hand me a couple of beers or I’ll dive this plane into the trees.” Jerry shouts back over his shoulder.
Two cold ones rapidly appear and I open Jerry’s and hand it to him. It is late afternoon and the sun is already setting to our left. For once we don’t have that glare in our eyes. We are at about a thousand feet right now. That is probably as high as we go for now. We have always kept her close to the ground. Kind of like having an old wooden boat in deep water. Whenever possible you like to keep the shore in sight just in case of trouble.
The Walker makes its way back up to me and I take another toke. In the back, Lou is comparing scars and tattoos with Ollie. Turns out Ollie was in Nicaragua when they had their trouble with the Sandanistas. He worked with the CIA in some capacity, delivering arms and supplies that had been flown from here to there. I just thought he was a big, dumb local. That whole “Book by its Cover” comes to mind for just a second, then I have to piss.
I slip between the two hammocks which are hanging length-wise just behind the cockpit bulkhead net. Lou has his pants leg pulled up to show Ollie the scar he has running down his shin.
“I have six screws holding my shin together.” He tells him. As he speaks, Ollie is removing his shirt. On his back are what look like bites, animal bites.
“Un pedacito del mono mí.” Ollie says.
“No shit, a fucking monkey?”
These guys are stoned out of there mind. I stand at the cargo door and relieve myself. Just before putting myself close to the edge, I snap the safety line that Jerry installed onto my leather belt.
Outside the sun is going down and the jungle below has that misty look again. It is getting patchy now, larger spots cleared of vegetation where encroaching farms have taken over the land. Pretty soon we will be over the arid desert terrain of southern Mexico.

We have been flying now for two hours. Lou and Ollie have downed most of a case of beer and are singing something in spanish. Sounds like Louie Louie. Ollie has a real falsetto voice, quite nice actually. He and Lou are trying some harmony. I reach back and grab a couple of beers and a bag of jerky and return to the cockpit.
“Want some?” I hold up the bag of Jerky.
“In a minute. How about you sit with her for a moment. I gotta piss.”
Abby is equipped with auto-pilot, but it is an archaic system that Jerry has little trust in at this altitude. So one of us has to be ready to take the controls in a heartbeat if something goes wrong. We caught a windshear that almost put us into the ground on a return trip from Cali, Colombia. If it weren’t for the fact that Jerry just had to move his hands from his lap to the controls, we would have bought the farm.
When he comes back he just stands in the doorway. “Did you know that Ollie fought the Sandanistas?”
“Lou told me.” I took another bite of the jerky and chewed. “Those guys aren’t going to be any use to us tonight.”
“No shit. I be they are asleep in those hammocks by the time we get there.”
“How much longer?”
Jerry slides in behind the controls and takes a quick survey of the gauges. He pulls up his clipboard with a chart. He clicks on the map light and looks at the route, his watch, and then out the side window for good measure. “We’re making good time. I bet we make it in an hour, maybe a little more.”
He tucks the clipboard back along the seat. “When we get in toward the city you call Jorge’s cousin Ferdi on the cellphone so we can let him know we are coming.”
There is a crash behind us. Ollie fell out of his hammock, and now Lou is dangling from his, laughing his ass off. He drops to the floor and looks like he is having a seizure he is laughing so hard.
“Jesus,” I am looking around the corner at the two of them, “I missed a hell of a party.”
“Once we’re parked we will have a little party of our own.” He pulled a big fat “Walker” out of his shirt pocket.
“Where did you get that?”
“Pulled it from behind Lou’s ear when I came back from taking a piss.” He tucked it back in his pocket. “I sorta hid the other case of beer under a tarp behind the side netting too. Those guys have had enough for now.”

Turns out Ollie had a flask of homebrew and the two of them had drank that pint in just over an hour, along with that case of beer and who knows how many Walkers.
We come up on the city at about 500 feet. I dial the number when the lights are still over the horizon. I actually have a signal. When it starts ringing I hand it to Jerry and take the controls. Abby is off of auto-pilot and I am flying, with Jerry just a reach away.
He talks to Ferdinand, keeping his eyes on the terrain. We have a bright full moon tonight. I can see the farms and roads below us. It is relatively flat. Jerry pulls his chart up and uses his penlight. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Hurry up.”
He goes back to the phone call. Pretty soon he circles a spot on the map and the phone call is ended.
“Alright, I’ve got her.”
I let go and Jerry banks her over. “Hell, we already missed our turn.”
“Did we pass it?”
“No, but it is just a ways up that river there. Ferdi said he could hear our engines. He has a huge bonfire lit… says we should be able to see it.”
We both look out the windscreen and pan the horizon.
“There, there it is.” Jerry puts her over on her wing and banks it in.
It is a huge bonfire with flames two stories high. We make a fly by to assess the runway. It is short, too short for what I have seen us land on. But Jerry doesn’t seem too worried. There is a rocky end to one side of it, a bit of a cliff. The other end is the river.
Jerry lines up on the strip and drops the flaps all the way, taking most of the power off along with it. We drop quickly. I grab both sides of my seat. The boys are snoring in their hammocks in back, totally oblivious to the impending crash. Jerry jockies the throttles a little and then we hit hard, but are down just the same. Throttles back to idle, props feathered, brakes applied. The rocks are coming up fast. Jerry is calm and cool. He hits the rudder pedals hard over and Abby spins just before the rock wall. It feels like she is going to go on one wheel, but she doesn’t.
“Shit, man… that was awesome.”
“Yeah. Let’s party.”

Picking up Nesters Gold

Heading toward the Cantina up Main street in
Nogales for some grub.










