El Ingeniro

From Gabrial's yard to La Casa Vieja...We'd eased through the transition....

About a month after our rehabitation at San Cosme, I get notice from Ernesto that we're gonna have ta entertain a representative of the Reforma Agraria. An ingeniero. This was in regards ta the recent halt of the Ejido's attempt at stealin' our rancho, El Carrizalito (Francisco's ill-fated parcelization plan). Ernesto'd emphasized the import of event. He begged that I orchestrated local things he saw as essential: The ponga ready with pilot and fuel. The mayor of Agua Verde, Preciliano Morillo Cota, in tow. Alejo!, he figured real important in this thing too.

Why this visit, from this Ingeniero? I truly couldn't figure. How many surveys, physical inspections were required? Since the start of all this "nail down the rancho" stuff, they musta been there, done all that could possibly be needed, three, four, a good handful of times. Was this guy actually comin' with transit and measurin' device, were we gonna need a rod man? All we do know fer sure. . . is that Ernesto's showin' mid Sunday AM with this clown.

All the requisite steps, we take 'em. Gas fer occasion lays hidden in bushes where we could shepard over it. Preciliano has agreed ta set aside the rest of his life, fer that one day, specifically fer us. I was glad ta see he held zero reluctance. Alejo, that ultra busy man, had guaranteed ta work it inta his tight schedule. Marcia had prepared treats for us to enjoy with this company in our camp's cool palapa shade. A meal was planned at Restaurante San Cosme.

MAYOR

On arrival day, early, I visit Guadalupe's kitchen. A social call, partly, but too I wanted ta check if plan had materialized for the good mayor of Agua Verde's Transit. Preciliano has no wheels. His son Juanito does, but he's usually outta gas er busted down.

Martin, whose fully aware, hawkin' every detail in what's comin' down, tells me that Julio, Alejo's oldest son, has already departed on a fish procurement mission, to the mayor's tiny pueblo. Good. Earlier, I'd thought I'd heard Alejo's truck rattle off in that direction. One less thing ta worry about.

"Where's Alejo?" I question.

"El Estuchi!" Guadalupe sings out in a shout from out-door tortilla-makin' station. He'd rode off before sunrise. He'd had to check on their cattle.

"El Estuchi!" I exclaim.

"Si!"

Alejo has his Uncle Lupi Egerra's permission to run his livestock on this abandoned rancho, that's a three hour mule ride up coastline. I know that when he gets there he has hours of work ta do, him diggin' out the shallow saline water hole that his animals hooves constantly refill - how the hell was Alejo supposta get back from this exercise in time? In expressing this worry, I don't get much more outta those there except the hope that he'd make it.

HIS ARRIVAL

Easily I monitor the road, traffic comin' visible down and round it's curves, the noises that through-way assures all users will make, right from camp there. Just about on schedule, here hauls inta view Ernesto's red pickup; and then another one, dirty white, white, red and green identification on cab's door...taggin' back behind it.

He's youngish, in good physical condition, an intelligent, seemin' genial, attractive sorta fella. He sports what looks ta be good walkin'-around foot ware. His khaki pants and short sleeved shirt with agency emblem on shoulder were work worn but clean and neat. With intros and handshake, I came away with favorable impression. I lead the way inta shade with Ernesto questioning me as ta my grip on local situation.

I fill him in on Alejo. We use English which this Ingeniero claims he has no true grasp of. I tell him of Julio havin' gone off to Agua Verde early. I predicted there was great chance that the mayor would land there shortly. Snacks. Marcia made offers of cool liquids, things crunchy and salty.

Much ta my surprise, it's only minutes later when Alejo, still tuckin' clean shirt inta clean pants, comes slickin' damp hair back as emergin' from growth of close-at-hand arroyo bottom. At a gallop, that's how he claimed he'd moved his mule back. He flexed and twisted his lower back, made comment that he wasn't what he once was. What a cowboy, this Alejo.

THE MISSING MAYOR

With both my partners there's some watch checkin', some nervousness with regards to Preciliano. By my calculations Julio had more than enough time ta make round trip ta Puerto. Because, as the village law the mayor has cell phone contact, Ernesto wants ta expedite, check up on situation. Our cell phone, with which we'd only achieved sporadic results, gets hauled out fer action. It was a clear, near windless day. Chances were good we could make the link ta just up coastline. . .ten miles as crow could fly.

