Parts, Pit Vipers, Ribs, and Beer.
Seems like we never left this place. The jungle has a way of accepting you back when you runaway. The heat and smothering humidity makes it feel like your wading through a tub of hot whipped cream... back in the womb of the green goddess.
It's been a week since we came back from the bar burning. We had a control cable snap as we brought Naomi down. It was by the grace of the gods that it happened when we were five feet off the ground. One of those Huatulco bastards got a lucky shot that has nearly severed the elevator cable. By the looks of things we took some pretty heavy fire from that truck as we passed over head. The rifle shots that actually hit us went all the way through the fuselage and out the other side.
I give Lou a crash course in sheet metal repair and we go about fixing the entry and exit holes as best we can. I have a gas powered air compressor and a set of air tools; drill, rivet gun, a pnuematic cherry puller, couple of high speeds. None of it matters because it takes most of the first day just to keep the air compressor running. When you don't start something like that at least once a week in the jungle, you regret it. But any mechanic worth his salt has hand tools he can use for the same purpose... and I do.
As soon as Jerry comes back from his run into Chichicastanango we should have our control cables. He was on a run down south with Nester's cousin and landed at local airstrip to drop some irrigation equipment. Off in a little wooden hanger he spotted a Goose fuselage. He thought we were in business but found out that everything that wasn't aluminum was removed because it was being cut up for recycle. A guy from Chichicastanango took everything salvagable from the cockpit and the cable runs as well. Has a couple of planes he is working himself, apparently. We managed to contact him and he agreed to trade the cables for some flex hydraulic line. He will let Jerry take the cables to us first and along with the cables he will give us the lengths of flex line and end fittings he desires.
"Where in the fuck are we gonna get flex line?" Lou asks me from his lawn chair, an old paperback book in his hand... the pages curled at the tips.
"Junglemart. I have a map of planes out in the jungle that we can pull some parts off of. Most of them are DC-3s like Abby, but there are a few others. Depending on what the guy wants we might just be able to pull it from one of our planes... if not one of the others."
"Roadtrip?"
"As soon as we know what we're looking for."
I have Lou's pistol in my hand and an old holster that Jerry had in the gun safe. The two aren't a match, so yanking it out in a hurry in quick draw fashion isn't working to well. I try to spin it around a bit and drop it into the holster, then pull it out like someone is drawing on my. I'd be dead if this were for real.
We are out of ammunition for every pistol in the place. Lou has burned it all practicing. He is like a long distance runner, running all day, pushing the bounderies, trying to get better and better... only with guns. Apparently it isn't dumb luck that he is such a good shot.
Jerry was pissed. Lou kept telling him he had plenty of money for the ammo. Jerry kept telling him it wasn't about money, it's about availability. On this run he is out on now he will have to make a special stop and buy what we need. And to make Lou happy he is coming back with cases of 44 caliber rounds for his old pistol. But Lou had to agree that he wouldn't burn any more of the compound's ammunition. That is for our protection and for Abby's protection on the runs.
"You'll get yourself killed doing that." Lou tells me, setting the paperback down as he hauls himself up out of the chair.
"No shit."
"Not your fault. That holster isn't for that gun. Holster is kinda like a baseball glove, gotta be seasoned a bit."
Lou takes the pistol, then motions for me to give up the holster. He rams the gun down into the leather pocket a few times, twisting this way and that. After repeating the process a few times he dons the belt and loosely fastens it.
"You don't wear the holster high and tight like you're trying to hold up your pants with it. It lays low on the hip. Some gunfighters would wear it low on purpose because they would drop a bit when they draw their weapon to make a smaller target."
He pulls the gun from the holster a few times slowly, then makes a few more adjustments. When he is finished he tells me to stand in front of him and pretend I am drawing a gun.
"This is stupid, just draw it."
"Do it, Nancy, I need to see you make your move."
"Can't I just say go?"
"Just do it."
I shake out both hands, keeping my eys locked on Lou's as though we are mortal enemies. My right hand slowly to my side, wiggle my fingers above the imaginary grip. I make my move and before I even go to draw my weapon I hear six clicks from Lou's old gun, level with my gut.
"No fucking way."
Lou twirls the gun back into the holster and gets that look on his face.
"How did you do that?"
He pulls the gun and slowly pulls the trigger. "One shot and hold the trigger down. In the same instance you have to bring your other hand down quick, fingers spread, and catch the hammer with each of them as you sweep the gun."
