Armando is standing outside my hotel room in Las Margaritas, a pueblo in Chiapas, looking unconvinced. He had asked if I could hike the 1 1/2 hours to Benito JuƔrez the next day.
āYes,ā I tell him.
āWell,ā he says, āwe will see.ā Heās not instilling confidence.
The next day, he shows up with Fredy, my guide. Fredy doesnāt seem real happy to meet me, barely acknowledging my presence. In silence, we walk to where a camioneta waits, climb in and head out.
After a four-hour drive, we get out and begin the hike. I ask Fredy how long we have to walk. āUna hora,ā he says: one hour.
We begin walking on a hard-packed dirt road and I begin to relax ā the hike is more like an easy stroll. Iām in such a good mood that I try to engage Fredy in conversation.
āAre you married, Fredy?ā
āSĆ.ā
āDo you have children?ā
āSĆ.ā
āHow many?ā
āTres.ā
āHow much longer do we have to walk?ā
āUna hora mĆ”s.ā
Weād already been walking close to an hour but whenever I ask how much longer, he says una hora mĆ”s. I nickname him, SeƱor Una Hora MĆ”s.
After another hour, we stop at a small store, have a couple of Cokes and are met by IsaĆas, who insists on carrying my backpack. I grab my camera bag and weāre off.
We leave the hard-packed dirt road and begin walking on a hilly trail thatās often ankle-deep mud. Now, my idea of climbing a hill is to go at it as hard as I can for as long as I can so I can put it behind me. Itās painful but quick.
As Iām slipping and sliding my way uphill, IsaĆs calls out, āDespacio, seƱor, despacio.ā Slowly, sir, slowly. At the top of one climb I stop, bent over and panting. āSeƱor,ā says IsaĆas, āen el campo, lento es mejor.ā In the country, slow is better. I gotta admit he was right but I keep pushing.
At some point, we come across a bridge. And I use the word ābridgeā in the broadest possible sense. Letās just say itās a loosely constructed thing spanning a river. It doesnāt look very safe. In fact, it looks terrifyingly dangerous. I take one look at this thing and have two thoughts: one is that Iām very glad Benito JuĆ”rez is on this side of the river so we donāt have to cross it.
I think this even though I havenāt a clue where Benito JuĆ”rez is. The second thought is that if I keep walking and ignore it, theyāll also ignore it. My strategy doesnāt work. IsaĆas calls to me from the foot of the bridge. He signals me to return. I do and he simply gestures toward the bridge, indicating we have to cross it. I look and the only word that comes to mind is, āFuck.ā
This ābridgeā is 20 or 25 feet above a river thatās about 50 feet wide. I canāt tell how deep the water is but itās moving rapidly. The bridge is held together by barbed wire. You walk on thin boards and narrow tree limbs which, in spots, are separated by a couple of feet. I figure Iām going to die but I will my legs to begin walking. My jaw is clenched and my throat is parched.
Iām so terrified that I canāt bend my legs, so Iām doing a Frankenstein imitation. I cling tightly to the guide wires as I walk, the barbs digging into my hands. As I cross, I no longer think Iām going to die; Iām certain Iām going to die. I keep my eyes peeled to the boards and command my legs to keep moving. If I stop, Iāll never be able to start again. Below, I can see the river rushing by. That increases my fear, so I look up only notice that the bridge is twisted at an uncomfortable angle. I decide not to look up again.
I somehow make it across. My hands are covered with blood, pierced by the barbed wire. I swab alcohol and antibiotic on the cuts and hope my tetanus shot is up to date. As I kneel on the ground, IsaĆs comes over. āDebe agarrar suave, seƱor, suave.ā You must hold on gently. I nod but think, āRight. One of those boards breaks, hanging onto that barbed wire is the only thing that will save me.ā
I want to take a photo of the bridge but am still so scared that I canāt make myself get close enough but I do get a couple of shots of IsaĆs and Fredy standing beside it. Theyāre smiling.
They insist I ride the rest of the way to Benito JuƔrez on a horse. I somehow manage not to fall off.
I was only allowed to stay there two days. Itās a Zapatista autonomous area and a dicey place for me to be. Once Iād settled in, everyone ā including Fredy ā turned out to be friendly. The village has no electricity and at night families gather by flashlight or candlelight to talk and laugh.
On the second day, I mention to IsaĆas that I was afraid to cross that bridge again. I didnāt know if my luck would hold out for a second crossing.
āI weigh much more than you do,ā I said. āWith my equipment, itās probably close to 90 kilos.ā
āI understand,ā he replied. āSome time ago, my cousin was crossing that bridge, carrying corn. A board broke. He died.ā
I thanked him for telling me that story but I donāt think my sarcasm translated well.
āThere is another way to go,ā he continued. āItās much farther and it will cost about 1,000 pesos. I can make a phone call.ā
I tell him Iāll think about it. It only cost 120 pesos for Fredy and me on the way in but then I realize that my lifeās certainly worth 1,000 pesos ā about US $85 at the time. I tell him Iāll take the alternative route out.
When we leave, they put me on a mule for the entire trek with Daniel carrying my cameras, IsaĆas my backpack. I feel guilty but they wonāt let me walk or carry anything. As we make our way, I notice places weād passed on the way in. It appears to be the same route. Then I see the bridge. I think about taking a photo but decide if we stop they may make me cross it again.
We cross the river a couple hundred feet from the bridge and the water is never more than a couple of feet deep. Iām completely stunned. The only thing I can think is that the hike in was a test, which has happened to me before. If I had refused to walk over that bridge, we probably would have crossed downstream but my stay would have been completely different. But later I tell IsaĆas that when I return, thereās no way in hell Iāll cross “El Puente de la Muerte,” the bridge of death.
And the return trip only cost me 120 pesos, not the 1,000 I was told.
Joseph Sorrentino lives in San Gregorio Atlapulco, Mexico City, and is a regular contributor to Mexico News Daily.