Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P.2)

Over the first month working in the desert, nothing really occurred worth mentioning. Greg had our daily routine down to a science. The night before, he's making our lunches of ham and cheese sandwiches, and five Oreo cookies each for dessert with coffee for the mornings. Greg was elevated to the pile driving crew, the dirtiest, and most difficult work. Whereas, I landed with a cement crew, shoveling wet concrete in a crew of locals who could barely speak English. I managed to learn a little Spanish, though just enough to get by. I remember on one day, received two bee stings one after another, rolling in pain on the ground, while my concrete associates writhed with laughter. It was one Friday evening after work, sitting on lawn chairs drinking beer, that Juan, our landlord, approached us and began asking a few questions.

“I notice you two never leave the motel.” he said.

“Well, there isn't that much else to do out here.” I responded.

“ Do you guy's like to swim?”

“Sure, Juan,” Greg responded in a loud beer belch.

“I'll come over in the morning and show you guy's something that many people around here don't know about.” he said.

The next morning around 9:00, Juan pounded on the door, waking us both after a long week on the chain gang. We hopped in Juan's truck and headed west off the main drag.

Stopping the truck, Juan, announced, “Well, here we are.”

From where we were seated in the truck, nothing could be seen except more sand and cactus. Once out of the truck, only a few yards away was the biggest “watering hole” I'd ever seen in my life. In fact, looking down into the water, it was surrounded by jagged rocks, cliff-like edges that had a drop off about 60 feet. To swim, one had to climb the cliffs downward to reach the water.

Greg began his decent, while I looked on with interest and a little trepidation. Though before Greg reached the bottom, Juan backed away and ran to the edge, taking a perfect swan dive, disappearing directly in the center of the water. He soon surfaces with a cheeky grin on his face.

“C'mon man”. Juan yelled. “Dive in. It's perfectly safe.”

It didn't matter that the drop was only 60 feet. It could have been 1000 feet from where I was standing. But something out-weighed my fear in that instant, so I stepped back a few yards and took the plunge, landing dead center in the water. It felt absolutely magnificent. The more difficult part was climbing the cliffs back to the top. Juan climbed the cliffs like a practiced climber/diver. Floating in the water, I watched his accent and followed his lead back to the water holes top ledge.

After witnessing Juan and myself dive from the ledge, certainly not wanting to be outdone, Greg reversed his descent, climbing back to the top. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he took a running start, jumping into the water below.

Over the next two weekends, this became our respite from the outside world. Juan let us in on a secret, that not even the local “gringo's” were aware of...it was our secret.

On the third weekend, the three of us bathing under a New Mexico summer's sun, that Juan brought up something unusual.

“Have you guy's ever heard of Peyote”? he asked.

Greg appeared a little confused. But through my high school days, read everything I could get my hands on by the author, Carlos Castaneda. Carlos was an anthropologist that met an Indian shaman by the name of Juan Mantas. Castaneda soon became an apprentice under the tutelage of Juan in the ways of the Indian sorcerers. His first lesson in “seeing” was under the influence of peyote. Only after this one experience of the local plant Castaneda didn't use it anymore in the art of “seeing,” Thus, his apprenticeship continued.

It was only much later that I discovered that peyote buttons were legal in the state of New Mexico for religious purposes within the Indian community.

Juan pulled out a plastic sandwich bag containing a green substance.

“This is not pot.” Juan said. “It's a peyote. Would you two like to try some?”

Greg and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“What does it do?” Greg asked.

“Well it's different for every person. It all depends on what the soul of the drug wants you to see and experience.” Juan said.

“How much?” Greg asked.

“You can have this one for free. Only, of course, you like it and wish to try it again.”

Having read Castaneda, I was more than willing to give the plant a go. So I asked, “Do we smoke it or eat it?”

“I'd advise eating the plant to gain a better experience.” Juan replied.

The three of us piled into Greg's Volkswagen, and not a word was spoken the entire trip home.

Once inside, Greg said, “Let's eat this stuff and take a drive across the panhandle into Amarillo. The drinking age is 18, so we can hit a few of the rock clubs.”

“Sounds good to me...” I said.

The substance tasted awful, chasing it down with the local 3'2 beer. After around 15 minutes or so, both of us began vomiting. This went on for a few minutes, where the two of us passed out on our respective beds. We woke up at the same time, and Greg was already in the shower, getting ready for our 100-mile trip east to Amarillo, Texas. I followed suit, and before long, we were barrelling down the freeway at dusk.

It was then that shit started to get very strange.