His hand moves and the cylinder makes a full revolution one chamber at a time as each finger catches and releases the hammer.
"No shit."
"Shit."
"Can you do that with any gun? Revolver I mean?"
"Not to easy to do without a little modification, but the principle is there."
"No shit."
Lou smiles and quickdraws the gun and repeats the feet. I wouldn't believe it could be done if I hadn't heard it in the bar back in Hualtulco, Just then we hear the throaty report of Abigail's engines.
"Just in time. I'm in the mood for some target practice."
"We have work to do, Lou, before we shoot anything."
"Who are you, my mother?"
"If I were your mother I would have thrown your ass off a bridge in a burlap sack a long time ago."
Jerry skips his traditional fly-by and lands, taxiing into the compound. We close the gates behind him, mostly to keep the goats out. Even after the thousandth time I hear her engines it still gives me a thrill. Jerry cuts them both and the props rotate to a stop. He drops his flight bag from the window and I catch it. Lou is already inside the cargo bay.
"Oh yeah, we're in business."
There's enough ammunition in the hold to equip a small army. As I climb up inside Jerry taps his foot on a green six-latch case just behind the cockpit. I climb to his side and he opens it. Three M-16s sit side by side in the cut-outs.
"Replacements."
"Beautiful."
"We have a little horse trading to do for this guy. We have to keep him on our route for a while."
"Guns?"
"Guns, some distilling equipment, goats, and he has six Harleys that he wants me to take to the coast... has a buyer out there."
Lou perks up at the sound of the bikes, "Harleys, huh? Does he have any parts so I can fix meathead's bike?"
"I still want a new one."
"Bullshit, it's still new."
"You sank the damn thing and fucked up the front end."
Jerry holds up a hand.
"I don't think the guy builds 'em, guys, I think he's a fence for 'em. So no, he hasn't got any parts."
Also in Abby's hold we find three huge slabs of ribs wrapped in dirty burlap, sticky with barbaque sauce.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Tapia dug them up this morning." Jerry rubs his hands together.
Lou looks at them and moves one of them with his foot.
"What are they?"
"Tapia's slow cooked ribs. Meat falls off the bone. Sauce is so delicious you'll have an orgasm." Jerry slaps him on the back.
"Well hell, let's eat then." Lou is in.
"No...no,no,no. Have to bury them again with some coals. Should be done in a couple of hours. Then we eat. That will give the beer time to get cold."
Jerry tosses back another tarp and there is a couple of cases of Negro Modelo and some block ice in a plastic tub.
Lou reaches for a beer and Jerry tosses the tarp back over them and hands him a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?"
"Parts list."
I snatch it from him and take a look.
Jerry points at a couple of items, "I bet we can pull those off of ole' number three."
Old number three is one of the planes on our treasure map about four miles out in the jungle. We haven't been out to her for a year or so because there is nothing left of it. Engines were stolen before we set upon her, instruments... same thing. We used a side window once, and took the other at the same time so we wouldn't come back and find out the monkeys broke it. But the beauty of old number three is that everything else is exposed for the most part. We don't have to pull anything out to get at these lines.
I grab the GPS, some wrenches, a couple of jugs of water, and one of the radios and throw them in the Jeep. Lou comes to the conclusion that we aren't eating or drinking until we come back with the flex lines. Jerry offers up one of the M-16s for support, but Lou grabs a couple of boxes of ammo for his Frontier hops in the Jeep, pistol in his lap as he loads it. As an after thought he tells me to hold on and runs into the hanger. He returns and tosses whatever he grabbed into the back.
"I'm shooting something, goddamnit."
We leave the compound behind us. Jerry stays behind to put the meat in the pit for warm up and ices down the beer for our return. We head out of the gates and down toward the approach of the airstrip. There is a path we follow for a mile or so, then it gets really rough. All we have is the GPS and our destination punched in in from the favorites.
Lou pulls whatever it was that he retrieved from the hanger and lays it in his lap. It is a cartridge belt.
"Where did you find that?" I ask as we leave the airstrip and bounce into the jungle. Lou nearly looses the pistol.
"Hey... "
"Hurry the fuck up, we gotta get there."
He puts the pistol into the holster and then holds onto the dash of the Jeep while he slides the cartridges into the belt one at a time. He manages to load two boxes of shells into the belt and then puts it over his head and left arm.
