Kidnap in Oaxaca

Looking back on it now, it is difficult for me to think of all this as having happened over 30 years ago. Or that the 3-and-a-half year old boy that I helped to reunite with his mother would be a grown man, possibly with children of his own. It’s also difficult for anyone who hasn’t driven from Malibu, California to San Jose, Costa Rica and back to understand just how dangerous and exciting it was in those days. But it was, and probably still is.

This first trip lasted nearly two months. After surfing in El Salvador and Costa Rica’s Nicoyan Peninsula, and exploring almost as far south as Panama, Bill felt that it was time for him to return home to catch up with his young son Omar. On the way back up through Central America, I was offered a management job at a large international hotel in El Salvador. So we headed straight back to Malibu where I planned to grab some appropriate clothes, stock up on a few essentials (like an efficient ice-chest) and return to San Salvador in my trusty VW bug.

My mistake was taking the car to a local Volkswagen dealership to have a thorough mechanical checkup, including tune-up and oil & lube. It was a mistake because I normally did my own basic maintenance to ensure the valves were adjusted properly so the air-cooled VW engine didn’t get a chance to overheat. I also knew that VW dealerships - for reasons best known to them - generally tended to adjust the valves too tightly. Which is why I made a point of asking for the setting I preferred. Bottom line: I was in such a hurry that I didn’t follow my ‘little voice’ when it warned me to double check the valve settings - especially after I smelled alcohol on the mechanic’s breath when I picked it up.

Never mind. It was all part of the ongoing adventure. And although my journey from Malibu to San Diego and across the bottom of Arizona to El Paso and Juárez went without a hitch, I experienced something I’ll never forget on the road between Chihauhau and Durango.

I’d been driving almost nonstop since sunrise. When the desert sky started showing streaks of red, I picked an area with nothing but cactus and scrub to be seen for miles, and pulled off the highway to set up camp.

The air cooled quickly after the spectacular light show faded. I downed a couple of chilled beers, scarfed some cheese and crackers, and heated up a can vegetable soup. Assembling my sturdy army surplus cot, I squeezed insect repellent on each of the wooden legs, erected a makeshift awning consisting of an army surplus pancho and stretched it over the passenger door and an old telescoping tent pole. Settling down in my sleeping bag for an early night I tucked my small, nine-shot .22 automatic snugly under the pillow.

As usual when camping out, the next morning began abruptly with sunrise. But unlike any previous morning of my life, I awoke to find my self lying in a semicircle made up of 40 or more people.

It was the silence that hit me first. Then, after I put on my glasses, the total lack of expression on anyone’s face. They didn’t look friendly. They didn’t look unfriendly. They just looked - straight at me. It seemed so very strange, unreal … surreal. Men and women of varying ages from old to young, and children from babies wrapped in brightly woven blankets carried by their mothers, to children aged 12 or so. It could have been a large family gathering for all I knew.

With some difficulty, I slipped on my jeans while still in my sleeping bag. I must have looked something like a large heaving caterpillar. Then I slipped into my ‘flip-flops’ and stood up slowly. A few men exchanged looks at that point and for the first time I realized that all of these people were Indians and that I was at least a foot and half taller than the tallest of them.

I smiled and said ‘good morning’ in my best Spanish, and only the men replied, some removing their hats and bowing slightly. Taking my cue, I also bowed and that seemed to go down quite well. Then I rummaged around the back seat to find the large plastic bag full of brightly wrapped candies I usually carry when I travel South. Grabbing a handful I offered them to the children.

Hesitantly, the children looked up to the adults and after receiving some sort of silent approval, rushed forward to form an even smaller semicircle close to the car. At first they were very shy and wouldn’t look at me directly. But as I placed the candies in each little hand the child would smile deeply into my eyes, say, “Gracias, señor,” and for some inexplicable reason, hop once in the air before rushing back to their place in the crowd.

By that time all of the people were beginning to smile and talk quietly among themselves. But still they kept their distance. Then a large dusty bus bounced off the highway and stopped a short distance away. All at once the silence was broken. And in what appeared to be a synchronized flurry of activity, baskets were heaved onto heads, small children lifted onto hips and every member of the group gave me a big smile and shouted their blessings for a safe journey before boarding the bus. Then they were gone.

Standing there in the cool morning air I looked around and around, and all I could see was flat empty desert stretching to distant pink-hued mountains. To this day I have no idea of where those forty or so people came from or where the were going.

OAXACA

Had I listened to my ‘little voice’ I still could have stopped somewhere along the way, popped-off the valve covers and avoided disaster. But by the time my VW threw a rod just outside Oaxaca it was far too late. Thankfully a passing businessman aptly named Jésus stopped, somehow arranged for a cattle truck to transport my mortally wounded car to Oaxaca’s VW dealership and I entered that magical little city in the comfort of his air-conditioned Mercedes.

