Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Old Indian Trick
O.I.T, Old Indian Trick
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve crossed myself about the timing that day at the landfill. One or two seconds later and I would never have found
the pearl and the map. They were taking their sweet time demolishing the old Punta Colorado resort in East Cape. I had a very old wall that I was
rebuilding at my house and as I got rid of the old blocks at the dump I had to fight for the road with the demo equipment no matter what time I drove
out there.
I had to almost go in the ditch to avoid being run over by one of the big yellow dumps. After I dropped my load and turned around to leave I saw that
same truck do the same and head back for another load. There was still heavy white dust in the air around the growing pile of very old concrete and
rebar. There seemed to be a small metal box embedded in a big chunk of wall or slab – it had a door that had sprung open as the concrete buckled and
it winked at me as though begging to be inspected.
Flaco, the guard, who lives at the dump, was dragging a big black bag of some things and we both saw the box about the same time – he watched me as I
pulled up to the pile, got out and went to the thing. As he hurried his pace I pulled out an old bag from inside the box, quickly jumped back in the
truck and sped away. He stopped in his tracks and I knew somehow he was going to be trouble because he worked for me once and he knows where I live.
I had a couple of beers at the house but I worked those off loading the truck so I wasn’t drunk but I just couldn’t wait to till I got to the house to
see what was in the bag. So about half way back to the village I pulled over on a shoulder of the road and opened the bag. A bunch of keys, new and
old, some on a wire loop, others just loose. There were two pearls; one was small, the color of sand, the other larger and almost pure black, an old
pistol and a box of shells. Then there was a piece of cloth with the scribbles on it that would turn out to be, for good or bad, a crude map.
The truck almost turned around without me. I put the pearls and the crude map in my pocket, the keys back in the sack, the gun and shells under the
front seat. I would make this my last six mile trip to the dump today because it was getting hot, the place was a factory of stink and flies and noise
– the big trucks sent clouds of ravens, gulls and Cara Cara, which the locals call Gelele , into the sky with their prolonged explosions
from six or more cubic meters of concrete, iron and dirt screaming from the beds. Now I was anxious to be home and began to yearn for the cold shower,
colder iced tea and a crisp salad I would take in the green shade of my patio at the house.
Flaco had taken on the smell of the dump, carried a personal entourage of flies with him as he walked; many more flies today around the big black bag
he was dragging. I shuddered thinking about what might be in the bag hoping against hope it wasn’t something he thought might be edible which he had
perhaps snatched away from the feral dogs.
He smiled through those Indian corn teeth and stepped up on the running board. I handed him the sack.
“Llaves. Probable el officina .”
And that put an end to it. At least that’s the way I saw it right at that moment.
After that nice shower, lunch and a nap I made the gun and shells water protected, put them in my old pila on the roof. Then I spread the map cloth
out on the table and made a copy of it on paper. I scanned the paper map into the computer with a folder title only I could figure out, hid the paper
map in some old files. Then I sat down with another copy, opened a beer and began to try to decipher it.
Only took me a few minutes with the computer to figure out it was Nahautl, not Spanish. Pulled up a Nahautl dictionary and found a few of the words
there. That night some big cows munching on my mango tree limbs and the thought of Flaco creeping my house kept me from sleeping soundly as my walk-on
beach dogs, Tino and Shasta woke me with their barking several times. When I couldn’t sleep I sat in the dark on the patio and thought about the map.
The word for pearl was not on the map but a word for shell, shellfish was there. Nahuatl words for cave or hole or grave appeared on an outline the
shape of Isla San Jose, north of La Paz and there, on the X marks the spot, was the symbol of a cross. The map maker had used the words iztac
, white and tetl , stone to show how the grave was marked. I figured whoever thought enough of this information to put it in the safe
thought it was a treasure map; pearls or gold buried in a grave in the north part of San Jose island sometime very long ago.