The "trail" becomes caustic. We are jarred out of our seats and I almost loose it as we break through the bush and catch an old riverbed that I don't remember. When we land back in our seats I slow up considerably. The GPS gets the shit knocked out of it, but continues to give us a vector. Lou spits out a little blood and then hits me hard in the arm. Bit his tongue I would suspect.
We ride through the pondwater stench of this part of the jungle. When that goes away I know we are close.
"GPS says we're here." Lou holds it in his hand.
We break through an overgrowth of ferns and there it is. The jungle has nearly consumed it.
"That's a piece of shit."
"It has it's charms."
We stop when we run into it. The gear had long since collapsed or were robbed. Never could tell. But now the jungle growth has totally obscured starboard wing which I think we are parked on top of. I back up and shut the Jeep down.
"Jesus Christ it is miserable out here." Lou is soaked in sweat, as am I. I grab the tools and the piece of paper.
While I am waist deep in fuselage, Lou is going through ammunition like crazy, shooting everything in sight. He takes a pause, waiting for the birds to come back.
"Don't shoot the birds, Lou."
"Who are you, Marlin fucking Perkins?"
"The birds are cool, man. Shoot the fucking snakes if you have to shoot something."
Lou draws a bead on something right over my head.
"Come on."
"You said snakes." He pulls off a round. I turn and see what remains of a Bushmaster drop out of the tree twenty feet behind me. Bushmaster... biggest fucking pit viper on the planet. He steps over old number three and over to the tree and picks up what's left by the tail.
"This thing is about twelve feet long." He whips it out into the jungle and then looks around for the rest of it.
"Don't touch the head, it can still kill you."
"I know that Nancy... WHOA." He drops the thing and kicks it away. "That is the ugliest thing I've seen since last year's Mardi Gras."
I make quick work of our friends order. I even remove a couple lengths of hard line that are hard to find for good measure. Lou burns all forty rounds in his cartridge belt. In the silence that follows he reloads both the gun and the belt. I am finished and we hop in the Jeep and head back home. Lou fires a shot or two on the way, but the trail is too rough for any effectiveness. Before we know it we are on the airstrip and I am going through the gears. We can smell the ribs, we can taste the beer. The sun has set and the heat is dying down. A full moon rises over the misty green. It's going to be a good night.
It's been a week since we came back from the bar burning. We had a control cable snap as we brought Naomi down. It was by the grace of the gods that it happened when we were five feet off the ground. One of those Huatulco bastards got a lucky shot that has nearly severed the elevator cable. By the looks of things we took some pretty heavy fire from that truck as we passed over head. The rifle shots that actually hit us went all the way through the fuselage and out the other side.
I give Lou a crash course in sheet metal repair and we go about fixing the entry and exit holes as best we can. I have a gas powered air compressor and a set of air tools; drill, rivet gun, a pnuematic cherry puller, couple of high speeds. None of it matters because it takes most of the first day just to keep the air compressor running. When you don't start something like that at least once a week in the jungle, you regret it. But any mechanic worth his salt has hand tools he can use for the same purpose... and I do.
As soon as Jerry comes back from his run into Chichicastanango we should have our control cables. He was on a run down south with Nester's cousin and landed at local airstrip to drop some irrigation equipment. Off in a little wooden hanger he spotted a Goose fuselage. He thought we were in business but found out that everything that wasn't aluminum was removed because it was being cut up for recycle. A guy from Chichicastanango took everything salvagable from the cockpit and the cable runs as well. Has a couple of planes he is working himself, apparently. We managed to contact him and he agreed to trade the cables for some flex hydraulic line. He will let Jerry take the cables to us first and along with the cables he will give us the lengths of flex line and end fittings he desires.
"Where in the fuck are we gonna get flex line?" Lou asks me from his lawn chair, an old paperback book in his hand... the pages curled at the tips.
"Junglemart. I have a map of planes out in the jungle that we can pull some parts off of. Most of them are DC-3s like Abby, but there are a few others. Depending on what the guy wants we might just be able to pull it from one of our planes... if not one of the others."
"Roadtrip?"
"As soon as we know what we're looking for."
I have Lou's pistol in my hand and an old holster that Jerry had in the gun safe. The two aren't a match, so yanking it out in a hurry in quick draw fashion isn't working to well. I try to spin it around a bit and drop it into the holster, then pull it out like someone is drawing on my. I'd be dead if this were for real.