As well as magical, Oaxaca is also deceptively charming, and full of contradictions. Which is not surprising for a city whose two most famous sons are Benito Juárez (an egalitarian revolutionary) and Profirio Díaz (an elitist dictator).

Let me put it this way. If your car engine is going to blow apart and you have to be stuck somewhere for three weeks waiting for it to be repaired, then Oaxaca is a great place for it to happen.

Jésus pulled up in front of an small but quietly elegant mid-19th century hotel in the heart of the city’s famous ‘colonial’ section - just a three block walk to the zócalo. After a few quiet words with the proprietor my Good Samaritan informed me that I was welcome to enjoy a large room with a bath for the peso equivalent of one dollar and 80 cents US per night. Then apologizing because he had to leave to continue on his business trip, Jésus waved off all attempts to express my sincere thanks as he took his leave. That was the last I ever saw of him.

It was like stepping back in time. I half expected to meet a mysterious Señorita as I ran my hand along the polished oak banister up the wide stone staircase to my room on the second floor. But with my luck, her mustachioed Dueña would have been trailing close behind.

And what a room! Cool and impressive, with high ceilings, a big dark oak wardrobe, a heavy carved oak dresser, writing desk and chair, spotlessly clean tile floors, beautifully woven woolen rugs, and a tile and marble bathroom that can only be described as luxuriously huge. All for less than two bucks a night!

I hired a taxi to bring my belongings and three surfboards back from the VW dealership where I learned it would take “at least a week” to get the new head my car would need. Shoving the boards under one of the two beds (with old polished brass bedsteads), I unpacked my gear and thought how lucky I was to have ended up in Oaxaca.

How was I know that this was just the beginning of an extremely hazardous undertaking that would not only see me involved in the rescue of a kidnapped child, but also threatened with being ‘disappeared’ by my very own government? After all, my ‘little voice’ was keeping quiet for a change.

The next few weeks went smoothly. The VW people kept making excuses about the continuing delays in repairing my car, blaming it on Puebla not sending them a new head (another story), but I was having such a great time I wasn’t really pushing them. Besides, I'd phoned the hotel manager in El Salvador and he was happy to hold the job open for me.

By now I had a regular routine. Get up. Shower. Walk down to the giant food mercado a few blocks away and enjoy a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Then I’d wander around the food stalls picking up what knowledge I could from the herbalists, and stroll back up to my favorite zócalo cafe for some ‘caffeine kick-start’.

Sitting at an outside table to keep watch on the ever changing human parade, I’d enjoy a plate of fresh fruit or sweet rolls, read a newspaper and write some letters, then meander off to explore more of Oaxaca’s magic.

One day my orange juice must have been supercharged because I walked from the hotel up 1,300 feet to the ancient Zapotecan ceremonial center of Monte Albán. It was a long journey along a narrow winding road to the summit, but I’d stop from time to time to eat an orange or two from the bag I'd bought at the mercado.

On one such rest stop a near naked boy suddenly emerged from a steep, densely wooded ravine beside the road and we shared a couple of oranges with silent smiles.

Just as suddenly he ran off and returned with a fragment of pottery that turned out to be the ear-disk belonging to what was left of a small statue of an ancient deity he’d found in the stream below. Seeing how pleased I was he scampered down the ravine again to return with the well-worn head of what looked like small household god with a feathered headdress. These small but valued gifts still occupy a special place in my office.

By late morning I reached Monte Albán just as one of the tourist buses that had passed me earlier was leaving. A small army of souvenir sellers pressed the boarding passengers for one last sale, then jumped into their odd assortment of vehicles to leave me totally alone to enjoy the powerful and mysterious atmosphere of one of civilization's architectural masterworks.

click on photo for link to a fine art print of this image

It must have been a slow day at Monte Albán, because I had time to explore the all temples, tunnels, passageways and bas-relief sculptures before the hawkers reappeared a moment or two before the next tourist buses. And later, one of the souvenir sellers gave me a bumpy ride back to the city in his battered old pickup. The sun was just setting when I reached the hotel and wandered over to the zócalo for a cafe con leché and sweet roll.

A few days later I returned to my hotel to find a message. My car had finally been repaired and was ready to be picked up. The news came as a bit of an unwelcome jolt. Perhaps was beginning to think I’d never have to leave Oaxaca. Perhaps I was falling in love with the place.

Slowly, I forced myself into another reality. And after lying on my bed with my eyes closed, I found myself visualizing the route I’d take from Oaxaca to El Salvador.

On my last morning in Oaxaca, I was crossing Miguel Caberera to my regular orange juice stand when I was assaulted by the ghastly, pungent, sickly-sweet aroma of patchouli. This was quickly followed by a pale, blond, curiously costumed young woman who seemed to be having trouble keeping her large breasts inside her dress.

In a part of the country where the weave of a woman’s handmade clothes can tell the initiated what tribe, village and family the wearer comes from, this flamboyantly dressed Gringa must have looked like someone from another planet. Her thin cotton dress was from India, her multicolored tie-died scarves from God knows where, and the mostly pot metal jewelry and bells that festooned her neck, arms, legs and waist looked like they’d come directly from a Haight-Ashbury trinket hustler.