Ernesto, Alejo, me. . .we trudge up stock trail ta top of over-lookin' rise, the place from which San Cosme sets most spectacular, take contraption from it's big black bag and make the attempt.

This call has ta first go to a central receiver in Mexico City, then get relayed back ta Puerto Agua Verde. If it had been a day with wind, cloud cover, an excess of sea moisture in air, ferget it.

On first try, we make it all the way through. There's an answer and I ask for Presciliano, and instead of the talker sayin' he wasn't there, which he shouldn't a been, I'm told that he'll be talkin' pronto. Handin' phone to Alejo, I grimace, sorta like, "Ouch", to Ernesto. It was the Reforma Agraria who'd requested the mayor. His testimony as to what was what around there, I'd guessed, as to them important.

Alejo literally left the ground when our target's voice leaped from that which he held in his hand. He hadn't a clue as ta what ta do next. Ernesto and me, we jump inta tellin' him how he's gotta lift it to his ear, put mouthpiece to his lips. He laughs at himself. His backwardness. When conversation gets underway, it's about the marvel that there he is at San Cosme, and how clearly they each could hear the other.

Naturally the situation quickly turns ta question of why Preciliano is not on his way back with Julio. Julio, accordin' to the mayor, had visited the casa of Jusavio, Alejo's brother, an almost right-next-door neighbor. When Julio had left there, he'd never stopped, as had been expected. Preciliano had watched as that old black wreck climbed the hill separatin' Puerto from Agua Verde. He'd never returned.

Julio. Ha! My guess was that nobody'd specifically told him of the pick up. Julio's head is in Loreto. He's a kayak guide apprentice now. He's only home on occasion. Loreto. All the new experiences, the contact with lots of new and different females there. Events important to San Cosme, the rancho, I'm sure they don't register like things use to.

Alejo comes down off this rise and heads off straight towards his casa. We're left job of goin' back in that shade ta tell El Ingeniero of unexpected slow down. There's nothin' that can be done. We won't wait uncomfortably. It isn't like we don't have things to talk about....

I hear Martin's little, faded red rattle-box of a pickup fire up and head south towards Puerto. It's bein' pushed.. perhaps faster than it should'a been. Damn. The condition of that road. Wash board! Almost 18 miles of it! I felt sorry fer Alejo. I was pretty sure he was its driver.

A PRODUCTIVE WAIT

Because this Ingeniero is new to this whole situation, er at least claims ta be, Ernesto and I set about bringin' him up ta speed on what he's up against. We've the time ta take him from start of rancho adventure to last minute up date: us just recently blunting Ejido theft attempts. I've good topo maps that name all points of reference that we can glance out at from right there. Every major mountain, every coastal point and beach, the islands out front. Once he accomplishes orientation, we march his attention up coastline to a point and a beach and an arroyo, and a spring that are clearly labeled with name of "Carrizalito". He's familiar with these topo maps. Like we have, he's found them to be quite accurate. I unfold El Plano Definativo for Ejido San Jose De La Noria, which he's also got copy of in his carryin' case. Here we are at the base of the problem. Obviously, what that Plano is claimin' as El Carrizalito...is well north of those names that should fit.

In thoughtful fashion this bright fella studies this. As long as Plano Definativo is unfolded like that, I can't resist an explanation of other properties that are either completely fictitious er just as severely wrong placed.

Since he's new at the Lapaz office he doesn't seem attached to any of the Reforma Agraria's previous work. He's not surprised by any of what we claim. In fact, he states, quite openly, that he's brushed up against similar problems, on other assignments, in other places, before. "Lots of things happened during the period of corruption", he stated...like that epoch had passed. His rational for why such problems hadn't been worked out by then was simply, no money in the meager budget that this important agency receives...the Mexican federal government bein' forced ta cut back so like it has been. Within this under funded bureacracy there was no will to go out and solve problems. "And politics", he mused. Politics, he was aware, sometimes got in way of things.

FINALLY, THE MAYOR

In all, a delightful, relaxed, very productive conversation was held there; none of us payin' great attention ta how much of that day was slidin' by. It didn't seem all that long before Alejo's old black buggy comes wheelin' in, Preciliano smilin' and wavin' out the passenger window.