As long as I was guessing; someone who had the office keys would probably only keep the map if the search for the treasure spot never got started or
it took place and nothing was found. Otherwise, if the pearl came from the treasure hole he probably wouldn’t keep the pearls and the map together.
The contents of the safe told me that whoever had the keys was presented with the pearls and the map by someone who knew where and what it was and
needed help to go get it. San Jose Island is a long way if you’re a poor Indian from Mexico stuck somehow in southern Baja around the East Cape.
It could also be that the jefe with the keys got these things long before the resort was built and later figured the safe in the office would be more
secure than somewhere in or around his little house in the village. For all of that guessing I decided not to share what I had with the owners of the
resort or employees I knew well in the village. So, maybe I would take the Indian’s place and try again, find someone with the resources to get me
there with the promise of some kind of split. In my patented cavalier fashion I knew all that should be easier for me than it would have been for the
Indian. That was before I pulled out my own map and laid it out on the big patio table.
I’m too old to venture far in my panga. I’ve been to Bahia de los Sueńos, about 30 miles from my beach where I launch. The Indian and his partner, if
they took a hotel boat would have had to cover almost 100 miles to La Paz, refuel and go another 70 miles north to the top of the island to get near
the treasure.
Now I began to see why the treasure might still be there; just too far, too much to risk on pure speculation. Still a chore for an expedition today. I
would have to drive to La Paz and hire a boat to fight the seas for 75 miles north to the upper end of the island or drive to Loreto, rent a boat to
go about the same distance to the south. We would need fuel and food and water for three days and any kind of trouble with the motor, the boat, an
accident, some health problem would put our lives at great risk.
At 10:30 that same night I was watching TV on the patio and Flaco came by. He must have hitched a ride in the back of somebody’s pickup truck. The
dogs smelled him two blocks away and began not only to bark but to bay which they don’t do often. He didn’t come near the gate but I saw him clearly
under the street light in the next block. All he really learned for his trouble was that I was in town, at home and the dogs were there at the ready
if he tried to come over the wall.
If I go the Loreto route nobody better to help me in the venture than Jack Rydell if he’s still up there. Found his number and called him. He answered
on the second ring and we chewed the fat a while, got caught up and it sounded to me like he might be up for the adventure if it didn’t put much cash
at risk.
“Jack, I can pay for the gas and supplies. About how much do you think the boat and guide will cost us for two, maybe three days? And another thing,
we would need to know if we can get gas at Bahia Escondido.”
“Well, Mark, I don’t rightly know. I’ll have to ask around, get prices and I’ll swing by Escondido and check things out around there. Are you in a
hurry on this?”
“No, no hurry at all. In fact if you know when the wind is usually best for that run, that would help in the planning. Maybe somebody you know who
sails would know about that.”
I told him to keep this as a fishing trip, that I’ll bring fishing gear – just a couple of old salts on a long fishing trip in a panga.
In the middle of cooking my dinner, Jack called me back. “Mark, I got ahold of Javier Perez. He’s a good fisherman, a handy guy around here, marinero,
launchero. He can get a panga with a Honda 90 and we can have it for $100 bucks a day. Before we talk more about that I gotta tell you what he said
when I told him we wanted to go down by San Jose island, walk around the island a little. He said ‘Oh, you chasing the perla negra’.”
“What the hell? He knows about the map, the pearls? How is that possible?”
“He says he’s been there, done that; him and his buddies took a gamble and hauled an inflatable down to the shore near the island, did the four miles
over water, went up to the X and found only a bunch of holes dug by everybody and their brother lookin’ for treasure. Evidently that map is not an
orphan.”
“Jack, that puts the plan on hold for me. Give me a day or two to check around here before we go off like two goofy lunatic gringos with pearl fever.”
Next morning I walked over to Alejandro’s house and found him there working on a car. He was the next to last boat dispatcher and fish manager at
Punta Colorado.
“Oh, the map in the safe. Where did you find that?”
“At the dump. Did you put the stuff in the safe?”