We are out of ammunition for every pistol in the place. Lou has burned it all practicing. He is like a long distance runner, running all day, pushing the bounderies, trying to get better and better... only with guns. Apparently it isn't dumb luck that he is such a good shot.
Jerry was pissed. Lou kept telling him he had plenty of money for the ammo. Jerry kept telling him it wasn't about money, it's about availability. On this run he is out on now he will have to make a special stop and buy what we need. And to make Lou happy he is coming back with cases of 44 caliber rounds for his old pistol. But Lou had to agree that he wouldn't burn any more of the compound's ammunition. That is for our protection and for Abby's protection on the runs.
"You'll get yourself killed doing that." Lou tells me, setting the paperback down as he hauls himself up out of the chair.
"No shit."
"Not your fault. That holster isn't for that gun. Holster is kinda like a baseball glove, gotta be seasoned a bit."
Lou takes the pistol, then motions for me to give up the holster. He rams the gun down into the leather pocket a few times, twisting this way and that. After repeating the process a few times he dons the belt and loosely fastens it.
"You don't wear the holster high and tight like you're trying to hold up your pants with it. It lays low on the hip. Some gunfighters would wear it low on purpose because they would drop a bit when they draw their weapon to make a smaller target."
He pulls the gun from the holster a few times slowly, then makes a few more adjustments. When he is finished he tells me to stand in front of him and pretend I am drawing a gun.
"This is stupid, just draw it."
"Do it, Nancy, I need to see you make your move."
"Can't I just say go?"
"Just do it."
I shake out both hands, keeping my eys locked on Lou's as though we are mortal enemies. My right hand slowly to my side, wiggle my fingers above the imaginary grip. I make my move and before I even go to draw my weapon I hear six clicks from Lou's old gun, level with my gut.
"No fucking way."
Lou twirls the gun back into the holster and gets that look on his face.
"How did you do that?"
He pulls the gun and slowly pulls the trigger. "One shot and hold the trigger down. In the same instance you have to bring your other hand down quick, fingers spread, and catch the hammer with each of them as you sweep the gun."
His hand moves and the cylinder makes a full revolution one chamber at a time as each finger catches and releases the hammer.
"No shit."
"Shit."
"Can you do that with any gun? Revolver I mean?"
"Not to easy to do without a little modification, but the principle is there."
"No shit."
Lou smiles and quickdraws the gun and repeats the feet. I wouldn't believe it could be done if I hadn't heard it in the bar back in Hualtulco, Just then we hear the throaty report of Abigail's engines.
"Just in time. I'm in the mood for some target practice."
"We have work to do, Lou, before we shoot anything."
"Who are you, my mother?"
"If I were your mother I would have thrown your ass off a bridge in a burlap sack a long time ago."
Jerry skips his traditional fly-by and lands, taxiing into the compound. We close the gates behind him, mostly to keep the goats out. Even after the thousandth time I hear her engines it still gives me a thrill. Jerry cuts them both and the props rotate to a stop. He drops his flight bag from the window and I catch it. Lou is already inside the cargo bay.
"Oh yeah, we're in business."
There's enough ammunition in the hold to equip a small army. As I climb up inside Jerry taps his foot on a green six-latch case just behind the cockpit. I climb to his side and he opens it. Three M-16s sit side by side in the cut-outs.
"Replacements."
"Beautiful."
"We have a little horse trading to do for this guy. We have to keep him on our route for a while."
"Guns?"
"Guns, some distilling equipment, goats, and he has six Harleys that he wants me to take to the coast... has a buyer out there."
Lou perks up at the sound of the bikes, "Harleys, huh? Does he have any parts so I can fix meathead's bike?"
"I still want a new one."
"Bullshit, it's still new."
"You sank the damn thing and fucked up the front end."
Jerry holds up a hand.
"I don't think the guy builds 'em, guys, I think he's a fence for 'em. So no, he hasn't got any parts."
Also in Abby's hold we find three huge slabs of ribs wrapped in dirty burlap, sticky with barbaque sauce.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Tapia dug them up this morning." Jerry rubs his hands together.
Lou looks at them and moves one of them with his foot.
"What are they?"
"Tapia's slow cooked ribs. Meat falls off the bone. Sauce is so delicious you'll have an orgasm." Jerry slaps him on the back.
"Well hell, let's eat then." Lou is in.