She was a walking parody of a sixties hippie and she was heading straight towards me. “Oh shit” I thought. “She’s going to hit me up for money.” And she did.

Looking for a way to stall for time I asked her why she wanted this money. Without hesitating she matter-of-factly told me that her three-and-a-half year old son Stefan had been kidnapped and that she needed the money to buy a bus ticket to Mexico City so she could beg the US Embassy to put pressure on Mexican authorities to get him back.

As she spoke I noticed that despite her appearance and my initial aversion to it, she and her clothing were freshly washed, her sun-bleached blond hair was clean and her skin smooth and healthy, like fine white silk. She was also surprisingly articulate and clearly telling the truth. This wasn’t some sort of story made up to get drug money.

Making the kind of spur of the moment decision that makes my ‘little voice’ choke, I invited her back up to the zócalo for some coffee. There was something in her clear blue eyes that was drawing me in.

It was desperation.

Saskia's Story

The story she tells me is as amazing as it is tragic.

Saskia and her son Stefan are living with an extended family of hippies in little fishing village approximately 150 kilometers West near Puerto Escondido on Oaxaca’s Pacific coast. The night before the kidnapping, a young French Canadian couple arrives at the village with two children. The boy is about three and the girl four, maybe five. There is something about the man that makes the group uneasy. He is sullen and uncommunicative as if he is traveling with a dark destructive secret. He is.

Saskia describes the man as having “real bad vibes.” But because it is late in the day, the group decides to allow the couple and their children to spend the night sleeping near the compound and move on after that.

The next morning Saskia wakes early to find that Stefan is missing from his hammock a few feet away on the verandah. “My God,” she thinks. What if Stefan has wandered down to the beach and into the water? Then she notices that all his blankets and clothes are also missing. Her mind immediately jumps to the strange couple who arrived the night before.

Saskia races through the compound looking for Stefan and the visitors. They are nowhere to be found. Finally she goes into the village and talks with some of the fishermen. One of them has seen a couple with three children catch a ride on the back of a truck carrying the night’s catch of fish up to the market in Oaxaca. He remembers one child in particular because while the rest of them had dark hair, the child the man was carrying had blond hair and was crying. Like Saskia, Stefan has blond hair.

Saskia thinks fast. The man just said the truck only left a half an hour ago. This means she can catch up to them in another vehicle. But what other vehicle? Running like the wind across the dusty rutted roads in her bare feet, Saskia heads for the house of the local Catholic priest. An Irish-American who speaks Spanish like a Mexican, the priest can only offer his battered old bicycle. He leads Saskia to the modest house of the local policeman.

The policeman is not pleased with this early morning visit. Especially since it might mean some work. But bowing to the arguments of the insistent priest he agrees to give chase. Ten miles up the road his right rear tire blows. He doesn’t have a spare and even if he had, he has no jack. With no traffic on the road they have to walk back to the village.

Upon their return, Saskia and the Priest beg the policeman to use his phone to call the next station up the road. He refuses. Using every argument they can think of, they plead with him to call Oaxaca. Again he refuses. Why? Because he doesn’t want anyone else to know that he’s had a flat with no spare and no jack. And not because anyone would be angry with him. But because they would laugh.

Eventually, Saskia finds someone who gives her a ride to Oaxaca. But by then it is too late and the local police just sit at their desks, shaking their heads sympathetically as the near hysterical American woman demands action in a language they don’t understand.

It is another day before Saskia can return with the priest who patiently explains in Spanish and gives the police a description they can distribute to other stations.

Unfortunately, once the fugitives reached Oaxaca, they could have gone in any direction from there. Saskia needs the help of the Federal Police and that means a long journey to Mexico City by bus.

Saskia’s finances are limited. But with a little help from her friends, she manages to buy a round trip bus ticket and stays with some hippie friends near the city. Once there, she visits the US embassy and speaks to officials who promise to help her in any way they can. Big deal.

Then she goes to the impressive offices of the Federal Police and after a day of run-arounds, is assigned to not so young police Captain. Saskia pauses as she tells me this part of the story and looks out towards the street. Tears well up in her eyes and she turns to me and says, “The fucking bastard .… he raped me!”

The Captain might have been an officer but certainly no gentleman. After forcing Saskia to have sex with him, the policeman pulls his pants back up and warns Saskia that he’ll see to it that she never see her child again if she ever tells anyone about what happened. The next day he rapes her again. A fucking bastard indeed.

In practical terms it is a wasted trip. And as far as Saskia can find out, absolutely nothing concrete had been done by either the US or Mexican authorities to track down Stefan and his kidnappers.

By the time she approaches me on the street in Oaxaca, her son had been missing three weeks.

The Search

Please let me make this clear, I am not a brave person and not particularly clever. But something just didn’t sound right about Saskia’s story. Not that I doubted her. But I found it very difficult to believe that the American son of an American mother could be kidnapped in Mexico and the US Embassy do diddly-squat to help.

