A Huichol friend of mine once invited me to the annual peyote fiesta at las Guayabas, an isolated Huichol Indian village in the high Sierras. It can be reached only by a long and treacherous trail from San Andres on the plateau to the village far below. The ceremonies, which marked the start of the rainy season in June, lasted three days. The rain followed so suddenly that I began to wonder if the gods really had answered the shaman's prayers. This story, however, revolves around the trip home.
At San Andres, I went to the nearby landing strip, where several Huichols were waiting for the next flight. I checked my wallet and decided to offer the pilot my last few pesos for a passage fare. The plane, a single engine light aircraft, finally arrived. It bounced over the rough gravel runway and lurched to a jerky stop, wings flapping like a wounded duck. I thought the wheel struts were as thin as matchsticks and about to break off. I remembered my old friend John Hindmarsh, a skilled pilot, who had been killed in a similar plane. I vowed then never to go up in such a flying coffin. I checked my wallet again; there was no choice.
I managed to squeeze into a tiny space at the rear, my feet up on cardboard boxes. I could touch both sides of the plane with my elbows. A Huichol took the copilot's seat. The pilot revved up the engine and prepared for take-off. My fear heightened as we taxied down the field. The cardboard-thin sides of the aircraft shuddered as we bounced over the runway. Just when it seemed that the wheel struts were about to break off, we were airborne.
Las Guayabas was scarcely visible in the canyon below. Beyond us stretched a deep cleft in the mountains so vast the Grand Canyon would have been lost in it. Around us was an endless array of rugged mountain peaks and deep valleys dotted here and there with lakes and winding rivers.
The cabin was so confined I felt as if I were sitting in a small bathtub. I ventured a glance out the side window. The terrain below was so rugged a bird would have had difficulty landing safely in it. Just then the pilot reached under his seat and brought out a large fly swatter and swung vigorously at a pesky fly buzzing around the cockpit. With each mighty thwack I half expected to see a seam burst in the paper-thin wall of the aircraft. I held my breath waiting for that last fatal plunge into the profound abyss below. Miraculously, the plane held together. I was greatly relieved when the pilot finally dispatched the wayward fly.
I was just beginning to relax a little. Then the pilot calmly announced that he was going to save gas by shutting down the engine and drifting on the prevailing air currents. Dead ahead of us loomed two menacing mountain peaks. Everything went silent.
There was only the sound of the wind rushing by as we passed between the peaks. We were so close I could see the leaves on the trees as we passed over. I began to pray fervently for the sound of that single engine. Finally the pilot turned the key and the engine sputtered into life. I never thought I would be so relieved to hear the sound of a noisy internal combustion engine. I thought the worst was over. Then the pilot pointed toward a tiny strip of cleared land running along the saw-tooth back of a mountain ridge. A few scattered buildings lay at one end. Without warning, the plane banked sharply, reversed directions, and plummeted downwards. I held on to my seat and prayed even harder.
Soon we were bouncing along a narrow rocky pathway that served as a landing strip. We taxied to the end of the strip, turned and started back. Two burly Huichols appeared from nowhere and got in. Immediately the pilot revved his engine and we were off again. Five passengers plus cargo! I could almost hear the plane groan under the weight.
A half hour later, we landed at Pochitatan where we were met by grim-faced soldiers, armed with sub machine guns looking for drugs and weapons. The soldiers searched the cardboard boxes, but found nothing except arts and crafts. While they searched my packsack, I awaited my turn with dread anticipation.
A young soldier stepped forward and tried out a few faltering words in English. Suddenly, the mood changed. All the soldiers, it seemed, wanted to learn English. We had a brief English lesson on the spot. Finally, the soldiers thanked me and directed me toward the Pochitatan bus stop, where I could make connections for Guadalajara.
Safely on the bus, I renewed my vow never to go up again in a single engine aircraft. But the farther I got from my friends in the Sierras, the more a secret voice inside kept repeating, "Never say never." Would I do it again? You bet I would.
