My brother and I had driven the length of Mexico in his little Datsun truck with the “Six-Pac” camper and hitting the side roads was nothing new for us. We had stopped in Palenque for a couple of days and decided to drive over to Ocosingo on the highway that was plainly listed on the map. The road grew narrower and rougher as we proceeded down this “highway”, and though we were Mexican back road veterans by now, this was beginning to get worrisome. After pushing the truck out of the third mud hole we were beginning to think we had made a wrong turn.
After hours of driving through jungle we were finally relieved to find a man and his son on the road and stopped to ask directions. The man was clearly Indian, hair bobbed in front and long in the back he was barefoot and dressed in white shorts and shirt. The son was a miniature of the father and about eight. He hid behind dad and peered out at us from behind, obviously fearful. The dad looked concerned as well. We greeted him in Spanish and asked about the road. He looked blank until I mentioned Ocosingo. Then he brightened and answered something in Indian and pointed down the way we were going… OK… A half hour later we passed a village and as we drove by the entire village, all the men dressed exactly like the Indian we’d seen and the women in long white dresses, ran out to the side of the road and stared as we drove by, giving us a few shy waves and smiles. Apparently we were something of a novelty.
We crossed a deep, swift flowing river, the only bridge being two sets of three pipes set a bit apart. One slip and you’d be in the water. I didn’t like it but we pushed on, holding our breath all the way across. We started climbing and finally reached a summit and there were three Mexican workers leaning on shovels watching us with bemused expressions. Relief, finally here was someone who might give us some answers. We pointed to the road on the map and asked how to get to the highway to Ocosingo. The men laughed uproariously. This was not good. Then they pointed down the road we were going and said THIS was the highway to Ocosingo. They were still laughing when we drove on. More mud holes, more jungle, no more people, and then it was over.
The road ran straight into the side of a mountain and stopped.
There was a camp at the bottom of the mountain and we drove up to find a solitary camper, very surprised to see us. He was an American camped for the night before following the Indian trail through the jungle the rest of the way to Ocosingo. Apparently the mapmaker had been overly optimistic about progress on this project.
We talked for a while and found that he had passed the village the day before and he had been the first Gringo most of the villagers had ever seen. One of the villagers was to meet him here in the morning to guide him through the jungle. As we talked there was a noise from above and an armadillo, perhaps following some ancient but now defunct armadillo trail, tumbled down the cliff and rolled to our feet, stone dead. “Ah,” said our host, “Supper!”
Note: In 1972 my brother and I drove for days through the jungles in that part of Chiapas. A couple of years ago my wife and I flew over that area and saw mostly ranch land below and the road to Ocosingo a highway.