If I could get to a phone, perhaps I could call the US Embassy in Mexico City. I asked Saskia to hold tight while I made a phone call and headed to the Post Office to find out what was going on.

Maybe US Embassies have changed since then. God knows they needed to. After explaining my query to four or five disinterested pencil pushers, I was connected to a rather petulant and pretentious junior twit. “Of course,” he sneered smugly. “We certainly know of Mrs Martin ... and of her son Stefan. And as far as we are concerned, the woman has either abandoned the boy or sold him to some rich Mexican. After all, what can you expect from a woman who looks like that?”

Briefly, I recounted Saskia’s story as I understood it, and asked how that could possibly be construed as having “abandoned” her child. My high-strung friend seemed to take this argument as a personal insult and advised me that I would have to take the matter up with his “superior.”

Frankly, it wouldn’t have taken much to be his superior ... and it didn’t. After further delays, I was connected to an officious career diplomat named Lawrence Getz (I've changed his name just in case the worthless little worm is sill polluting the planet with his presence). Mr Getz stuck firmly to the official line. As far as he and the US Government were concerned, Saskia had abandoned her child and that was final.

Sometimes I actually pay attention to my ‘little voice’. And this was one of those times. Before word could get around that I was a troublemaker, I phoned back the Embassy and asked to speak with their Press Attaché. This time I spoke with a genuinely nice individual who couldn’t have been more helpful. By the time I hung up I had the names, telephone numbers and addresses of every major foreign correspondent in Mexico City.

On the way back to the zócalo a plan started to take shape. Just as I reached Saskia’s table, the strategy was formed. First, I told Saskia that she was officially considered by the Embassy as having deserted her child. She looked up at me as if she’d just been slapped. Up till then she’d been desperate. Now I hoped she was angry enough to put up a fight.

I went on to explain that I’d worked as a journalist and although I’d been a feature writer rather than a news reporter, I knew something about how the system worked. Then I told her my plan to help her force the Embassy into putting political pressure on the Mexican Government by threatening international media exposure.

To my absolute amazement, Saskia said she’d have to think about it. The kind of help she’d really been hoping for was someone who would drive her around Mexico while she looked for Stefan herself.

Before we arranged to meet the next morning, I gently suggested that United States of Mexico was nearly as big as the United States of America and that an unsystematic search like that could take years. “The Mexicans have everything it takes to find Stefan for you,” I said. “It’s only a matter of convincing them to get off their corrupt asses long enough to do it.”

She may have talked it over with someone else or she may have figured it was her last chance. In any event Saskia finally decided to go along with my plan, albeit halfheartedly.

The morning I came to pick her up from the villa where she was staying was a real eye-opener. Behind what looked like a very plain plastered wall was a magnificent villa that would have been called a mansion in the States. It was shortly after sunrise and we padded quietly through the beautiful garden, past a magnificent fountain and into a large but sparsely furnished room on the ground floor. As Saskia gathered her things, I looked around the cool dim space and noticed several naked youths still sleeping on the wide ledges above the floor. “Who are they?” I asked. “Oh … the rich guy who owns this place, he likes boys too,” was all she answered.

The drive up to Mexico City was extremely tense. Saskia was having second thoughts about the plan while I was trying to convince her to be more enthusiastic about our chances. Her stubborn streak was coming out in spades, and so was mine.

The day before, I’d called the president of the foreign press association in Mexico City. He listened without comment as I explained our predicament and he offered to schedule a press conference in ten day’s time. His name was Bernard Diederich and sensing I could be absolutely candid, I confessed what we were up to and warned him that if we were successful, there would probably be no press conference. Nevertheless he agreed, saying “Who knows my friend, with success, anything is possible.”

In addition I talked with John Platero of the Associated Press and again struck gold. I laid our cards on the table and asked for his advice. “Give them at least one chance to play it straight,” he suggested. “And if you get the feeling they’re jerking you around, then give them a little taste of what they’re in for. Hold on a minute … let me give you the number of a Mexican journalist friend of mine.”

As we approached Mexico City I got Saskia to talk about herself and she told me that although she was now an American citizen, she’d been born in the Netherlands. Her mother had married an American military officer when she was young and they'd all returned to the US to live. Now in her early twenties, Saskia was currently estranged from her parents, who apparently disapproved of her lifestyle and her decision to take Stefan to Mexico. That explained her slightly European accent, and, in a strange way, her ambivalent attitude. “And NO,” she added. “I do NOT want to call my parents.”

The Big City

What happened next was something right out of the Twilight Zone.

In those days there were no super highways between Oaxaca and Mexico City, and Saskia didn’t drive. It took the entire day to get there. On top of the sheer exhaustion, we arrived in the city during the first government approved demonstration against the “Yankee war in Viet Nam.” Every street, every boulevard and park was jammed with chanting, dancing, placard waving students. And here we where, two blond, blue-eyed Americanos attempting to drive through hundreds of thousands of anti-US demonstrators in a Volkswagen with California license plates and three surfboards on top.