We fly with the mid-morning sun in our eyes. Lou rides along in silence for most of the trip. I know Jerry appreciates that. He hates taking on passengers that feel it is necessary to fill every second with some comment or other. But these two are old friends and there is a certain comfort level among us that doesn’t need a narration.
The trip goes by quickly. I sleep for a portion of it, how large a portion I don’t know. The general rule is that anyone in the right seat only sleeps when the left seat sleeps. In other words… no sleeping. But behind my RayBans, I take some liberties.
“Tap that right engine oil gauge.” Jerry tells me as he circles around and lines up on our runway. I lean forward, squinting with sleepy eyes at the gauge in question. It is low. I tap it hard with my knuckle but it doesn’t move.
“Probably a sending unit problem. I will check it when she has cooled off a bit.”
Jerry looks my way, “You ready?”
“For what?”
“Take her in.” He releases the wheel and I grab mine quickly.
“Hey, Jerry…” I don’t like surprises.
“Just relax. Gear coming down.” He reaches up and drops the gear.
Now that I am the one at the controls, I am scared shitless. I can feel every bump, the drag of the gear, the downlock activating. He reaches up and pulls the throttles back a bit. The plane starts to drop.
“Keep the nose up.”
I pull her back, not too much. “Flaps?”
“Very good, to what?”
“Ten?”
He moves the flaps to ten and I can feel the increase in lift. It is the strangest phenomenon, how much more you notice when your at the controls. The flap indicator reads ten and with the increased lift Jerry backs off the throttles even more.
“That’s too much.” I cut to the throttles and then back at the approaching landing strip. It feels like he backed them off to idle.
“No, its just right. Just relax. Remember our glide path. Just nose her down a bit and get her closer to the ground.”
Lou is behind the two of us, but he doesn’t say a word. He is not nervous, Jerry isn’t nervous, but I am. “Okay, okay… back off the throttles a little more.”
Jerry backs them off and we drop a little more. I pull back on the stick out of fear.
“Don’t stall it.” Jerry reaches up and pushes the stick forward, I ease off. “You’re doing fine. Get her down a little more.”
Outside Abby’s windscreen the airstrip is ten feet below us. I ease the throttles back and then pull up slightly as I feel her touch down, up… and then down a second time. I pull the engines back to idle and start braking.
“Good job.” Jerry tells me, calm as day. “I knew you could do it.”
“A little warning next time would be nice.”
Jerry takes over and taxis into the compound. It is mid-afternoon and hotter than hell. Lou points to his rifle. It is in one of the holders near the life raft. “That going to be okay up there?”
Jerry gives it a shake, “Not a problem.”
“What about the gold?”
Jerry looks at the case. “We will keep it on Abby.” He looks at me, “Back equipment hatch?”
“It’s the only thing that locks in this joint.” I look at Lou who is all too skeptical. “Look, if you want you can stay here and keep an eye on things until we get back from town.” I look to Jerry for confirmation… he nods.
“Hey, if you think it is safe, I believe you. I thought those boys in the bar were a safe bet until I came to meet you guys this morning.”
Jerry opens the equipment hatch with a key that hangs on a chain around his neck. “Throw it in there and we will lock it up. If you want to stay and guard it, then be my guest. But I would rather have you come to town with me to meet Nester.”
The bag goes in the hole and Jerry locks her up tight. “Why don’t we all head into town. We need to bring these supplies into the store, and Nester will want to meet you, Lou, if we are taking his gold to the Big City. He is funny that way.”
It is twenty minutes later, after a shit and a beer, and loading the back of the Power Wagon with the few cases of supplies we picked up, that we are off through the jungle.
Lou has a penchant for smoking the weed as we find out on the trip through the bush. He pulls out a what he calls a “Walker” and sparks it up.
“Who is this named after?” I ask, before taking a long drag off of it, choking a bit as it expands.
“Not someone, something. Something I learned on a trip to New Zealand. It is a Walker, you smoke it when you walk, and walk, and walk… and sometimes fly.”
“Your stoned, old man.” Jerry tells him.
“You’re a pussy, Jerry.” Lou takes a hit and passes it back to me.
“Hey, don’t get my mechanic all fucked up. He has to look at that sending unit before we leave tonight.”
I hold my hit for a moment and then puff it out, “We are leaving tonight? What’s the hurry.”
“For one thing, Jorge told his cousin that we would be there tomorrow, which can be morning, noon, or night. I would prefer to fly under cover of darkness.”
“What are you,” Lou takes a pull off his beer, “a fucking Spook or something. The cover off darkness.” He turns to me and socks me in the arm, “The cover of darkness.” He repeats.
“Hey Lou, did you see any markings on Abby?” Jerry asks as he downshifted to climb in and out of a dry river bed.
“No?”
“That’s right, not a marking on her. Registration, inspections, all that shit… it is more trouble than it is worth in this shithole. So we don’t bother. But it has its drawbacks.”

Town is up and over the next rise. In the fifteen minutes or so since we left the compound, Lou and I are stoned out of our minds. We are laughing at Jerry, who is making sure he hits every bump in the road, tossing us up in the air inside the tight cab. As we pull up the main road I am nearly pissing my pants laughing.
“Comediens.” Jerry says as he slams on the brakes and tosses us both into the dash.
“Ow. You fuck… that hurt.” Lou sits up straight and wipes a little blood off of his forehead.
“Your pride maybe. Pussy.” Jerry leaps out of the truck and starts grabbing boxes. “Come on you two. Lets get this shit into the store and then we can get some grub.”

The unloading sobers us up a bit and we get it done in ten minutes or so. There is a Cantina that Nester’s cousin runs a couple streets over. We leave the truck and walk over. Jerry figures we need to straighten up just a little before we talk to Nester.
We walk into the Cantina and take a seat. There are a couple of people in here, but it is mid afternoon and not much is happening. The whole place is just four picnic style tables under the equivilant of a carport attached to a two story adobe type building. Inside the building, on the other side of the counter, is one of Nester’s relatives cooking Pollo over an open flame. Smells good.
Jerry leans over the counter and rattles off something in Spanish, coming back with two bottles of cold something.
“Beer?” I ask
“Drink it.” Jerry sets one down in front of each of us.
Lou takes a whiff and then turns his nose up at it. He pushes it away. “What the hell is that stuff? Smells like dirt.”
“It’s Guarana root extract and a little Cola. Drink it. It will perk you up.”
“And ruin my buzz, screw that.” Lou wasn’t going to have it.
I shoot mine down... not bad. “It really isn’t that bad.”
Jerry pushes it back to Lou, “Just for now, we have work to do. As soon as we are in the air, you boys can party all the way to Mexico City, I don’t give a fuck. But Nester will want to meet you, to trust that you aren’t taking me and his gold into some trap or something, so drink the shit and lets eat.”
Lou huffs and shoots down the elixer. “That smells good. I’ll take two.” He nods toward the flame cooked, marinated chicken on the open grill.
Jerry raises his hand and holds up three fingers. Ordering here is a breeze. There is only one thing cooking, and that is what's for lunch or dinner.
When the plates land in front of us, we hit them hard. There is a half a chicken on each plate, a little rice and beans, and a dark beer for each of us. Excellent stop.

Nester is no where to be found in town, so we have to go and get the truck and drive out to the waterfall. We find him working some equipment on the shore of the pool. He is pissed at Jerry for bringing Lou out here, for showing him. Hell, it took Nester a year or so to get used to me being with Jerry just to meet him in town. I had only been out here once to the waterfall, and that was to bring some medicine for Nester’s daughter.
After convincing Nester that Lou was okay, and that he had a stake in the situation, we got down to business. It helped that Lou spoke the language, and it helped that he drank the Guarana.
Nester was just a jungle native out here, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to part with a large amount of his gold without sending someone along to protect his investment. One would think that Jerry might be insulted at the thought that he wasn’t trusted. He had taken many a trip into town with Nesters gold and trust was never an issue. But Jerry understood. It was a lot of gold, bags of it. Several hundred pounds of it. Jerry had no intention of taking direct resposibility for it, and was more than happy that Nester sent one of his men along.
We are led up to the garden outside the main house and greeted by Consuela, Nester’s wife. We give her the gift we bought, making sure that she knows it is from Nester. She blushes and giggles, and then retreats into the house to put it away. While we take a quick visit with her, Nester loads the truck from his hidden cache and then comes up to the house and meets us in the garden. We all sit around a big wooden table and smoke cigars and drink some tequila. It s a show of hospitality at meeting Lou and sealing this deal that should make tomorrow a much better day.
I am totally digging this whole scene. Full belly, buzzed, drinking premium tequila and smoking Cubans. The thunder from the waterfall is constant, along with the cool air that the mist generates.
We are introduced to another of Nester’s relatives, Ollie, who will be accompanying us to the Big City. He is big… and quiet. He reminds me of that Indian guy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The one that rips that drinking fountain out of the floor and throws it out the window to escape. Not at all what I would expect to see guarding my several hundred pounds of gold.

We are finished with the little gathering and are now back to the truck. There are quite a few heavy canvas bags with thick leather folded over the top. Through each is a metal rod that locks at the back. They’re heavy mothers. I reach in and try to scoot one. It won’t budge.
Ollie hops in with the cargo, and Nester hands him up a gym bag. The three of us pile in the truck and we are on our way.

Plans for the Big City

Abbys Cargo Bay at the landing strip in Barra de la Cruz. Just trying my new batteries.