Within months, he and I are same age. Sea-of-Cortez fisherman ta the bone. While he was still in prime condition, I got ta see him in action. And I'd written about him before...way back in them Agua Verde Chronicles: that part about Alejo’s brother's big catch. Seventeen live children! And all with same woman. He's got a prostate problem, too, like me. Except fer that immigrations incident, us gettin' tangled with that Lapaz Delagada, I've always had what seemed an easy, smooth relation with him.

He's not a large man, but of medium height and build. You can see that he's worked hard and that, in fact, he could still be quite lethal. There is zero slouch nor hint of decrepincy in the way he presents himself. His hair is pearly white and tightly curled, recently barbered. Except fer moderate sideburns and thin, neat salt-and-pepper mustache, his bronze face is clean shaved. Bushy eyebrows dance over intelligent eyes. His chiseled features are quite handsome. He's a somewhat natty dresser, too. Nicely shined and what I'd call fancy shoes, nice pants, clean white shirt that opened to mid chest, this exposin' an assortment of hanging ornamentation, silver cross mixed in with this. His flashy smile reveals precious metal also.

Not an ounce of subservience could I detect when the good mayor was introduced to El Ingeniero. To the latter's request, Preciliano gave his resume: Ague Verde fisherman, born there, been there his whole life. Mayor of same for past two years. And yes, he knew every point and every beach and every close-t- surface er protrudin’ rock along a considerable stretch of coastline. And, absolutely! He would attest ta fact that El Carrizalito was where it was at. Where we claimed it was.

My buddy there, he's not an Ejido member. Only about 40 percent of households in Agua Verde and Puerto are. Preciliano doesn't like the Ejido. He's worked hard all his life and he resents most of their "gimmy something" attitudes.

We get gas outta concealed spot, load it in Alejo's truck. He shots me out the drama of meetin' Julio on the road, switchin' carros, his bigger rig bein' better able ta take it. He quick pulls off ta where ponga is just pullin' up, Julio at the tiller. It's a short run fer old Blacky. At best a hundred meters.

Though he's got his full compliment of equipment locked up in his pickup, this Ingeniero hasn't come for physical survey. He wants a point by point overview, a look for some critical evidence. His less than stuffed leather briefcase is all he brings along. Ernesto's with a much fatter packet. The mayor and I, we have time for more conversation as Alejo and Julio make ready our ride.

MAYOR SPEAKS OPENLY

He’s quite happy ta be of service, and especially with this. He sees the Ejido's positioning completely ridiculous. Absolutely! There was only one Carrizalito, the one we were owners of. There was absolutely no one in the whole surrounding area that did not know, for a fact, where this historic rancho lays. Those Ejido members, most of them, anyway, would do anything ta get their hands on some easy money. They were liars and thieves as far as he was concerned.

In front of El Ingeniero, Ernesto couldn't resist a moment of Mexican machoism. He bragged up Preciliano's reputation, him and those 17 kids. Oh what force had this hombre! Ernesto laughed he only had two, that was if they were counted legitimately. Ha!Ha! He wasn't about ta tell what the other score was. The joke was it could be better than the local champ's record.

A BOAT RIDE

Alejo and Julio bring the craft in almost ta mid-tide, small rock-strewn beach line. The sea lays mostly calm on it elastic surface, residual swells from last blow breakin' white as the bigger ones meet the end of their travel. Julio holds position with oar so El Ingeniero, with good moves, jumps aboard without gettin' boots ner pant legs wet. Ernesto's in sandals and athletic workout pants. Gettin' a little wet is just somethin' ta laugh about. Preciliano has removed his good shoes and socks. His pant legs are rolled to his knees, billed cap already turned backwards. His bare feet easily handled the jagged protrusions as he slips professionally aboard. Marcia and me were in sandals and shorts. No sweat fer either one of us. Julio jumps ashore just as I push out. He'll take Blacky back home. Gosh. What a handsome young man this kid has turned to.

It's a leisurely boat ride. With the six of us, those swells, the most Alejo gave motor was about half throttle. Nice and easy, that's how he's keepin' things. Marcia and I are settin' lookin' back at Preciliano settin' in middle of bench seat just in front of Alejo. He's grinnin', seemin' happy simply ta be afloat like that. Alejo, one hand at the tiller arm, he's standin'. His free hand holds his straw cowboy hat in place. We have ta turn er set side-saddle ta keep track of what's goin' on with Ernesto and our guest there. They too had reversed their billed caps. We had brought a camera.