Fortunately, the tightly packed crowds we inched our way through were in a festive mood. Except for the car getting rocked a few times, we had little trouble following their directions to, of all things, the Hotel Texas (pronounced Teh-hass).

The Hotel Texas was a substantial but definitely down-market establishment with small rooms, narrow corridors, and unpleasant smells. On behalf of appearances rather than finances, I arranged for separate rooms and threw myself on top of the bed, dropping into a deep sleep despite the noise of loud chanting on the streets below.

Next morning I ran into some serious difficulties when we ventured out to buy Saskia some new clothes. Giving it my best shot, I attempted to suggest that this was not tolerant San Francisco, but the largest, most densely populated and sometimes most hypocritical Roman Catholic city in the entire world. Women were either Madonnas or whores. Surely Saskia could see that it would be a great deal easier to generate public sympathy and support for her situation if she dressed a tad more conventionally? Nothing over the top of course, just a dress you couldn’t see through, a bra that kept her breasts from flopping out, and some shoes or sandals. But although Saskia wasn’t as naive and unsophisticated as she sometimes appeared, she was, under the circumstances, frustratingly self-indulgent.

We bought a dress, panties, bra and sandals and returned to my room. "You can’t get me to wear those ugly, UGLY things”, she wailed. I took a different tack. Up till now, Saskia had only seen me in levis and t-shirts. Opening the closet, I took some of the clothes I’d packed for working at the hotel in El Salvador and disappeared into the bathroom.

A few minutes later I emerged wearing a dark single-breasted navy blazer, dark gray trousers, a classic blue Oxford business shirt, a blue and gray silk tie and polished black loafers.

Saskia was stunned. “Think of what you wear as a costume,” I implored. “And think of our visits to the embassy and the media interviews as a play we’re in.”

“Oh yeah?” she hissed, looking bored.

“And now,” I snarled, suddenly losing my patience. “Ask yourself this fucking question! Do you fucking want Stefan fucking back or do you fucking NOT want him fucking back?!?”

“OK ....OK. I’ll wear this horrible fucking stuff - but only when I’m talking to those horrible fucking people.”

Over the next few of days Saskia became more moody and unreasonable. She had no money, so I was paying for everything and my cash reserves were getting dangerously low. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to turn around and aim my car back towards El Salvador or Texas - it didn’t matter.

The only thing we shared was our common anger with the Embassy of the United States of America and the contemptible little parasites we had to deal with. But, hopefully, we also shared an unshakable commitment to getting Stefan back.

The date for the press conference had been set for the following week and we’d been asked more than once by Mr Getz to cancel it. “I’m sure we can work something out amongst ourselves, can’t we?” he reasoned. “After all, we are Americans.” But when it came to any specifics he was transparently vague.

Finally, it was time to give the Embassy that ‘little taste’ John Platero suggested. I called his friend at one of Mexico’s leading dailies and he quickly agreed to an interview the next morning at eleven.

That night I went to Saskia’s room down the hall to go over tomorrow’s meeting. There’s no doubt that she was a very good looking woman and I must admit that I was tempted. But a sexual relationship in these circumstances would not only complicate things, I'd been warned that we were being closely watched and didn’t want to give the authorities any more ammunition than they already had.

She wasn’t there. I left a note on her door and with the dozy attendant in the lobby. Nothing.

Finally, at ten o’clock the next morning she appeared at my door looking like something the cat wouldn’t bother to drag in. It seems she’d spent the night in a nearby room with two grubby Texans we’d met, smoking hash. Somehow I convinced her to shower and put on the hated costume.

This time it was me who was stunned as she emerged from the bathroom. Her long blond hair was pinned up and the dress fit perfectly. Smiling radiantly at herself in the mirror and making some minor adjustments, Saskia looked just like a wholesome, but vulnerable young mother of a kidnapped child. A distraught and decent mother - deserving of a devoutly Catholic country’s unconditional sympathy and support.

The interview went better than we had any right to expect. An hour into our meeting, the journalist paused to take a phone call. And Saskia - who had decided not to wear a bra after all - lent over to loosen a strap on her sandal. As her right breast flopped out of her dress, I was tempted to reach over to help her stuff it back in. Thankfully, the journalist had swiveled around in his leather chair and was looking at the wall. Less that an hour after the paper hit the streets, we received an uncharacteristically cordial invitation to attend Mr Getz and his colleagues at our “very earliest convenience.”

Mr Getz was positively beaming as he explained that the article had been read by the wife of the president of Mexico and that she had contacted the embassy to apologize on behalf of the people of her country. Not only that, but she had phoned the Federal Police on behalf of her husband to strongly suggest that they make every effort to find Saskia’s son. “As reasonable people,” greased Mr Getz, “I’m sure you’ll want to cancel the press conference now that we know the Federal Police are involved.”

