Epilogue
A Pilgrimage Of Sorts
It was an unusual trip that I took a trip to Tuxtla Gutierrez in July of 1996, where I visited with Carlos K. Frey, the son of Carlos Frey. I brought him some photos his sister-in-law wanted to give him, but would not trust to the mails. I also wanted to renew his acquaintance.
I told him my theory on the case, that it was manslaughter, not murder, and explained what I thought happened and why. I also explained how I thought the damage to the cranium took place after death. He agreed that Morales was involved, but felt it was an actual murder, and that others were also involved in the killing.
The obvious question was whether any forensics experts had taken a look at the skull, and I told how it is possible to tell whether such damage took place at the time of death or later. Carlos (Junior) replied that the authorities had had the skull briefly, but had not looked into that possibility. A good guess might be that no one had seen a need for any experts to look closely at the skull. Perhaps they saw everything as too obvious for investigation.
Carlos' son told me that his mother had passed away in 1995, and told me of a 50th anniversary symposium of the discovery of Bonampak held recently, in June of 1996. There, some of the living survivors of Carlos’ last expedition came to talk of the time.
These were:
Manuel Bravo, who is retired and lives in Mexico city.
Carlos Margaín, who works for the University of Mexico.
Jorge Olvera, retired and living in Mexico City.
1 Pedro Pech, retired and living in Villahermosa.
The next day, while boarding the bus for San Cristóbal, I thought about Carlos’s father and his similar route over fifty years before. The vehicle sped along, and in the comfort of air conditioning, I watched the scenery seem to glide by me.
From the safety of a bus I marveled at the beautiful ruggedness of the terrain. It was not hard to imagine Carlos on horseback, also marveling, but from a much more hands-on perspective than I had.
At San Cristóbal, I took a second class bus bound for Ocosingo. I easily reached Oxchuc, unlike Carlos, without any danger from murderous bandits. Through much of the way, I thought about Frey’s sojourn through these rugged mountains and pines.
Once at Ocosingo, I settled in. It is a pleasant, small Mexican town. While today, tourists are a bit more common than in Carlos’s time, there are no throngs of them to wade through, and it makes for an enjoyable stopover.
Having my pack safely ensconced in the hotel room, I found a cab to the ruins at Toniná, planning to visit Rancho El Real the next day. While there are no letters from Carlos still in existence that describe the ruins themselves, he did mention seeing them while he was in the area.
Getting to his old stomping grounds at El Real was another matter. It is quite near the Lacandón areas in which the Zapatistas live. It is so close, in fact, that it may even be among those estates which the insurgents have divided among the poor.
In canvassing the cabbies at the market, I encountered problems. One driver refused to even consider taking me. Some had no idea where the ranch was. Others gave me outrageous estimates of their fares to get there.
Finally, one driver suggested that I take one of the combi buses, which are small vans that operate along many routes, including those where larger buses do not travel. He pointed out a combi that he thought went to El Real. I boarded the small bus and was off.
Of course, that combi only went in the general direction, and neither I nor the driver had any idea that there was a turnoff at which he needed to drop me. Even the map I had did not show a turnoff. After quite a ride, my driver stopped across from what looked to be an occasionally used jeep path, announcing that this was El Real.
Unlike other ranches, there was no sign in front, so I suggested that we check with two workers who were lounging around. Sure enough, they had never even heard of the elusive ranch.
Soon my driver flagged down another combi going in the opposite direction. This motorman not only had a good idea where El Real was, but also knew where the turnoff was. I got into his bus, and at least had more confidence in this second driver.
Once I finally arrived at the gravel turn, which twenty kilometers later passes El Real, the driver told me to wait for a bus, but could give me no idea of their frequency. Waiting around is not one of my strong suits, so I began to walk, thinking that I would also try to hitchhike.
I only walked a of couple miles, but no buses and only three cars and trucks passed. None of these would give me a lift. On those rare times when I have felt it necessary to hitchhike in Mexico, there has been no problem. But here, a farmer walking toward me along the road even told me I would never get to the ranch.
Finally, I decided to start walking back. If no help came by the time I got back to the highway, I would take the next bus back to town. During my long return, there were no possible rides, so I went back to town.
In this journey back, I was the only non-Indian on a rickety old bus. On the way through the one checkpoint, as the bus was about to pull out without an inspection, one of the military noticed that I was aboard and waved for the driver to stop. A man entered, and asked to see my passport, just mine.