Last phone pick of windsurfer out of Santa Cruz Huatulco









I sleep on the short boat ride back to Jorge’s, more like pass out. It is enough to recharge me. We left Lou back in the bar. Jerry made him a map to the airstrip. We would meet tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Jerry also borrowed a few hundred dollars so we could pay Jorge for the night and buy what we needed. We are now in possession of a large purple “thong” for Nester’s wife, and a dress for Mari, Tapia’s wife. Our shopping list was long, but since we didn’t drive the truck to town, we trimmed it a bit. We will get those supplies when we fly to Mexico City.
I am lost in my thoughts for the moment until a cold, wet bottle of beer is held to my neck.
“Want one?”
“No… not right now.” I think there might be a world record with the other six I drank in between equal shots of tequila.”
“Pussy.” Jerry pops the top and takes a pull. Then stops and puts the bottle to the back of his neck. “Shit, Mexico City.” He brings the beer back for another taste and then holds it out to me. I grab it. Hair of the dog. In this case a big, hairy bastard with rabies.
“I thought we didn’t like Mexico City.”
“That’s right, we don’t. But we need the money and it is only gold, not drugs, or guns, or anything else that might land us in prison.” He empties the beer and puts it in the trash bag. “I haven’t been there in so long. I don’t know if the landing strip is “available”.
“So we make a fly-by and check it out.” I look at Jerry. “We don’t have to land right in Mexico City, do we? We can find an outlying strip somewhere safe and just drive to where we have to go.”
From his lack of response I get the feeling that it is easier said than done. Mexico City has all of the advancements of any national capitol city, including radar, an air force, air traffic control, transponders and the like.

By the time we reached Jorge’s we are starving. Aside from breakfast that morning, we managed to eat a couple of taco’s from a street vendor after we left Lou’s bar, and that was it.
You can smell Mari’s marinated pork as it slow cooks. She buries it, along with the coals that will cook it, and it smolders all day long in the covered hole, smoking and juicing itself until it is so tender it will just fall apart. I had it last time we were here. It is a good thing we were gone all day, because the aroma while it is cooking will drive you mad.
Somewhere between dinner and the unending beer supply we tapped, Jorge offers a friend who has a farm outside the Mexico City limits. He tells us that the strip was built for an old crop duster and that he doesn’t think it is long enough for Abby. But I have seen Jerry work wonders on small strips and I am not so worried.
“It is twenty minutes away from the city. Do you know where in the city you are going?” Jorge asks with a full mouth. It is very hard to stop eating this pork. Each piece is like your last breath, you have to take it.
Jerry looks at me, no help here, and then back at Jorge. “Lou said these guys are regular business men, so I would suppose they would be in the financial district.”
“No matter. This city is large, so no matter where you land, you will have to drive a long way.” He picks up his beer, “You want I should let him know you are coming?”
Jerry nods, “Can he get us a car?”
“I am sure he will let you use his, but I will ask this anyway.” Jorge smiles, “I know I don’t have to mention but it will be nice for you to offer him payment for the use of his field and auto. Treat him as you would treat me.”
“Of course, Jorge. I will take care of him.” He stands up and stretches. “You need to show me on the map. And then we need to crash. Big day tomorrow.”

By the time nine o’clock rolls around, we have oiled and inspected Abby, and have her running in the old hanger.
We are both up front. Jerry wants to refresh me on take off procedures. It is something we do every once in a while. He wants me to be able to get her off the ground in case of emergency. Now landings, landings we have never done… I have never done. He has always landed her. I have lobbied for a little schooling on this matter, but for some reason Jerry has refrained from letting me have the controls.
“Come on, Lou. Where the hell are you?” Jerry looks at his watch. “Let’s get her set up on the runway. I want to get rolling as soon as he gets here.”
“You are clear on the right.” I say.
“Clear on the left.” He replies and gooses the throttles. Abby responds with a fluid forward movement. Just as we move out of the hanger, a small sedan blows by right in front of us. Jerry pumps the brakes and we both lunge against our harnesses.
“Son of a bitch.” Jerry looks to his left and sees a flatbed truck come into the clearing at the other end of the strip. “Looks like Lou brought company.”
We motor out of the old hanger and see Lou running with a big black bag and a rifle slung over his shoulder. I unhook my harness and make it back to the cargo door just as Jerry slows the plane. Lou tosses the bag up, it is real heavy. Then unshoulders the rifle and hands it to me, all while he is running alongside. He hops up into the cargo bay and turns, legs out the door. “Gimme that rifle. Motherfuckers turn on you like a pack of wild dogs.”
Jerry turns and lines up on the runway. The truck is behind us now, and you can hear the gunfire.
“What the FUCK, Lou.” Jerry calls from the cockpit as he puts the coals to Abby’s engines.
“Its those bastards from the bar, a few of them anyway. They must of overheard what we were doing. Didn’t know they could understand English.” He pulled the bolt back and loaded the rifle.
The truck was only a few hundred feet behind us now. Lou wrapped the shoulder strap around his wrist and tucked the weapon into firing position. His first shot found the engine block and stopped the truck in flash of spark and smoke, followed by a fire that emptied the cab of its three occupants. The second shot left a permanent limp for the man with the pistol that had been firing back.
Abby made short work of the runway and we were up and over the trees before starting a slow bank back toward the coast.
“What took you so long?” Jerry leaned over and gave Lou a quick look.
“A couple of those fuckers from the bar tried to take my gold. I will NEVER let those motherfuckers into my bar again. I’ll shoot ‘em first.” Lou safeties his rifle and puts it back over his shoulder and takes a deep breath.
“No shit.” I try to sound sympathetic, but I saw those guys at his place and none of this surprises me.
“Nice shootin’, Tex.” I tried to lighten the moment.
“308 Remington, fully bedded stock, armor piercing rounds.” He adjusts the strap, “I have a scope that goes with it that’s worth six grand.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Twenty-eight pounds of gold.”