“No problem, Mr Getz,” I replied, clutching Saskia’s trembling hand. “As long as you change the official records to show that Mrs. Martin did not abandon her child, and that the child had been kidnapped after all.”

“Consider it done Mr Feigel,” offered the smiling diplomat with dead gray eyes.

“Oh yes,” I added as we got to the door. “One other thing. The press conference will only be canceled when both ourselves and the media receive official confirmation that Stefan has been found … and has been returned alive and well to his mother.”

The next few days passed as if we were in a dream. One of us had to always remain in the hotel in case there was a message. Thank God for the secondhand bookshop down the road.

Then two days before the scheduled press conference we received another summons to the Embassy. There was no hint whether the news would be bad, or good.

A decidedly chilly Mr Getz tersely informed us that the Mexican Army had tracked down Stefan and his kidnappers in the Yucatan. According to information received from the Canadian authorities, the couple and their children could now be identified as having come from Quebec, where the man - a French separatist - was wanted for stealing assorted weapons from a gun store and robbing two banks. The woman was his de-facto wife and the children were hers from a previous relationship. Why they couldn’t have discovered all of this a month ago was a subject that was not addressed.

Forming his pudgy, manicured fingers in an arch, our pasty little gnome went on to tell us that somewhere along their escape route to Mexico, the man appeared to have developed the belief that he was none other than Jesus Christ and that he must establish a new Jerusalem in the Yucatan jungle in preparation for his second coming. According to their sources, the children, one of whom had “hair like gold,” were his breeding stock.

Much of this startling information had come from an British archeologist who was working in that part of the Yucatan and knew the area well. The little group had been closely monitored by local Indians since their arrival. And as they made their way deeper and deeper into the jungle, a few of the Indians who worked as guides for archeologist, made a point of talking with these crazy gringos and keeping her apprised of their curious activities. When she heard that the authorities were looking for a blond child who had been kidnapped, she quickly contacted the police.

The only problem, according to Mr Getz, was that the ‘New Jerusalem’ was located so far back in dense jungle the Army was unable to land a helicopter and we would have to wait until a patrol returned with their quarry on foot.

“I am instructed, therefore,” intoned M. Getz in his frostiest officialese, “to instruct you that the Mexican Government insists that you return to Oaxaca immediately, and await further instructions.” Mr Getz stood up to indicate the matter was closed and glared at us as if we were carrying lice. “And since you won’t be here in two days time for your little press conference, may I suggest that you cancel it before you leave.”

Saskia looked at me as if to say, ‘So what do we do now?’ And for once I was almost at a loss for words. “Thank you, Mr Getz,” I said without meaning it. “You and your colleagues have been most helpful. But since we still don’t know when Mrs Martin will be reunited with her son, let’s just postpone the press conference for a week to see what happens.”

Saskia was staggering by the time we left Getz’s office. As she headed for the nearest bathroom I wandered over to a window and looked out on the smog smudged city. A few seconds later a hard looking man with a crew cut wandered over and introduced himself as the press attaché.

Hold on. This was not the man I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Besides, his eyes had a cold malignant look that told me volumes more than his assumed title.

“Nice job,” he said - stringing out the words with a certain malice. “Nice job.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face. “But ah … you know, ah … you’re still in Mexico Bobby boy. And in Mexico, people can either disappear or be ‘disappeared’. Like poof. No more. Zap. Bang. Gone ...”

Now that he had my undivided attention the man paused just long enough to blow some more smoke in my face. “You know what it means to be ‘disappeared’, don’tcha Bobby old boy? Well … just think about it, dream about it, caress it … and don’t forget, you’ve embarrassed the hell out of the Mexicans and - more to the point - you’ve embarrassed the Government of the United States of America. So try not to forget, Mr. Robert Richardson Feigel, Passport number C0074700, ‘cause we sure as fuck won’t!”

Back to Oaxaca

Saskia and I returned straight to the hotel, checked out and drove to Puebla for the night. With three surfboards on the top we’d stand out like earrings on the Pope, but at least we could do all our driving in daylight.

The return trip was mostly silent. There wasn’t much either of could say. Saskia wanted to be dropped at the villa and I decided not to go back to the hotel. Instead I camped the night beside the Rio Atoyac with my little automatic.

As often happens when praying like crazy for help, it arrived the next morning in the form of Bob and Susie Beadle from California in their VW campervan. Bob was an old surfing buddy and I’d met his beautiful Brazilian wife shortly after they’d returned to California from Brazil. Back in California, Bill Cleary had told them that I was on my way to El Salvador and they had hoped to catch up with me there. But they had no idea I was in Oaxaca - and I had no idea they were on their way to Costa Rica.

Bob and Susie met in Rio de Janeiro when he was working as a journalist. Like many journalists in those turbulent times, Bob had been arrested by the thugs who worked for the military government and thrown into one of Brazil’s notorious prisons. What he saw and experienced during that violent period could easily fill another book.