El Ingeniero wasted no time in checkin' Preciliano's claimed knowledge about said coastline, obvious reference points. Never did I doubt that he'd get less than prefect score. And then in between these asked-for reference points, this old salt filled in all sort of minor detail. Yes...he knew exactly where he was at. We roll our way around Punta Carrizalito, we slide along on straight-line heading then that carries us past that lovely cove by name of Ensenada Carrizalito, Playa Carrizalito. Window Rock. I make it a point to indicate arroyo that meanders it's way up mountain to Ojo De Agua De Carrizalito: the one and only, always flowin', seepin' at times, spring: What had allowed habitation of rancho Carrizalito for as far back as five, six. . .who knows how many generations the locals?

We pass the natural rock jetty, El Malicon, that acts as Playa Malicon’s sand's protector. This, too, part of the rancho. Alejo aims for the north terminus of our holding, about mid point of Playa La Ballena (the whale), where it's turned from sand to sea worn boulders, just about where arroyo by same name dumps its occasional load inta sea. All of this magnificent landscape, I assure ya. The mountain back drops, after all these years, still blow me away. I jump out just before fiber glass bumps hard rock. My feet find purchase and I'm able, Alejo workin' his oar, ta halt forward motion. We hold there as all but Alejo pile out. He pushes free of rocks just ahead of bigger swell. He'll bring craft back out ta safe water. Wait fer us.

NORTH BOUNDARY

The larger white cement monument was visible for a considerable distance out at sea. We clamber up boulder beach, reach ground with firm sand, scant topsoil. Under a huge Mesquite tree, tucked in a grove of smaller others, I'd had Luis and Jose Luis construct a very sturdy, peaked roofed, palm thatched...let's call it a palapa. A lovely camp. A lovely view ta sea and down sweep of shoreline. This monument lay right behind palapa and right behind that was short run of four-stranded barbed wire fence. On Rancho road, with good four-wheel, ya can drive ta right there. The end of the line.

Standin' right ta seaward of this white painted, meter high, squat and blunt nosed cement monument, El Ingeniero holds his topo map, which is essentially same as mine, and aligns himself ta various positions of the obvious. This called fer some official camera action. This hombre had suggested that we snap photos of all our proofs. From that spot, I was directed ta shoot both up and down coastline, out ta sea at them numerous islands. This Ingeniero finally becomes technically satisfied that we know where we're at.

The place is called La Casa De Vialejo. Sr. Lorenzo Vialejo Fuerty, Alejo's old uncle from whom we'd bought the rancho, his father's father had built a crude casa there. Its rock rubble outline is still quite obvious even with re-establishment of arroyo-bottom vegetation. Preciliano knew the history of place better than I did. This was very important El Ingeniero claimed. Again, the cameraman swung inta action.

FINAL RESTING SPOTS

Inland, up and over a rock-rubble hill, on low plateau that overlooks the bulk of El Carrizalito and the sweep of sea out front of it, we had more to show and tell. Graves. Nine of 'em. We had a hard time locatin', at first. Ernesto and Preciliano and me all knew just about where they lay but with the passage of desert time there...nature had rendered them near ta invisible. Nine low mounds of the same material that made up surface of the gentle slope there. Four adult size piles, five smaller. Part of a small, fashioned-of-iron-wood cross, but on its back, of course. Preciliano's remembrances couldn't aid him much on names of interned there. I assured El Ingeniero that Alejo had most of this. His more direct relations. More photos, of course. I cast around at the dramatic. "Not a bad place ta go ta ground", that's what I was thinkin'. All of us stand and take a good, long look around. "Still pretty damn nice from any angle.” Marcia chips in.

Soon as we stumble back inta view, Alejo pulls anchor, idles in ta where we can I lay hands on and steady the boat. Smooth and easy we back out and over swell that brakes foamy white back where we'd just been, never havin' had the chance at us. Playa Carrizalito, next stop on the agenda. To the opposite, more southern end of our rancho.

We motor into mouth of cove, Alejo almost killin' motor as he swings us left to soft sand touch down, that perfect little nich there that's almost always protected from waves. I jump out into clear shallows, move things gently ta land.