"No...no,no,no. Have to bury them again with some coals. Should be done in a couple of hours. Then we eat. That will give the beer time to get cold."
Jerry tosses back another tarp and there is a couple of cases of Negro Modelo and some block ice in a plastic tub.
Lou reaches for a beer and Jerry tosses the tarp back over them and hands him a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?"
"Parts list."
I snatch it from him and take a look.
Jerry points at a couple of items, "I bet we can pull those off of ole' number three."
Old number three is one of the planes on our treasure map about four miles out in the jungle. We haven't been out to her for a year or so because there is nothing left of it. Engines were stolen before we set upon her, instruments... same thing. We used a side window once, and took the other at the same time so we wouldn't come back and find out the monkeys broke it. But the beauty of old number three is that everything else is exposed for the most part. We don't have to pull anything out to get at these lines.
I grab the GPS, some wrenches, a couple of jugs of water, and one of the radios and throw them in the Jeep. Lou comes to the conclusion that we aren't eating or drinking until we come back with the flex lines. Jerry offers up one of the M-16s for support, but Lou grabs a couple of boxes of ammo for his Frontier hops in the Jeep, pistol in his lap as he loads it. As an after thought he tells me to hold on and runs into the hanger. He returns and tosses whatever he grabbed into the back.
"I'm shooting something, goddamnit."
We leave the compound behind us. Jerry stays behind to put the meat in the pit for warm up and ices down the beer for our return. We head out of the gates and down toward the approach of the airstrip. There is a path we follow for a mile or so, then it gets really rough. All we have is the GPS and our destination punched in in from the favorites.
Lou pulls whatever it was that he retrieved from the hanger and lays it in his lap. It is a cartridge belt.
"Where did you find that?" I ask as we leave the airstrip and bounce into the jungle. Lou nearly looses the pistol.
"Hey... "
"Hurry the fuck up, we gotta get there."
He puts the pistol into the holster and then holds onto the dash of the Jeep while he slides the cartridges into the belt one at a time. He manages to load two boxes of shells into the belt and then puts it over his head and left arm.
The "trail" becomes caustic. We are jarred out of our seats and I almost loose it as we break through the bush and catch an old riverbed that I don't remember. When we land back in our seats I slow up considerably. The GPS gets the shit knocked out of it, but continues to give us a vector. Lou spits out a little blood and then hits me hard in the arm. Bit his tongue I would suspect.
We ride through the pondwater stench of this part of the jungle. When that goes away I know we are close.
"GPS says we're here." Lou holds it in his hand.
We break through an overgrowth of ferns and there it is. The jungle has nearly consumed it.
"That's a piece of shit."
"It has it's charms."
We stop when we run into it. The gear had long since collapsed or were robbed. Never could tell. But now the jungle growth has totally obscured starboard wing which I think we are parked on top of. I back up and shut the Jeep down.
"Jesus Christ it is miserable out here." Lou is soaked in sweat, as am I. I grab the tools and the piece of paper.
While I am waist deep in fuselage, Lou is going through ammunition like crazy, shooting everything in sight. He takes a pause, waiting for the birds to come back.
"Don't shoot the birds, Lou."
"Who are you, Marlin fucking Perkins?"
"The birds are cool, man. Shoot the fucking snakes if you have to shoot something."
Lou draws a bead on something right over my head.
"Come on."
"You said snakes." He pulls off a round. I turn and see what remains of a Bushmaster drop out of the tree twenty feet behind me. Bushmaster... biggest fucking pit viper on the planet. He steps over old number three and over to the tree and picks up what's left by the tail.
"This thing is about twelve feet long." He whips it out into the jungle and then looks around for the rest of it.
"Don't touch the head, it can still kill you."
"I know that Nancy... WHOA." He drops the thing and kicks it away. "That is the ugliest thing I've seen since last year's Mardi Gras."
I make quick work of our friends order. I even remove a couple lengths of hard line that are hard to find for good measure. Lou burns all forty rounds in his cartridge belt. In the silence that follows he reloads both the gun and the belt. I am finished and we hop in the Jeep and head back home. Lou fires a shot or two on the way, but the trail is too rough for any effectiveness. Before we know it we are on the airstrip and I am going through the gears. We can smell the ribs, we can taste the beer. The sun has set and the heat is dying down. A full moon rises over the misty green. It's going to be a good night.
posted by Jake Allen at 4:56 AM
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