My friends listened patiently as the kidnapping story unfolded and Bob, who had some experience in such matters, assessed my situation as being “dangerously vulnerable.”

“Keep the bastards guessing,” he advised. “Don’t ever let them know what you’re doing. And above all, keep them worried about that press conference. It’s the only bargaining card you have.” They insisted on watching my back until the kidnapping saga was resolved and I could join them on the road.

“Come on Feigel,” urged Susie. “We could be like those Western wagon trains and park in a circle when the Indians attack.” “But we only have two wagons,” I countered. "Ohhh ... don’t be such a poop, Feigel.”

The following day I sold my car stereo and tape collection to a local businessman for significantly more than I paid for them. Another prayer answered, I also received a bank draft for a thousand dollars, loaned to me by a trusting friend named Roger Hanson, and was able to turn it into traveler’s checks.

That afternoon Saskia was contacted by the local police who told her that the authorities would send a car drive her to Tuxtla Gutiérrez to pick up Stefan and then fly them back to Mexico City. By this time she had no idea whether she was dealing with the Army or the Federales and neither did I. But one thing was certain, as much as she wanted to get to Stefan, she was not about to drive off into the sunset with potential rapists. She asked if I would see her through this last ordeal, “Besides, I want you to meet the little boy you saved.” All I could say was, “Yes.”

Before we left the next morning, I made a phone call to Saskia’s parents and told them briefly what had happened. I then turned the phone over to a subdued Saskia. I also phoned a friendly journalist in Mexico City to ensure someone trustworthy knew our plans. Later Saskia confided that her parents were sending money for her to fly herself and Stefan back home.

The Colonel

Saskia had been told that our meeting was with a colonel in the Mexican Army. Bob and Susie parked their campervan under a tree a short distance away while Saskia and I started for the entrance to the fort-like building in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. “If you’re not out of there in an hour, then I’m coming in after you. Got that?," promised Bob. “Me too,” chimed Susie in her beautiful Brazilian English. “And don’t trust the bastards.”

There was no doubt that we were walking into a heavily armed camp. Everyone we saw was carrying a weapon of some sort, mostly machine pistols. No one smiled. No one moved quickly. It was if we’d stepped into another dimension where time and space were out of sync.

After a surprisingly soft knock on a solid looking door, our escort showed us into a very large, windowless room. The room itself was magnificent in that bigger-than-life sort of way you expect in a Hollywood movie. All the furniture was made for a race of people much bigger than ourselves. The deep leather chairs looked inviting and cool. The matching sofa was big enough to camp on. The books were arranged perfectly in matched leather bindings and looked like they’d never been moved. We were both scared shitless.

Sitting in a leather chair facing a desk on the center of the wall to our left, a man we took to be the Colonel swiveled around and put on his dark glasses. Then, without standing, he inclined his head marginally in what we took as a rather less than enthusiastic welcome, and, with a minimal gesture of his right hand, motioned us to sit.

I knew Saskia well enough by this time to know she was uncomfortable and near to tears. Putting a protective arm around her shoulder, I started to move us both towards the sofa opposite the huge, ornately carved desk, so we could sit together. Before we moved two steps, one of the six armed soldiers firmly removed my arm and briskly guided me to an enormous leather chair in the furthest corner. Saskia, alone and shaking, was led to the center of the oversized sofa to sit on her own.

My ‘little voice’ was in serious alarm mode. There was clearly some rather nasty game-playing going on.

The Colonel was the only man we’d seen who wasn’t in a military uniform and as far as I could see, he wasn’t carrying a weapon. Once we were seated, he walked around to the front of his desk and propped himself at the edge.

He was dressed in what appeared to be an impeccably tailored Italian suit made of slightly iridescent brown silk in very subtle contrasting stripes. His dark silk tie looked as if it had just come out of same box as his crème silk shirt. And his handmade Italian shoes reflected the bright lights that flooded the entire room and made us wince. He looked like a successful pimp.

In perfectly modulated, smoothly accented English, the Colonel brought us up to date.

The Canadian authorities had formally requested the return of their citizens so the man could face criminal charges connected with the robberies. They also wanted to - and the colonel smiled at this - “question him about his friends in the separatist movement.” The Colonel stopped suddenly and casually extended his right hand in the air above his shoulder. Like a Disney automaton, the nearest guards perfunctorily fitted a cigarette into a sleek black and gold holder, and slipped it between the Colonel’s fingers while another guard offered a light with what looked like a gold Dunhill.

“The two little children are being cared for nearby. However,” he said, exhaling, “we have not yet decided what to do with this bad bad person. He is a kidnapper after all. And that is more serious than a bank robber, don’t you think?”

Not waiting for an answer, the Colonel leveled his gaze at Saskia and slowly removed his dark glasses. “Time to meet your little boy again Mrs Martin,” he said, as he returned to his seat.