Santa Cruz Huatulco and Lou's Bar

still no batteries
Santa Huatulco Marina




We walk into the little city of Santa Cruz Huatulco. It is really nice. Totally off the beaten trail, but still has tourists. I can’t believe it. When we reach the town square we see the tour busses. There are six of them, most of them taking passengers from one small town to the next. They must leave Barra de la Cruz off that map.
Jerry grabs my arm and we change direction. Down a long alley between some businesses, and then we are in the neighborhoods. Not a white face among them, just us and the gold, and my camera. I don’t have much to lose, but I don’t want to lose my camera. I have been chronicling my journeys with this camera.
We make another turn and there is an open air market and a lot of locals shopping for food, goats, tools, you name it. It is like a flea market with pets you can eat. A kid shoves an iguana in my face and I jump. No, I am not afraid of iguanas, just didn’t expect it.
“Over here.” Jerry points to a Cantina at the end of the street. This is the end of this part of town and beyond is the jungle.
Outside this Cantina are some rough looking guys who don’t take their collective eyes off of us the whole time we are approaching them. When we step inside, they follow.
Inside, it is pretty bare. There is a nice looking bar, but the rest of the place would be better set on fire and left for ash. This would be a shit hole in Barra de la Cruz. There are quite a few customers inside, though. More of the same that were outside.
I get the distinct feeling we are not welcome here. All of the hushed conversations come to a screeching halt and now all eyes were on us.
“Ellos están bien chicos.” A distinctively American accent calls from a doorway back behind the bar. Out of the room in back comes a man with graying hair and a neatly trimmed Fu Manchu moustache. He is about 5’ 7’’ and fit, carrying a case of Budweiser.
“I hate this monkey piss, but these guys think its great.” He nods to the customers as he sets the case down behind the bar. “Jerry, how in the hell are you?”
We take a seat at the bar and the man reaches across and gives Jerry a hearty handshake.
“Lou, I want you meet my friend Jake.”
I get a steel grip handshake from Lou. He looks right at me for split second that tells me that the evaluation is over and I am a safe bet. I am with Jerry and that means something.
“You boys want a beer?” He sees my eyes glance at the case of Bud.
“Not that shit.” He says kicking the case on the floor. “I have Caguamos Tecate.” Lou reports as he pulls two of them out of a cooler and takes the tops off with an opener. He grabs a lime and wipes the tops then wipes the bottles off with a clean bar rag. “Gotta watch the tops of these things. They don’t do a very good job of sterilizing the bottles. The acid in the lime kills the shit.”
He cracks one for himself and then leans over on the bar. “So, what can I do for you boys.”
Jerry leans in and tells him about the gold transaction. Lou nods and smiles. Finally a conversation in English.
“When is the last time you checked the spot market on gold, Jerry?” Lou grabs a rag and wipes the bar, then throws a couple of cardboard coasters under our beers. I laugh, and he cuts to me with a hard stare. “Something funny?”
“Uh… no, I just think the coasters are a nice touch.” Shit this guy startled me.
“I paid two thousand bucks to have this bar shipped from Ireland… fucking Ireland. You don’t think I am going to let it get fucked up just because you don’t want a coaster under your beer.”
I smile, say nothing, and look at Jerry. He takes the heat off of me.
“I haven’t looked at a newspaper or heard anything for weeks. What is happening with the gold market?” Jerry pulls his duffle up toward him and pulls three cigars from it without Lou seeing. He hands them to me and I get his drift.
“Cigar, Lou?” I pull the three up to the bar and hold one out to him. He takes it and gives it a look, a long smell, and then rolls it between his fingers.
“Now that is a fine cigar. Thanks Jake.” He pulls a cigar cutter up from the shelf on the bar, along with an ashtray and a lighter. Before long, we are all at ease puffing on Jerry’s Cubans and opening up a few beers.
According to Lou, the price of gold on the open market had almost doubled. “Let me see what you got.”
Jerry reaches in and pulls out the small bag and Lou takes it down to the shelf behind the bar. A second later he tells Jerry he has a little more than four ounces.
“No shit. I thought it was only two or at the most three.” He looks at me, like I had any fucking clue. I shrug.
“Can you convert it, Lou?”
“No… not at these prices. Part of it maybe, but that won’t do you any good.”
“Its going to have to. We don’t have any cash at all.” Jerry socked down his beer and another was on the bar to replace it.
“I’ll tell you what, boys. I need to make a run to Mexico City. I have been cashing in some locals that have claims inland. They have been bringing me this shit for the last year. I am just about tapped out.”
“Your killing me, Lou.” Jerry takes a drink, “How much do you have, cash that is?”
“I only have about a grand, and that isn’t enough to cash you out to begin with, and I still need to go to the big city to cash the rest.” Lou reaches down below the bar with out taking his eyes away from the conversation, and up comes the tequila… I think.
“Yep, it’s tequila. My wife’s family has made this shit for a hundred years. She won’t tell me what’s in it, like a fucking prize winning meatloaf recipe or something.”
Three small glasses come up and he pours a double or so in each one. The liquid has a blue tint to it.
“I have an idea, Jerry, but its on you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You fly me to the big city, and I will cash you out triple the market rate.” Lou holds his glass up and we do the same, “Viajes seguros.”
Here we go again.
“Safe journeys.” Lou translates, and we toast and shoot.
“That is the smoothest tequila I have ever tasted.”
“No shit.” Jerry adds. We set our glasses down and Lou tops them off again.
“Can your man in Mexico City take all you have and more?” Jerry asks. Lou nods.
“These are regular business men. They deal in large quantities. If I didn’t want the hassle of reporting the income, I could get market price for it. These guys pay me seventy five cents on the dollar. One of them is a buddy of mine from Nam. He won’t fuck us.”
We shoot the next round and Jerry looks at me with a shit eating grin. “We should make a stop at Nester’s and take what he has to this guy. He only gets thirty or forty percent when he cashes in.”
Lou nods, “That’ll work.” He pours one more round, almost as a dare because the first two are kicking my ass right now. “So what do you think, we stop at Jerry’s and then up the big city?”
Jerry lifts his glass, Lou’s is up, and I pick mine up warily. I think there is voodoo at work in this blue shit.
“A la gran ciudad.” He says.
“To the big city,” Lou translates.
Oh screw it, “Allah grand crawdad.” The rest of the day will be nothing more than a blur.

Breakfast and a boat ride

This is a shitty picture from my cellphone, I ran out of batteries in the camera. It is the view from the patio at Jorge's. It tried to get the surfers, but they must have passed when I was trying to work this damn thing.



Morning comes with a warm breeze and the smell of rich coffee. Our room is right over the bar, the balcony is shared with the room next door. I don’t remember how I got up here, or when. I am amazingly clear headed after drinking so much. That is one of the amazing things about Jorge’s tequila… it doesn’t leave you hanging like that cheap shit those surfers were drinking. This is evident when I step out on to the balcony.
I look to my left to see two of the guys we saw down at the bar last night. They are wrecked. One of them had puked all over himself sometime during the night. He is still out. The other looks at me with an _expression that one might have with his head secured tightly in a vise.
“Dude.”
“You okay?” I watch for a response. He nods.
“How ‘bout your buddy?”
Surfer looks at his buddy and gives me the report. “Still breathing, dude.”
“Good.” I can hear a conversation downstairs. I turn to see that Jerry isn’t in the room. I walk to the end of the balcony and see that the truck is back. Cool, the day is in motion. Before I turn to walk down stairs I can hear someone in the surf whooping it up. From the my vantage point I can see some of this guy’s buddies out there riding a few of the medium waves. They will be out there all day, and this guy with them. Even his buddy as soon as he can stand. They are addicted to it.
“Better get out there, man. Your bro’s are going to catch all the good waves and call you two pussies for sleeping it off.”
“Hear that, asshole, get up.” He shoves sleeping beauty and gets him to open his eyes.
“Let’s catch a ride, man. Get up.”

I leave them to the task and head downstairs. Jerry must have heard me talking because he has a cup of joe poured for me when I reach the bar. You can smell breakfast now; onions, eggs, chorizo, hashbrowns, ohhh man. I look out to the ocean through the scrub trees and see one of the surfers whip by, followed by another.
Jerry gives me a nod but doesn’t break the pace of conversation he is having with Jorge. I hear boat, and federales, which can’t be good. I call to whoever is cooking in back and another of Jorge’s daughters come out, I think it is Angelina, but after last night I don’t trust my memory.
“Angelina?”
She breaks a sweet smile for me and I know I am right.
“Querría el desayuno por favor.” I do know the important spanish, like how to ask for breakfast.
She nods and then goes in the back, repeating my order to whomever is cooking. She returns to the bar, “Más café?”
I nod this time. She fills my cup and then over to Jerry and fills his. I watch as Jerry gives Jorge a two handed shake, and then he waves me over.
“Buenos días, Jake.”
“Good morning to you, Jorge.” I take a deep breath, “Breakfast smells good.”
“Maria is cooking.” He smiles. Nothing more to be said on that note.
The two surfers stumbled down the stairs and into the bar area. Jerry scooted in closer while the two of them asked for some coffee.
“Jorge says that there are a lot of Feds… Nationals, on the roads in Santa Cruz Huatulco. Fox and some of his cabinet are here for a World Energy Conference or some shit like that. He thinks we’ll get popped if we drive that old heap into the city.”
Just then Angelina brought out two steaming plates of the breakfast special and set them down in front of us. The one surfer turned, the one without the vomit on his shirt, and held a finger up, “I’ll take one of those.” His buddy lept to his feet and ran off around the back of the building, you could still hear him though. Even that wasn’t going to spoil this breakfast. I dig in and listen to Jerry.
“So Jorge is going to have his cousin pick us up in a boat and take us to the city. He knows they guy I trade with, so he will take us there from where ever we dock the boat. Cool?”
“Sounds alright to me. We need to get some beer for the ride.”
“Necesitamos cerveza para el paseo del barco.” He calls in to Jorge, who acknowledges him. Jerry nods, “Not a problem.”