Finally back in town, a bus to Palenque seemed to beckon me, and I left. Again my way was much easier than Carlos’s had been. As I watched the jungle, mountains, and milpas move past my window, I wondered if I would have had the courage and stamina to do even half of the things Carlos had done. Indeed, I almost always like to have some idea of what I am getting into and read at least two guide books before going somewhere; he had none.
Once at Palenque, I visited the ruins. Then I touched base with some associates from the Philadelphia area whom I was to rendezvous with for the trip to Yaxchilán and Bonampák.
The next day, all nine of us went through three check points, being stopped at each one on our way to Yaxchilán. At a place called Echevarría, we boarded a thatched roof boat for the ruins. This route comes from upriver, and has no rapids at all. How different this was from the route available from downriver that Carlos took so long ago.
The next day, we boarded the boat to go back upstream to return to our van. We rode on and on to the turnoff to Bonampák, stopping only to show passports or baggage at checkpoints along the way.
Finally, the trail to Bonampák lay in front of me. Did I really want to do it again? Yes and no. I suppose that if someone had come by and offered me a ride on an ATV, I would have taken him up on it, assuming it was a reasonable price. The path is a bit of a hike, being around six miles one way. As it was, only foot power was available then.
Even here, I had it much easier than Frey. The first times he went there, he had to walk around 27 miles. On his final expedition, he even had to return to the base camp for the rest of the people.
Since I had much more to do at the ruins than my companions, I went ahead of them. I had a global positioning system (GPS) with me to track down the location of Frey’s death on the Lacanha, and also had the coordinates of Bonampak, both given in Alberto Arai’s book about the trip.
Early in the hike, and based on a previous discussion with another fellow on the trip, I determined that Arai used a different system, because within a mile or so, my little machine was urging me to turn left to a bogus Bonampák, instead of continuing on its well-defined pathway. It also showed the death site in that direction. Because of this, I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to be sure of the site of his death, and that I would have to be content with merely getting to the river itself.
Hiking onward, I thought about how the path and its many bends, turns, and log bridges will probably disappear into the jungle due to the new road, which was completed after my trip.
Once at the site of Bonampák, I snapped some pictures I had not thought of during my previous visit. Then I tried to seek out a trail to the river. Since the river is no longer a route taken to get to the site, it would appear that there may not be one, though this somehow seems unlikely.
Certainly, if there is a trail to the Lacanha, no one helped me find it. One caretaker gave me instructions to a path that was to take me there, and I started down it. It was one of those interesting jungle paths, the sort you would want to follow to see where it leads. It was not too wide, but was distinct enough to easily stay on. Unfortunately, instead of shifting off to the west as I had hoped, it finally went to the east. Interesting or not, I did not have the time to be poking around in precisely the wrong direction. With a sigh, I turned back.
Back at Bonampák, again, I began looking for a pathway that would take me to the river. Feeling short on time, I asked yet another caretaker, and he told me there were none. Being dubious of anyone’s advice at this point, but unwilling to quit, I began to search along a perimeter for a path.
The same man was walking in the same direction, and when he glanced back and saw me about to go down some small trail, he said that it did not go where I wanted; that he would show me one that did. Suddenly, he had become aware of such a path.
While I certainly had more than a few doubts, I followed him in the direction he had been walking, and he showed me a pathway that also went westward and toward the river. It was a promising path, and it went in the right direction. I started down it, following on and on, until I got to a creek where it seemed to stop. Only on crossing over was it possible to see that it continued.
Later, the path ended with a pile of fallen dead brush. I peered over and ahead, and could find no hint of it continuing. There was none of the damage to vegetation one would expect from people going around such a detour, so I took it as a sign. Perhaps the obstacle was left by Zapatistas to tell people not to continue. Who knows? At this point, I felt certain that there would not be enough time left to both find and explore another trail. I headed back to Bonampák.
Somewhat dejected, I went to a recently opened portion of the site, Grupo Frey, obviously named after Carlos. This is a large building with stone steps leading up to a platform. It was recently cleared and named in honor of the man whom the Mexicans know to be the discoverer of the site.
Back at the entrance, I found my companions, and was surprised to hear that they had just arrived. I accompanied them back to the main area, and spent a more sedate time there. It probably was just as well, since in chatting with a Lacandón custodian, I found out that although Jose Pepe/Chan Bor died four years ago, Obregon/Chan K’in is still alive and strong at age 95.