A small door opened at the opposite corner and a man and woman were pushed into the room so roughly that they stumbled. The pair of them were in shocking condition and the man had clearly been beaten. I let out an involuntary gasp. The Christ-like kidnapper was handcuffed from behind and his eyes were swollen and red as if he’d hadn't slept for days.

Saskia sat absolutely still on the sofa as what I could only assume was Stefan hesitantly entered the room, blinked uncertainly in the harsh bright light and rushed forward to hug his kidnapper’s legs. Looking up briefly towards the man with whom he’d spent the past three months, the small blond child turned shyly and stared blankly around the room. His face and little body were covered with insect bites and sores. “Is this your little boy, Mrs Martin?”

Except for a quavering mouth, Saskia sat wide eyed and absolutely motionless. And for one long, agonizing moment, I thought they might have found another child and that Stefan was still missing.

Suddenly, with a visceral roar that rocked the room, Saskia sprang from the sofa and hurled herself at the startled kidnapper. “FUCKER!” she shrieked. “Filthy, horrible FUCKER!”

With his hands shackled from behind the kidnapper was helpless to protect himself as her fingernails raked across his face, tearing troughs of welling blood. Then she pummeled him to the floor with her fists, kicking him viciously as he fell and curled up to protect himself.

All this happened so quickly and with so much force that I could hardly bring myself to react. And when I did, a guard firmly pushed me back into my seat and shook his head to warn me against trying to get up again. Saskia continued to beat the kidnapper as two guards removed his sobbing wife. By this time, Saskia was in a frenzied rage and one of her breasts had fallen out again. Only this time it wasn’t funny. Stefan was also in a frenzy, beating his little fists on Saskia and yelling for her to stop. It was chaos and it was evil, and I too was in tears.

Drained, and in a strange way detached, I observed the Colonel who looked as if he were enjoying himself thoroughly. He smiled magnanimously, rewarding me with a sympathetic shake of his well greased head. “You must be very proud of yourself, Señor Feigel. Very proud to be such a, ah ... hero. Very proud to have cause all this,” his cigarette swept across the room to include the entire scene.

He clicked his fingers once to demonstrate where the real power was and guards quickly moved to stop Saskia and haul the cowering man to his feet. His shirt had already been torn when he first entered the room and I could see a number of bruises and scrapes through the rents. Now his shirt and skin were soaked in blood.

Saskia enveloped the hysterical Stefan and with one last look at her son’s kidnapper, swept him off to a corner of the sofa where he calmed into heaving sobs. We sat there until he was resting quietly in Saskia’s arms.

But this was not the end of the drama. From across the room the kidnapper broke away from his guards, stumbled across the room and threw himself at my feet. “Please, for God’s sake please. You’re a journalist. You can help me. You can let people know ... they’re killing me in here. Please ... they’re killing me ... please ... please ...” his broken plea fading as the guards dragged him away and out the door.

Elegantly smoking a fresh cigarette, the Colonel regarded me again with a knowing shrug. Why had the kidnapper been told I was a journalist? Why had any of this been allowed to happen? I had to get out of this place while I still could. Saskia and Stefan were already booked on a flight to Oaxaca to pick up their belongings before flying back to Saskia's parents in the US and I needed to move on as quickly as possible. That time was now.

The drama finally over, the Colonel allowed me to rise and I walked over to Saskia and Stefan. “You two will be safe now, Saskia. You and Stefan are headed back home. God bless you both.” I kissed her on the forehead, nodded to the Colonel and started to leave. “And where will you be heading this time, Señor Feigel?” inquired the colonel in a mocking tone. “Oaxaca, Señor Colonel," I lied sincerely. "Then back to Mexico City where I’m expected for a press conference.”

Bob and Susie were still waiting for me under the tree and we didn’t stop driving until we’d crossed the Guatemalan border and were well on our way to Guatemala City. As Bob Beadle wisely said, “Keep the bastards guessing.”

END

POSTSCRIPT: When I got to San Salvador, I learned that the manager of the hotel, the assistant manager I was replacing and another hotel employee had been murdered a few days earlier. Had my car not broken down and my journey interrupted in Oaxaca, it is very likely that I would have been there as well. I decided to return to Costa Rica with Bob and Susie and lived there for the next year.

I also learned that instead of using the money and tickets her parents sent to fly home with Stefan, Saskia returned to the hippie community near Puerto Escondido and stayed for another six months.

A few years later, when I was living in New Zealand, I was contacted by Saskia after she'd seen a letter I’d written to Rolling Stone Magazine in February 1979. The letter explained that I was trying to get in touch with her because I was thinking of writing about the adventure we had shared in Mexico and that it was likely that Saskia, or someone who knew her, would be Rolling Stone readers. The editor had kindly published the letter with my address details and in October 1980 Saskia’s reply came from a small town in Oregon.

Stefan was fine, she was fine and she thanked me for my help. She added, however, that I couldn't write anything about the experience unless I first had her approval. That was the last contact I have had with her and the reason I've changed her name and that of her son. The letter smelled of patchouli.