INGENIERO IN GREAT SHAPE

This second monument is located atop an abrupt ridge of scattered, huge, angular rocks. The earth's crust's been dramatically tipped upward right at coastline. A wide reef of hard rock is fighting mightily against the elements. The talus slope we have ta fight our way up, Whew! I've been laid up, gotten outta shape. Hot, too! Ya had ta watch where ya put hands and feet. Rattlers, ya know. They do frequent the area. This reef ridge, from high point where we mount it, dips its way down and forms the break water that protects spot where our seemingly tiny craft rested. From there, it submarines under the mouth of Ensenada Carrizalito, re-emergin' on the far side to become formation which is know as La Ventana, Window Rock.

Our aim up slope carried us higher than our target. A bit of searching about was required before we found monument similar to other...down below and well concealed in rubble chunks as big er bigger than it was. It's white, too. But lots of surfaces up there have been white washed by sea birds. Again my shutter clicks. The Reforma Agraria, other Ingenieros from there are ones who set these locations. Other surveys afterward, by same organization, had confirmed these points.

Satisfied with right there, down we go, El Ingeniero leading the field, his younger legs havin' more spring than any of the rest of us. By a long distance he beat us down ta soft sand. Preciliano, them good dress shoes, they'd slowed him some. Marcia. She's the smart one. She'd gone for a walk along the beach.

HISTORIC CASA SITE

We’ve lots more fer El Ingeniero here. We head up beach in Marcia's tracks, turn into grove of palms backed by large mesquite trees. Back behind this, on other side of arroyo that meets sea right there, lays the casa where Alejo was born, a good portion of its rock and red dirt walls still standin', that along with all of the thick, forked, una de gato support posts. Questions were asked of Alejo here. He gave names of his three older brothers, all living, who'd been born there. And sisters, although two of' em were dead. Alejo also pointed over to where his humble wooden shack structure usta rest (since tore down and partly salvaged). His five children were born over there. Large rocks fitted together in flat topped formation attested to raised cookin' area. Guadalupe's old kitchen. With small herd of goats, they'd scratched out an existence here...till severe drought rendered the spring’s production insufficient ta quench the thirst of seven. Mid ta late eighties, that’s when that’d happened. Fragments of corral fence, the thick mat of excreted goat pellets slowly decomposin’, a low cement drinkin' trough still remained as further evidence of habitation.

The arroyo's last fling, the year before, had erased the hand dug well from which they'd pulled buckets of saline water only fit for their animals. But the scooped-out depression that serves as water hole for all loose stock on rancho there is regularly maintained and has seen continuous use for a very long time. We march over to grove of large mesquite and una de gato trees where this lays well hidden.

HE’S SEEN ENOUGH

There's not much live stock on the ranch right then. Almost never is. Not enough food. A small band of mixed-owner horses, mules, burros. A few head of scrawny cattle; most of Alejo's herd moved to El Estuchi, as mentioned previously. Well-worn trails converge on this ancient watering spot. The surface water in arroyo there lies like only seven, maybe eight feet down. The depression that's been hand shoveled out there starts it's decent way out wide from point of waters contact. A low cement wall has been placed in way of debris that large animal hooves want to slide down into this puddle, which they can only approach from that side. Only when very thirsty have our dogs lapped at what looks ta be pretty nasty. There's always raccoon tracks in the mud, though. And flocks of quail regularly dip their quick bills there. Very important, El Ingeniero signals. Snap, snap goes my camera.

Signaling that he's seen enough, this gentleman declines the walk up arroyo...to spring. He checked his watch, this seemingly a time concern.

It's not all that long before we're back at our camp. Soon after that we're all re-assembled under Restaurante San Cosme's palm thatch. Guadalupe, her daughter Maria, Luis' fat and seemin' jolly wife Santana, they hustle plates from close by kitchen. Fish and beans and rice and salad. Some stuff special fer Ernesto, him with his vegetarian diet. El Ingeniero takes testimony from Guadalupe ta check her rancho stories with Alejo's.

When Ernesto leaves he takes my roll of film off for development. After we got back to the States, he ships it, along with duplicate photos, to us in the woods. Supposedly, all involved have copies of this rock-hard evidence.

Of course, I'd like to take you on this same tour, Sr. Chavez. I really can't understand why you're avoidin' this lesson. If ya want 'em, I'll even send ya copies of those photos. And I'd love ta go with ya to where the Ejido and their Plano say El Carrizalito is. What we'd find is there is not one speck of evidence that habitation ever, in any durable way, occurred there. Carrizalito, Sr., "is" where it always has been...not where Plano Definativo has, for whatever reason, incorrectly placed it.... More ta come...And I guarantee it....

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com