The murals have also been cleaned, and they look much better than they did when I was there before in 1993. Less imagination is needed now to look at them.
The long hike out seemed a bit longer than when coming in, but, at least, the road trip did not involve anyone at the checkpoints pulling us aside. Certainly I did not complain at this absence of local color, since I was really ready for some rest.
Back in town after a reasonably good night’s sleep, I went out to see the Palenque ruins before leaving. There is no charge for visiting any ruins in Mexico on Sundays, so my cost would be only for transportation. However, my legs were stiff, and I decided not to do any climbing.
Through all this portion of my trip I observed the group of Lacandons that Carlos knew. It appears that the long robes they wear are now only to impress the tourists. While there is no question of the apparel, I wondered at how genuine some of the people were, particularly so far out of the jungle.
As I walked through a row of small booths and listened, it seemed that when they spoke among themselves, it was in Lacandón. One fellow who did not look Lacandón at all, nonetheless, understood it when I used the similar Yucatec Maya to decline a purchase.
On the way back to town in the bus, there was a fellow in Lacandón garb who had a guitar and began singing Mexican songs. Once in town and on the street, I approached him and said, "Hatsuts," or very good. He looked at me quizzically, and I repeated it. He still looked puzzled, so I explained what it meant in Maya, and presumably Lacandón. Since the young are still learning their native language, it is safe to assume that he was not what he appeared to be.
Once back at my hotel, I checked out and walked to the highway, mostly to get my creaking legs moving again, and caught a combi bus north to the Catazaja junction. There, following a series of public conveyances, I was at my day’s destination, Tenosique.
The town gets bad press in all the guide books that bother to mention it. I like it, though. It is small, but large enough to offer a choice of hotels, and I saw no other tourists while I was there. To me, that means the food is probably safer, because restaurants that cater only to locals cannot have a bad health reputation and stay in business, and all of them seemed to be doing well.
I finally managed to find an elderly and distinguished gentleman, who claimed to have known Carlos Frey. I felt that he probably had to some extent, because he was aware that Carlos had not spent much time in town. Still, I wondered just how well he had known him, because he stated that Frey had lived in the mountains when he visited instead of at Mrs. Todd’s.
It appears that Mrs. Todd’s boarding house has faded into anonymity, and there is nothing to be found. At one point, Carlos wrote some letters using stationery from the Hotel del Sureste, so I looked for it. It appears that in the intervening years the street numbering system changed; the street listed on Frey’s letter comes to a dead end right before the block it was supposedly was on.
After asking several people about the hotel, an elderly woman told me that the hotel still existed, and gave me directions. Somehow, I felt that this was not just another person being polite and telling me something that might possibly be true. Following her suggestions, I found myself in front of the church, but seeing only one hotel, the Azulejos.
It is one thing in Mexico to dubiously follow directions that may turn out to be incorrect, but I believed the woman. Having nothing better to do, I wandered into the Azulejos to ask if at one time, it had been called something else, such as the Hotel del Sureste. No, that one was right next door.
Thinking this was odd, I went out and looked down the block and even across the street. I did not see anything I could identify as the Sureste anywhere. Surely this was a joke.
I went back into the Azulejos, and asked the fellow about it. He walked to the door, and pointed out the building right across the street; it had no sign. I thanked him.
The hotel I was looking for was being remodeled, and the sign was down. The courtyard was obviously a work-in-progress, but the reception area was a pleasant surprise. A girl verified the name of the establishment, and asked if I wanted a room; unfortunately I did not need one.
The next day, I took a 6:30 bus to Villahermosa. The day after that, I flew back home.
Obviously, there have been many changes in that area since Carlos’ day. In many places, the jungles have given way to new settlements, more huts, more cornfields and cattle pastures, brought on in part by more roads and highways. Things are easier to get to, so people pour in.
With the new road, Carlos’ beloved Bonampak is easier to get to. People are able to go in with rental cars or ride in mini-van tours. As this develops, it may lure so many more tourists that it may become dreadfully commercial.
Gone is the former serenity of these ruins in the jungle. Still, Carlos’ lost city is now more available to the public. Because the murals have been cleaned, they do look so much better now, so more will come. It will be good if we learn more about Bonampák, the lost city that helped to change the very way we visualize the Maya.