El Pozolillo, one of several villages along the river, a few
shacks hiding in the shade of rampant greenery. No automobiles in sight, the
highway deserted. The Coca-Cola advertisement at a homely bodega works its
magic, and I park and walk inside to buy a Coke from the proprietress. She
opens it for me, and I step outside and amble over to three youngsters hanging
out by the roadside curb. These are lowland mestizos, friendly and laid-back,
with the air of casual hustlers. One of them is bigger and older than the other
two, seemingly the leader. We go through limp handshakes and the usual small
talk. I tell them I came from Texas, that this is my first time here in Nayarit.
Chickens cluck and peck in the bare dirt hillside behind us; a motorbike is
parked outside a cinderblock shack. As is typical for our generation, we find
common ground talking about drugs, mota and
perico. Yes, lots of marijuana is
grown here. Would you like to smoke some? Hiding my enthusiasm, I assent. He
pulls out a freshly cut bud, a rolling paper. The paper falls in the gutter. He
picks it up, meticulously packs it with bud, rolls it tight, sparks it up. Andale. He hands it to me. I take the
joint and the cheap lighter, inhale deeply. Harsh—I cough and pass it to the
other guys. They both decline, so we pass it back and forth a couple times. He
gives me the bud, an eighth or so, wrapped in a little shred of grimy plastic.
I offer fifty pesos, he waves it off. Es
tuyo. Tengo mucho más. Eventually he takes the bill, beer money I say.
The smoke is beginning to have a powerful effect. My mouth
and jaw tingle pleasantly, blood rushes to my eyes. The tingling spreads, my
whole body ready to respond, muscles tensing for use. A feeling of omniscience
and invulnerability overtakes my being. Mi
casa es allí, one of my non-smoking companions mentions. Si estás cansado, puedes dormer allí. He
looks at my truck as he speaks; it is parked nearby, with all four windows
rolled down. The joint continues going back and forth. My smoking buddy gives
up and hands me the roach to ash. He gets up, shakes my hand, says goodbye,
trudges off to his house. I puff until my head is dizzy; a pregnant silence
fills the air between us. The two remaining guys watch me with the lurking
stares of hyenas eyeing a sick lion. The offer of a place to crash is repeated.
I lean back, pretend to be thinking it over, then abruptly stand up and walk to
my truck. ¿A dónde vas? They ask. Necessito ir, I reply loudly. They get
up and begin walking over. By this time, my truck is started and in drive, a
rising tide of paranoia flooding my brain. When one of them reaches it, I am
already rolling forward. Feeling safe, I stop and he walks into the road to
chat, a hang-dog expression on his face. His daughter toddles out and hugs his
leg. Lo siento, necessito ir. My
tongue is thick and awkward; the words echo and hang in the air, distorted into
whimsical sounds. He steps back, says goodbye, safe journey. The wheels roll
on, and just then, I drop down the rabbit hole.