An Honest Man/Enemy of the State
The names and details herein have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.
I've been in Mexico over a month now and I've befriended two businessmen, an economist, two chefs, a university professor and poet, a stucco/plaster trabajero, an electrician, a truck driver, and tonight I met el Cabron. After a scenic, traffic-free ride of 300 km, I arrived at a city which counts itself the center of the Mexican revolution. I check into a hotel in the heart of town, and setting out to explore on foot, eventually stop at a neighborhood taberna for an afternoon cerveza. On the return journey to my hotel, I initiate a one man pub-crawl, and eventually settle into a chair at the end of the bar on my third stop. I am joined shortly by two Mexicanos. The one sitting closest introduces himself as Martine and we begin to talk. At some point he says he is a "cabron" and asks if I know what that means. There are different definitions, so in the end, he elucidates that in his case it means a powerful dude, (to paraphrase). He tells me that he speaks some English, which is an inestimable advantage if one isn't fluent, (which I'm not). He talks of Pancho Villa, a commoner, who killed the son of a wealthy landowner who had tried to rape Pancho's sister. Wanted for the murder, Villa fled, first turning to robbery and eventually to revolution. He was the first General in the Mexican revolution, and became governor of Chihuahua. He lived and was assassinated in the town I'm in right now. Martine professes his undying admiration for Villa, his true cabron, eventually slipping his shirt over his head to show me the central part of his back, which bears a tattoo of a likeness of his hero. Much of the rest of his body displays tatoos of a cruder design. I ask where he learned his English, and he confides he had studied enough to get by while serving 17 years in US federal prisons for killing a man with a gun. He says he didn't need to learn much English as he was part of and protected by his Mexican brotherhood while he did his time. I remark that killing someone with a gun is too easy in the heat of an argument, and he agrees, although I don't think he supports gun control legislation.
As we speak he tells me he doesn't like gringos, but he sees in me, someone he can look in the eye, and not hear bullsh#t, when we talk. He introduces me to his companion, Javi, who in turn professes his allegiance to Martine, his hermano or brother. As we talk, Martine expresses his respect, and identifies himself as the Cabron in this city. He looks me in the eye and pays me the compliment of calling me a cabron, and we exchange the 'secret' handshake common to all streets between Juneau and Central America. Others in the bar come by after witnessing this endorsement, and pay respect to Martine and, (oddly enough), me. I am beginning to believe Martine is in fact a heavy dude in the local scene. He tells me I need not worry about anything while I am in his city, as I have his protection for as long as I am here. I laugh and tell him that I generally don't worry about such things, but thank him for his consideration. Martine initiates a terrorist fist bump as if to endorse my attitude. He asks if I like to smoke pot, which I do on occasion, and tell him so. After we finish our beers, he invites me to join them for a ride, and to smoke some 'mota'. In my year of living dangerously, I accept his offer. I make the decision that a life lived in fear is not an option... today at least. If he is planning on 'rolling' me for the few hundred pesos in my wallet, or kidnapping me for ransom he isn't batting an eye. On some level I trust him and we depart to the parking lot and Javi's truck. On the walk, I am asked bluntly if I am an FBI or DEA agent. When I burst out laughing, while declaring that I'm neither, I think he believes me, but warns nonetheless, that if he finds out otherwise, he will kill me. After satisfying himself that I am who I say I am, he confides that he is the big pot grower in this area of Chihuahua.








