Jailbreak (from Bus to Busted and Out Again) - Page 2

Out of the Park

Two months later, I was on another bus ride, this time with Zapatistas, campesinos, small children, farm animals and my travelling partner, Tomas, over the Sierra Madres in southern Mexico, en route from San Cristobal Las Casas (in Chiapas) to the mythical state of Yucatan (where ruins and magic awaits). At a routine customs stop, I was greeted by a new group of officiales with a different message. "Senor, you have no stamp on your visa. You are travelling in the country illegally. You need to go back to the customs office in Chetumal and have your papers put in order." So much for the foolish, footloose and feckless drifter. Tomas and I agreed to meet up at the hotel in Palenque the next day and so, I headed for the downtown area to get these travel papers fixed. Unfortunately, it was only 8:30am on Friday morning and the customs office was closed until 10am. At this cosmic crossroads, two choices arose – breakfast or a round of Tai Chi Chuan in the city park. Fitness over food prevailed and I set my worldly goods down by yonder tree, to begin the Chinese callisthenics. Somewhere between Cloud Hands and Grasp the Sparrows Tail, I caught sight of another officiale at some distance away in the park. He had decorations on his uniform like an army officer and he was staring me down. Two more thoughts drifted thru my clueless mind – should I stop my Tai Chi or finish the 36 moves of the form? That decision was not mine to make. In a flash, an arm was locked around my throat and many hands were grabbing me on either arm. In a backwards, dragging motion (not a Tai Chi move) I was hauled into the local police car with backpack, guitar, and my official papers. I had reached an unscheduled stop on my itinerary. In my heart of hearts, I hoped that these bad guys would kick my ass and throw me out of town. No such luck. After traversing the city streets this police car came to a halt and I was looking at a scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – a Mexican jail with a manned machine-gun turret on the roof. This was not the 4-star hotel I had in mind. "Mota, mota, fume mota," (stoned hippy) growled the unsavory desk sergeant, who took all my possessions and walked me into my weekend accommodation. The barred doors slammed shut and I'd reached my full-stop, dead end, you're-not-leaving-any-time-soon destination.