Jorge’s cousin is here within the hour and we walk down the beach to a neighboring resort that has a small dock. Jorge comes with us for a proper introduction.
We climb on board a small runabout and Jorge makes the introductions from the dock. We tell him we will be back this afternoon and he tells us that we are having roasted pork for dinner. Oh… man, I love this place
“Cuide delos.” Jorge calls as we pull away from the dock. I turn to Jerry.
“Take car of them.” He says to me.

As usual, Jerry starts in on a conversation that I don’t understand. It is like being in the cheap seats at the United Nations.
I get little bits of it. I spend my time putting the six beers into Pietro’s ice chest. He is a nice guy. He is short, and missing a finger on his left hand. You gotta wonder what that is all about. He looks all of twenty. Good lookin’ kid, probably gets a lot of pussy. Well, maybe not if the girl is freaked out about the finger.
“Pietro says he has to head back this way around three o’clock.” Jerry takes the beer I just opened out of my hand and makes it his.
“Help yourself.”
“He is going to drop us right at the marina and we will have a good four hours to make our transaction and then do our shopping.” Jerry took a long pull off of his beer and handed me the empty.
“You in a hurry?” I pulled another from the foam ice chest.
“Hey, I’m not flying or driving.” He cracked the beer and took half of it in one gulp.

Barra de la Cruz

Jorge's Cantina in Habitaciones. Jerry
was sitting on the stool to the right but
got up to take a piss.


Barra de la Cruz is a bit of a shit hole. It is a surfer’s hang out and they don’t have the cash to keep the economy in five star hotels and top shelf liquor. But it is Jerry’s base of operation because of the relatively hidden airstrip and close, friendly accommodations.
We drive up the little road between white stucco buildings until we see the beach. To our left is our digs, a little four room “hotel” with a hand painted sign the reads “Habitaciones”. There is a patio with a few tiki torches, and beyond that is a small bar under the balcony with a checkerboard tile floor and a few tables. I have been here once before.
“Looks like we have a little company.” Jerry nods at the clutch of surfers at one of the picnic tables on the patio. In the middle of the table is a gathering of beer bottles that suggested that there were more people early on. A couple of local girls were the center of attention.
“Nice.”
We stop the truck and climb out. There is a warm ocean breeze that carries with it the smell of something cooking. The little hotel has some of the best food I have ever eaten in my journeys, namely fish tacos. Sounds strange, but tastes great. I prepare myself for a platter of those and at least four or five of the local dark beers.
I follow Jerry around to the patio. We both nod at the surfers, who give size us up as we make the corner. Probably wondering if we might be cops by the smell of things. They see that we’re not, and the glow of a pipe fires off in the flicker of the torchlites.
“Jorge?” Jerry calls over the bar. From somewhere in the back you he calls back something in Spanish. I have got to learn more of this language.
“Jerry!” Jorge comes out and gives Jerry a bear hug, then turns to me, “Jake, old friend.” I hug him back and then he goes behind the bar and pulls a hand blown bottle from a secret place and grabs three glasses. It is his special tequila that his family has made ever since the urge to get shit-faced hit this town… before any of them knew how to write down the recipe.
The three of us drink to our collective health… I know that one. Then to something else, I believe it is safe journeys.
I will need a chaser if we were starting like this. “Jorge, cervesa por favor.”
He pulls a Negra Modelo from the ice box, and then another when Jerry sees how inviting it looks. After the third shot and second beer, I turn and enjoy the view of the local girls in their bikinis while Jerry talks business. It is all in Spanish to keep the surfers out of the loop. They probably know more of the language than I do, but at the speed the two of them are talking they will only be able to pull a few words out of it anyway.
Jerry is smart when it came to putting work ahead of play. We could have easily gotten plowed and then the whole day would be wasted tomorrow without plans made the night before. We need certain things arranged. Namely one of Jorge’s boys to take the truck back to the airstrip tonight and grab the fuel trailer. They will get it filled and return it. It has to be done at night for two reasons. The truck is not registered or licensed, not that this was any big deal for this town, but near the airfield where the boy’s will find the fuel it might be an issue. Then there was the manner in which they get the fuel. Most of the time they will steal it. But to have the cash on hand just in case they are caught is a necessity. Jerry doesn’t care either way, and pays Jorge more than the fuel is worth for the effort. It is all on Nestor’s tab anyway.
“Oil.” Abby uses oil like she has a bad habit. Although we have a few cases back at the compound, it is wise to pick some up. That is one thing you don’t want to be without.
Jerry nods and gives Jorge the order. He hands him another small stack of peso notes. That will be the last of the cash until he trades Nester’s gold for money in Santa Cruz Huatulco. There again Jerry knows some people that will get him top dollar for the gold. From what I could tell from the transaction in Nester’s shack, there is several thousand dollars worth.
Hopefully, when the sun comes up tomorrow, we will see the old truck back in its parking space and have a topped off fuel trailer and a couple of cases of oil stashed in the hanger.
One of Jorge’s daughters comes out to the bar and stands there with a smile.
“Fish tacos, por favor.” I make my hands in a big circle to tell her I want the big platter. She smiles as I rub my hands together and lick my lips. “Oh man, this is the life. Fish taco’s, dark beer, and those two.” I nod at the girl that is facing us. She looks familiar. She winks at me.
“You know her?” Jerry takes a pull off his beer.
“Dunno.” I take drink. “If I don’t I wish I did.”
We both watch for moment or two, and then shit starts to happen. One of the surfers, the one that is holding a half empty bottle of cheap tequila, puts the moves on the little sweety that winked at me. She steps back, he grabs her around the waste with his free hand and pulls her in, whispering something in her ear. She slaps him hard and he reels back. Then he starts for her but his buddies hold him back.
Behind us Jorge yells from the doorway. His voice is hard and sharp. He calls her Yolena, and Jerry looks at me, and I him.
“That is little Yolena?” Jerry squints his eyes in the darkness as she walks by and into the back. “Holy shit, she grew up fast.”We both smile and finish our beers. Jerry gets up and calls something to Jorge, he responds and now Jerry is my bartender. It is going to be a long night.

The Flight to Barra de la Cruz

Sunset through Abby's cockpit at the Barra de la Cruz dirt strip. We are actually sitting in the hanger just before refueling.



It is mid afternoon by the time we return to El Corazon and I get busy installing the check valve that we pulled off of the parts plane. While I was under that hulk in the jungle, I pulled the hydraulic filters for good measure, just in case we needed an alternate set. That and the other check valves in the vicinity.
I have sobered up completely, the jungle heat and humidity sucking the alcohol out of my system like a straw in a soda shop. Installing the check valve was a two beer affair, quick and refreshing. By the time Jerry had done his preflight, I was ready to go.
Jerry was about as safe as any pilot I had ever known. He had slipped into Abby’s cockpit enough times that she was as familiar as slipping into old bluejeans. But he never took her for granted. He would do a meticulous walk-around every time he was going flying. While he is still kicking the tires and checking the gear wells, I grab flight supplies in the cooler, and check the first aid kit and emergency radio for good measure. I also rifle through the “emergency bag” to make sure we have what we might need if we have to hike out of this God forsaken place.
Some time ago, Jerry put together what he though he might need for survival: Extra rounds for the rifle, flashlights that didn’t need batteries, two full canteens, water purification kit, twenty cans of Mighty Dog with pull-tab tops, a machete, signaling mirror, and a deck of cards. When I first saw the bag, it all made sense except the dog food. Jerry brought up the point that anything else like jerky, nuts, even a box of crackers, would be nibbled away on this trip or that and wouldn’t be there when we really need it. No one would eat the Mighty Dog unless they really had to. Real survival food.

