BIENVENIDO A LA PAGINA DEL GRUPO ESPELEOLOGICO ZOTZ

On the morning of August 25, 1989, I headed for the coast in the company of Claudio Chilomer, the number one (and only) Brazilian member of ZOTZ. Our plan was to drive all the way along the Pacific Coast Highway (Mex 200) to Puerto Arista, Chiapas, where Jesús Moreno awaited us to begin a tour of that jungly state on Mexico’s southern border.

We took the excellent new road via Colima and soon were speeding south, with occasional glimpses of the Pacific Ocean to our right. The beaches we came upon were so beautiful that we couldn’t resist stopping for a quick dip.

All we could see in both directions were miles of clean, gently rolling sand dunes. The surf was high, the water bathtub-warm and to make the picture complete, we discovered a group of five or six giant turtles, (each over two feet in diameter) frolicking in the surf nearby. They even let us come within twelve feet of them with no sign of being frightened. What we did not see was any trace of a human being. “This is it,” we cried, “the perfect beach! We’ll bring all our friends here next winter!” And we got back in the car to continue down the deserted road. Indeed, not a house nor a human nor even a passing car was to be seen.

As we swung around the loneliest curve in this lonely stretch, a man hidden in the undergrowth stood up straight ahead of us, his feet planted firmly on the ground, white cloth tied around his head, a look of sheer madness in his eyes, and a large revolver held in both hands at arms’ length, pointed straight at Claudio, who was driving.

“My God, Claudio! He’s going to shoot us!” And I tried to duck my head beneath the level of the windows, but my seat belt, that so-called life-saver, made it impossible for me to slide down into the space in front of my seat, so I leaned back and to my left, trying to get my head down into the opening between the two front seats. Doing this forced my left leg slightly upward, which possibly saved both our lives.

Claudio, meanwhile, ducked down as low as he possibly could without taking his eyes off the road or his foot off the gas pedal.

All this happened during the split second it took that madman to pull the trigger. Two loud reports rang out as we went into the curve at about 60 km an hour.

“I saw the gun aimed straight at my chest,” said Claudio afterwards, “so when I heard the shots, I assumed I was going to die. But I was apparently still alive! Then I heard John call my name and I knew he was alive too, so I pushed the accelerator to the floor and tried to get the hell out of there. The one fear that possessed me was that there might be some kind of road block just ahead with more gunmen waiting.”

Claudio’s Renault squealed around two more curves and we both sat up again, figuring the bullets had missed us. However, that’s when I saw the hole in the door to my right, about three inches below the level of the glass. I looked at that hole and some circuit in my brain calculated where the bullet must have gone and then I looked down and saw the blood welling out of my leg, inches from my waist and the panic hit me for now I had no idea whether I was a survivor or moments from my death. “Claudio, I’ve been shot!”

Then I saw more blood oozing from a spot two inches further up and a real nighmare began. If two bullets had gone into me, where were they now? Was I bleeding somewhere else? At this juncture, I still felt no pain and could only rely on my eyes to indicate what had happened. Was I hemorrhaging internally?

It would be many hours before I’d have an answer to all these questions, thus giving my imagination free rein to conjure up one image after another, each worse than the one before.

Thus it was that we drove away from a near tragedy, alive and relatively unharmed, yet in such a state of mind that every minute of the nearly three hours it took to reach the hospital in Lázaro Cárdenas seemed to last forever. I doubt if any horror in nature can come close to those the mind can create when fully unleashed: what would have happened if the highwayman had aimed a hair higher? If Claudio had lost control? If...? If...?

We soon became aware of the danger in these what if questions and agreed to suppress them. It was bad enough dealing with our reactions every time we saw a lone man on the roadside. I suppose we were both in a state of shock.

Once we were well out of the danger zone, the police appeared and guided us all the way to a hospital in Lázaro Cárdenas where I was immediately patched up, X-rayed and, of course, interrogated. We had a few of our own questions for them, too, the principal one being: how frequently does this happen around here? One policeman claimed there hadn’t been an attack like this in two months. Another stated that, “It doesn’t happen often, maybe to one in a hundred.” Those odds were far from comforting.

Several hours later, I learned that I did indeed have a bullet in me (only one) which had done little damage and was now lodged in a place in my leg where it could stay the rest of my life without causing any harm. I had been incredibly lucky!

Chatting with the emergency-room staff and other local people convinced us that such acts of violence have been very common on the two lonely highways from Colima and Uruapan to Lázaro Cárdenas, which presented us with a bit of a problem: how were we going to get back to good old Guadalajara? (Somehow we had lost the urge to see Chiapas.)

We found a bus heading for Uruapan and asked the driver if we could tag along behind. We had been told that this road was even more famous for holdups than the other one, but also carried a lot more traffic. It didn’t matter too much. Nothing on earth was going to make Claudio drive along that coast road again.

We made it back to Guadalajara without incident, my wounds healed and I was soon back to hunting for caves, albeit with a slight limp.

Now the limp is gone though the bullet still remains. No doubt there are better souvenirs to be had from the unforgetable Coast of Michoacan!