We are wheels up in the late afternoon. The triple terrace jungle looks faded as we bank over it and head northwest toward Barra de la Cruz on the far south coast of Mexico. There is an airstrip that was used by the secret military and CIA in the days of the Contras of Nicaragua. It was nothing more than a cleared dirt strip and an old, dilapidated hanger structure and a fuel tank. It is three hundred or so nautical miles from El Corazon, and a short ride to a few small towns, and a little further to Santa Cruz Huatulco. This is where we will do our business.

After about an hour in the air, and thirty minutes to our landing, Jerry had me take Abby’s controls and he went back to relieve himself. “Nothing funny,” he instructed as he climbed out of the pilot seat and slid by. He made sure he slid the RayBans down his nose and made eye contact. I nodded with a grin and he headed back. He was a little upset with me some time ago when I thought it would be fun to have Abby do a couple of nose dips while he was pissing. I almost tossed him out of the cargo door, so he says. I think he just pissed on himself, but he wanted to add the dramatics of a near death experience to make sure I never did it again. That and the sock to the jaw he delivered got the message across. It wasn’t funny.
I held Abby to her bearing until Jerry slid into his seat and handed me one of two opened beers. “To Mike” he says, and we clink the bottles. It was a tradition with him, to drink the first one to his brother if we were in Abby.
He brings Abby in low, just over the trees now as we leave the thickest part of the jungle behind us and head over some of the coastal villages. Money is finding its way to even the smallest of towns here on the “Mexican Riviera” as the tourism board puts it. Soon the people that have called this home will be forced out to make way for the eventual high-rise tourist hotel resorts. It was only a matter of time.
Jerry turns Abby to a more westerly heading as we follow the ribbon of beach for a while before heading over open water. “Have you checked the life raft lately?”
I look over my shoulder and see the Navy surplus raft strapped to the inside of the fuselage. “Still there.”
“OH SHIT!” Jerry struggles for control as Abby goes nose down for a moment. I spill my beer and almost shit myself before he pulls her level and starts laughing.
“ASSHOLE.” I brush the beer off of my clothing, “Now we are even, except where I sock you in the jaw.”
“No, you almost killed me with your bullshit, I just spilled beer on you with mine.”

Abby’s engines backed off as Jerry set up his landing on the dirt strip. It was dusk and we had just enough light to see the strip was clear and area deserted. She touched down velvety smooth and we took the length of the strip to slow before we spun her around and made our way to the old hanger. There were no doors on the structure, and Jerry just pulled into one end out the other when it was time to leave. Abby echoed like thunder in the hanger before he shut her down. It seemed like she would bring the place down on top of us, but it held together. Once again silence filled the air.
As with any of these desolate landing strips we keep the fuel tank as full as possible. This place was no exception. It was worth the chance of getting ripped off to have it handy. The tank is on wheels and can be towed. It has a hand pump which is a bitch. The other piece of equipment here at this field is an old Ford truck that was left behind while Kennedy was still President.
Jerry climbed down out of the open cargo door and stretched. “Grab the keys to the truck.”
I reach Abby’s equipment box and grab the old distributor and toss it out to him. The cap and wires are in place in the truck. A great anti theft device. Keys don’t mean shit out here.
Jerry lines up the marks and slides it down into the old six banger engine, hand tightens the wing-nut that he substituted for hold down nut, and slaps the cap on. Before you can say “Jack’s your uncle” he has the fuel tank in tow and is over to the left wing handing me up the nozzle. We have her topped off, locked up, and we are on the road to town within the hour.

Jungle Mart

The parts plane near El Corazon. You can see one of the poles we used once to hoist some flight surfaces off of the left wing.

Back at El Corazon the smell of marinated pork roasting over an open fire finds its way to my nostrils as I check Abby’s hydraulic lines for leaks and security, then go to the gear actuators and do the same. There are several check valves in the system that might be bad. Before long I have checked them and find the culprit. Now to find a replacement.
Supplies for Abby are not plentiful on a commercial basis. The DC-3 hadn’t seen production for over 50 years, and parts were hard to come by. There were, however, several ways to find parts for her. An internet search and a long wait while the parcel made its way down to a suitable pick up point would not do. We would have to go to the “Jungle Mart” and find our part.
Jerry keeps a list of planes, a treasure map of sorts, that didn’t quite make their last sortie. They are lost to most people, some at the bottom of a canyon or two, others lost to the jungle in a spray of ferns and fronds. But Jerry has them mapped with GPS coordinates that takes us to the very spot.
In the old days, the DC-3 and its military counterpart, the C47, were in plentiful supply and inexpensive to fly. They were the drug runner’s plane of choice. The dangers of the profession provide plenty of options for parts from crashed planes.
The crude airstrip here at El Corazon was used many times before we ever showed up. On the approach for several miles back are a couple of examples of what not to do when you are overloaded and don’t have a mechanic like me keeping your plane flying. Jerry knew one of the pilots personally. He is the one who survived and gave Jerry the “deed” to the airstrip and El Corazon for saving his life.
Now, that guy’s plane, the other a half mile back, and six others out in various areas of the jungle are our parts supply for Abby. Today, since we needed our check valve to fly safe, we would be making a visit to plane number one.
I find Jerry tending the grill in front of the hanger. We are both starving and half in the bag already from the twelve pack we have consumed since returning from town.
“Found Abby’s problem” I report.
“Good. Fix it.” Jerry says while he turns the meat.
“We need to make a trip to a parts plane.” I reach for a small piece on the grill but get slapped back with the tongs.
“Which one?”
“The first one back from the strip. I know that part of the plane is pristine.”
“After lunch. Then we sober up and take a flight. We can stay on the coast tonight after we get supplies and then its back to business tomorrow.”
I nod and snag a piece of the pork before he can do anything about it. Delicious. It is only ten o’clock in the morning and already a perfect day.

The only thing about the jungle that is just about unbearable is the humidity. You never seem to get use to it. When I first showed up here I would sweat constantly, day and night. I used to keep changing shirts until I gave up and just wore the wet one until the end of the day. I have acclimated a bit, not sweating as much, but it is still a bitch. I mention this because it is a pain in the ass pulling hydraulics apart while lying on your back under a wrecked plane. The flashlight in my mouth kept me from complaining too much, but it was still a bitch. Hotter than an oven, never mind what might be hiding in the alcove of the gear bay.
“Hurry up man, this is miserable out here.” Jerry tells me, knowing that he is pissing me off.
I work as quick as I can, and make sure to cap off the lines with duct tape. You never know when you may need that line or another part in the system down the road.
After a few minutes I am on my feet, check valve in hand. We walk back out to the Jeep and make the 15 minute ride back to the compound. This parts plane is the most accessible, only a short hike from a drivable path. Several of the others are so far into the jungle that it becomes an overnighter. Not my idea of a fun night, either. Jerry shot a panther on one of those trips while I pulled a set of flight control pulleys for Abby. It upset him to kill it, such a magnificent animal. But it was intent on making a meal of him, and that wouldn’t do.

Nogales and Nester's Falls

Abby from Nester's camera as we
fly by "The Falls".

Even in this jungle outpost, these people still went to church on a Sunday. At the other end of town was a church that was built by some missionaries about ten years ago. They made the circuit, showing up here in Nogales the last Sunday of each month. They could have spent the money on something this village really needed, like water purification, but that would come later. Salvation for their sinning souls would have to come first. Sinning souls… these people were the most peaceable people I have ever seen. They didn’t need church, but they do need a school, and that is what the building is used for when they didn’t have service.
“What the hell.” Jerry flipped the switch on the radio on and off a couple of times. It didn’t turn on. He traces the wiring, checks the connections, then walks outside and I follow with the case of beer.
Up on the roof, the solar panel is covered by foliage from the encroaching jungle. “I wonder how long that has been that way?”
I set the case in the back of the jeep and pull the machete from behind the seat, “Lets fix it.”
We make short work of the frond and its host branch while standing on the roll bar of the repositioned jeep. “That’ll do it.” I jump down as Jerry steps back into the store and returned with his Tupperware full of marinated meat.
“Lunch.” He tosses it to me and I wedge it into the back alongside the beer.
“So what is on for today?” This couldn’t be it.
“You fix that down-lock problem on Abigail, and then we go make a supply run.” Jerry started the jeep.
“Supply run?”
“Yeah, we need to make a pick up from the bank of Nogales, and then we go.” Jerry pulled onto the dirt path and up toward the Church at the other end of town.

Services had just let out as we pull up. The town’s children gather around the jeep as we jump out. Jerry reaches behind his seat and pulls a plastic bag of hard candy and throws a few handfuls out and away from where we parked. The kids flock to it like pigeons to seed. Kind of a one man parade route.
“Jerry!” The padre calls over the departing crowd. Jerry goes to pay his respects, making sure he stops Nester Orinda on the way. Nester is the man he came to see.
A couple of handshakes later Jerry is walking with Nester over toward his shack across from the church. He and his family had claim to land that was ten minutes walk back into the jungle. It is a pool at the base of a waterfall and the surrounding land up to the tree-line. Nester’s group pulled gold from the soil at the edges of the pool, a lot of gold. That was just with crude panning. If you were to ever get the right equipment in there to really harvest the shoreline this town would have hi-rises instead of clapboard shacks.
Nester is the unofficial mayor of Nogales. He owns the little store and organized the building of the church. It is his family’s gold that barters for supplies and things that are not normally found out here in the jungle.
Jerry rattles off something in Spanish and Nester waves us both into this shack. Inside the ambience is third world Motel 6, with a bed, a wash basin, and a camp lantern. This is his in-town home. His wife and four children, two brothers and an uncle were out at the falls living in a much larger “home”.
Nester looks out the window and then turns to the both of us and nods. Jerry grabs one end of the metal bed-frame and moves it over. He pulls a moss covered tarp from the ground and beneath it is the top of a drop safe, the kind you might find in the floor of a service station. Jerry had helped him sink it into a block of concrete a couple of years ago. No one knew it was there, and if they did it would not be breached, moved, or opened without the special key that only Nester possessed.
The transaction takes several minutes, and when the bed was is back into place, Nester looks out of the window once again to make sure that this little dance wasn’t being watched. Once satisfied, he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, a list… a shopping list.
Jerry looks it over while I stand by like some idiot. I should have paid attention in Spanish class in High School. I know enough Spanish to get my face slapped and that is about it.
A quick exchange between Nester and Jerry, a laugh, a smile, and a pat on the back and we are out of there.
“What was that all about?”
Jerry hands me the list, all in Spanish. It might as well have been written in Klingon. “Number five.”
“Yes, don’t keep it a mystery.”
“He wants some fancy underwear for his wife. Those thongs.” Jerry says, climbing into the Jeep.
“For Consuela? That is an image that I don’t need”
Nestor’s wife was a good cook, and a hearty eater, and she didn’t wear it well.
“I told him I would pick up his list, and two full wings of fuel, plus a little something for the run.” Jerry starts back down the dirt trail toward our jungle passage. “Beer.”
I reach behind the seat and pull two cold ones and yank the caps. Life is good.

El Corazon

Ten minutes later the ever-present sound of radial engines is finally silenced. Abby breathes her last breath of the day and then there is a brief pause. Then, like the tide, the sounds of the jungle replaces Abby’s throaty report.
El Corazon is Jerry’s compound. A combination aircraft hanger and shop, with a large home built in the space above it. It is totally off of the grid, like most places down here. We pump water from a well, get our electricity from the sun and the river out back. Our only source of communication out here is the ham radio set. There is a Jeep and a old Dodge Powerwagon that could find a road through any jungle. There is one road out back that leads to a little village not far from here, maybe three miles. There is a clinic, a bar, and a couple of real good places to eat.
When Jerry first brought me here, I asked him who watched the place while we were out. No one, was his reply. We were too far out of the way for anyone who really would want to rob us, and the people of the village were hard working folks who wouldn’t think of taking something that didn’t belong to them. He treated them right when he was in town, and they all knew who he is, and now who I am as well.
“I am beat.” Jerry says to me as he jumps down to the dirt. “Why don’t we let Abbey be and kick back.”
“No problem.” I wasn’t into burning any midnight oil, even though it was only 9:30pm.

Before long we have the oil lamps lit, the yacht batteries that kept the sun’s charge run our satellite television or stereo. Tonight it is the stereo and a rather cheeky dice tournament. We drink nearly all of the beer during the competition, one that sees Jerry victorious. To date we have kept a running tally of monies won and lost. I am hoping it is all in jest, but can never get a straight answer out of Jerry whether it is a fictitious amount or if he really expects me to pay him the $23,000 he has won. I suppose I will have to wait until the tables have turned to find out the true answer.

Morning comes with the sound of a car horn. I am in my hammock, tangled in a blanket. I hear no movement from Jerry, only to find that he is not in his hammock at all. Out the window I see him, in the Jeep, beer in hand, the other threatening to blow the horn continually unless I make it down there spot-quick.
I throw on some shorts and one of my collection of Grateful Dead tour shirts and head down to the hanger and out into the morning sun. It is about 85 degrees and humid as hell. I curse myself as I approach my impatient driver.
“What’s the problem?” Jerry asks.
“Should have grabbed a beer.”
Jerry points to the passenger seat and there is the last beer, unopened and ice cold. I take it and then hop in.
It is a definite skill drinking a beer in a jeep while tearing through the jungle, but I manage well enough. Only once do I spill a little. It is a ten minute ride into the town of Nogales. We didn’t have plans to go to town today, or at least I didn’t think so.
“I thought we had an early pick up this morning?”
Jerry drives with one hand, the other upending the beer bottle before tossing the empty in the wooden crate that holds the empties. “Rescheduled for tomorrow.”
The ride goes by in a flash as I finish my beer and toss it into the back with the other bottles. The crate is so loud with jingling bottles that we sound like a giant wind chime as we leave the jungle behind us and head up toward the cluster of shacks and small structures that make up the heart of Nogales’ business district.
A few stray dogs bark at our passing as we drive up the dirt trail and stop in front of a make-shift market. Jerry hauls the box of bottle out of the jeep and sets them down inside the door of the building.
Inside, it is nothing more than stacks of boxes and crates, some overturned and displaying the contents of the hidden crates below. Over in the corner are several cases of beer stacked next to an ancient ice-chest style cooler. Ice is brought in every few days, most times by us, to keep the beverages and occasional meat and perishables cold. Nogales, like many small villages, is not on the grid. There is some solar powered electrical and storage batteries, provided by Jerry before I came here. It powered a ham radio for emergencies, and the occasional light bulb.
Jerry pretty much financed the market, a kind of trading post that kept us in meat, clothing, furniture, and tequila from local manufacturers.
He gestures to the cases of beer, “Grab one. And check the cooler.”
I open the ice chest. Still had a stack of melting block ice to one side, on top of which were several bundles of goat meat, chicken, and some marinated pork in one of Jerry’s large Tupperware containers. On the other side at least two cases of bottles chilling in the icy melt off. “Oh yeah, we have cold ones.” I pull two longnecks out of the slush and toss one to him, then shoulder the case. “Where is everyone?”
“Dunno.” Jerry cracks the beer and takes a pull. He steps in the back room, where there was usually one of the woman from the village and about six kids running around. “Is it the last Sunday?” Jerry fiddles with his watch, “yep, Sunday. Shit this month went by fast.”

Tapia

The air rushing in through the cargo door is warm and sticky, even at the speed we were going. I step carefully over to the ice chest and pull the two remaining beers from the ice water and make my way up to the cockpit.
“Here you go, Jerry.” I go to hand him a brew, but he waves me off.
“Trim us up.” He says. I know what he means. The cargo is tail loaded and I have to move one or all of the bails forward. Not an easy job.
“Right.” I return to the cargo bay and start tugging the bails that it took two people to move. Five minutes later I can hear Jerry yelling his approval. I return to the cockpit and the co-pilot’s seat. Jerry has already started on his beer, mine is opened and in the cup-holder.
It is nights like this that I forget what I am doing and just enjoy the view. The full moon lights up the triple terrace of jungle beneath us as we fly north about 400 feet above the trees. There is a river that we follow for a while before we follow the east fork to our off load point. We aren’t the end runners. That job will land you in jail. We are more like the UPS of the dirt runways. We are just taking parcels from point A to point B.

Our last stop was the grower, the next will be the distributor that will get it across the border. We have logged most of our hours between Columbia and Central America. Made a few trips into Mexico, but even that is too close to the States. Jerry decided that the closer you move to the States, the more money your cargo was worth, the easier it is to kill you for it. And if you don’t get killed, you will most likely get busted.
Several years ago I met Jerry’s brother Mike in a bar in San Diego. I had been an aircraft mechanic for a major airline for 12 years, and with the Navy as an aircraft mechanic before that. Mike had a job for me. At that time he was flying between San Diego and central Mexico. He needed someone to help him do an annual inspection on his plane. The money was right, so I jumped on board. It was just suppose to be a couple of weeks. That was three years ago.
Mike was shot and killed on a dirt strip north of Mexico city after a drop went bad. It was short, but Mike had no way of knowing. They lit him up after he told them he didn’t know anything about it. Jerry was with him, flying as usual. He watched the whole thing go down and then powered up on his take-off roll. They shot the plane up pretty good, and to see that plane when Jerry brought it home was a testament to his flying ability and balls in general. He landed on one engine, both elevators shot up pretty bad, and a rudder that had nearly been cut in half by a shoulder fired rocket.
I think that Mike’s death is why Jerry doesn’t talk much. He thinks he could have done something, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He would be dead too. Those men are animals.
Ever since that day I have been a flight engineer, co-pilot (only once while Jerry took a piss out of the cargo door), Load Master, and gun toting grenade wearing overseer of cargo pick ups. The beer was my contribution. It is funny how a little thing like popping a beer with a potential enemy brings two sides together.

Thirty minutes later Jerry edges her over and lines up on our last stop. The moon shimmers off of the East Fork of the La Dora river making it look like a ribbon of shimmering silver. We can see the ranch house and the activity around it. You can’t mistake the sound of our arrival. Headlights reach toward our landing strip as the truck rolls to off-load us.
This is Tapia’s place, a good man with a good crew. On many occasions we have stayed the night, partying with his guys, sleeping with their women. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. Jerry wanted to get back to our home base and work on the plane in the morning. That was okay with me. I like sleeping in my own bed. Even the friendliest crew gets plenty wild when they drink tequila. I wasn’t into any wilding tonight. Last time we did an overnight here, a man was shot. It was only in the leg, and was an “accident”, one friend clipping the other during a drunken argument. The fact that they didn’t kill each other is a testament to their friendship.
Jerry touches her down with barely a bump and throttles back. Within a minute we are spinning around at the end of the line and Jerry lines up for our departure. The trucks roll around and the dance begins again. I don’t don the garb for this stop.
When the trucks roll up, Tapia himself steps out. I hop down out of the doorway and he gives me a big bear hug.
“Tima! My friend, it is nice to see you.” He puts both hands on my shoulders after releasing me and looks at me as though I am his growing boy. Tapia is in his sixties, an old rancher/farmer who still has goats and grows corn. It is his brother who is the distributor. He uses Tapia’s place because of the airstrip. He will be here in the morning to load the cargo into his own plane and fly it over the border into Mexico. What he does after that is anyone’s guess. Too dangerous for us.
Tapia motioned to his boys, who came and off loaded the bails. The guns we had just dropped off were part of a deal that Tapia’s brother had made, this part of the cargo being his pay-off. So we would fly out empty. No cash, just a little barter.
“Jerry!” Tapia called with a wave into the darkness of the cockpit. Jerry leaned forward and let Tapia see his smiling face, a rare appearance.
“Hey, Tapia, how is Marietta?” Marietta is Tapia’s wife. His age, but with a youthful giggle and a hell of a cook.
“As wild as ever.” He disappears for a moment and then reappears with a basket. “She has been busy making tamales.” He passes the basket to me, the aroma is heavenly.
“Wow, Tapia, this is fantastic. Thank you, tell Mari thank you.” I hop up into the plane and walk the basket to the cockpit.
Jerry reaches into his flight bag and pulls out a bottle of French wine, “Give him this.
“Hey, Jerry, cool… he’ll love this.”
I walk to the door as the last of the bails is off-loaded. “Jerry got you something.” I hand him the bottle.
“Gracias, Jerry, this will loosen up Mari for a little love this evening. French wine and my naked, glistening body, she will not be able to resist.”
“You will have to hit her over the head with it if that’s your approach.” Jerry called from the cockpit.
Tapia grabs me one last time and gives me a quick hug. “You boys be careful up there.” He steps back and shakes my hand, “Next time we will have a party, okay, you boys stay next time, okay?”
“Next time, Tapia.” I hop up into the plane and Jerry starts his take-off roll. By the time I park my ass in the other seat, we are up and the gear is stowed.
A hard bank to the north once again and we are on our way home. I haul the basket up to my lap and unfold the linen that wrapped the dozen or so home-made tamales.
“Damn, hurry up with those. I’m starving.” Jerry says flatly.
We both sank our teeth into the home-made tamales and breathed a collective sigh. It was the first food we had eaten since morning and the sun had set two hours ago.
“Man, that woman can cook.” I look at Jerry and he nods back his approval.
“Next time we come here we will bring her a nice dress or something.” Jerry says, totally out of character.
“No shit, a dress, huh?”

The tamales are gone within minutes and so are the beers. Jerry turns in his seat, an indication that I will be flying for a moment or two. “Take her for a minute, I gotta piss.”
I hold her steady and Jerry walks to the cargo door. He attaches himself to the safety strap and inches up to the door.
Abigail flies straight and level, kind of like a big Cadillac on the highway. I just keep my eyes on the dim line of the horizon lit by the full moon and hold her there.
Abigail, what kind of name is that for a plane? Actually it was Jerry’s sister-in-law. The plane was named for Mike’s wife, Abby. When Mike took that bullet, Jerry said it would be wrong to change it. So here we were, two thousand feet up, cargo bay that smelled like cannabis and gun oil, all courtesy of Abigail.
Jerry taps me on the shoulder and then climbs back into his seat. “Thanks, man, I had to go since before the last drop.”
“Any time.”
Below us the jungle pauses at our passing. Howler monkeys stopped their chatter at the big cats and other predators to look skyward, even the bugs stop sounding for a moment as Abby’s big twin engines cut through the night air like a passing freight train.
Jerry drops her down to five hundred feet and lowers the gear. “Shit.” He cycles the gear, “Not good.”
“What?” I look at the indicator with him. I see it. Not the first time this has happened. “I’ll pump it down.”
Between our seats is the manual hydraulic pump. A dozen pumps later we get a good indication. Jerry makes a second pass at our airstrip and then lines up.
“I don’t know why it does that. I will check the reservoir and it will be full, might be the indicator contacts. I will look at it when we shut down.”