“No, no, not me. We all knew about it. There were lots of jokes about it for a while. Nobody really knows who put it in the safe but the story is an
old Indian woman drew the map, gave somebody a few pearls if they would take her to where her son was buried on an island up by Loreto somewhere. The
way I heard it, she started her quest in San Lucas then gave the map and a few pearls to people she thought might be able to help her get up there.
She was a crazy old thing, had no Spanish and I doubt she ever made it any closer than La Paz.”
I went back to the house and called Jack, told him my conversation with Alejandro.
He had some more information for me too. “I went down to the Blue Pelican last night and had a few shooters. Manny, the bartender there, knew all
about the map. He blames the whole thing on the lingo. Not many people over here speak Nahuatl and the treasure legend just grew like a bad weed.
Manny said SEMARNAT in La Paz at one time closed the island altogether to keep the armadas of fortune seekers from destroying the place.”
“Jack I feel like a complete fool. I’m sorry I bothered you with this business, this foolishness.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. When you got a crazy old Indian, a treasure map, a black pearl within a hundred miles of the famous pearling grounds
where black pearls built the whole city of La Paz, you have Baja intrigue. Everybody likes a mystery so there’s no tellin’ how many people got pearl
fever on this one.”
Needless to say I got over it and things leveled out again. Flaco still comes by at least once a month in the middle of the night just to scare the
dogs and see if I’m still here to guard what ever else he thinks was in that sack I gave him. I’m thinkin’ about taking out the firing pin on the
pistol and giving him the gun and the shells.
[Edited on 7-26-2012 by Osprey]
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Udo
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6364
Registered: 4-26-2008
Location: Black Hills, SD/Ensenada/San Felipe
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Interesting legend, George.
I am sure that there are several others throughout Baja, all based on the treasures that the Padres (not the San Diego team) brought with them.
I also find interesting and not surprised that someone would make a home out at a city dump. This brings a new meaning to "...one man's trash is
another man's treasure."
Thanks for the fantastic reading. I had to print it...I have trouble following a lengthy written piece.
You again did well in entertaining us Nomads!
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Frank
Senior Nomad
Posts: 861
Registered: 6-5-2005
Location: San Diego
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Mood: Is it time to leave yet?
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This story and the others you've shared with us over the years is the real treasure. Thanks for another great one.
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Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Udo, thanks for the compliments. You open a very interesting can of worms about the dump boss. The dump in the story is the one 6 miles from my house.
From time to time they have a dump boss and some of them lived there. The guy gets the keys to the gates and the run of the place.
Most of them built make-shift shade/wind breaks but some found enough old stuff to have a place to protect the stuff they gleaned from the dump. Sets
my mind reeling to imagine what went under their mattresses. It's a time/space thing to me >> about 3k people in the municipio bring to the dump
or give to the basureros the very bottom layer of things they finally considered impedimenta -- things that were perishable, broken, used up, in the
way. Things with minus value, things (in some other neigborhood) you would pay to be rid of. I could write many stories about these guys. The stories
would ask questions about value/keys/security. Why are there gates at the dump? Why would they ever lock the gates? Don't get me started.....
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captkw
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3850
Registered: 10-19-2010
Location: el charro b.c.s.
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Mood: new dog/missing the old 1
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Osprey
HOLA, you have a great nack at writing and storey telling !! Thank's ...Kn & T
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dtbushpilot
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3294
Registered: 1-11-2007
Location: Buena Vista BCS
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Good read Jorge, thanks....dt
"Life is tough".....It's even tougher if you're stupid.....
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Pescador
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3587
Registered: 10-17-2002
Location: Baja California Sur
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I want to know if you still have the map, I can trailer the boat down from Santa Rosalia and we could hit it at first light.
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Mulegena
Super Nomad
Posts: 2412
Registered: 11-7-2006
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Good'un, Osprey!
Pescador, you can't bougardt this and keep it all to yourself, my friend.
The secret is out.
I'm no stranger to old Indian tricks, having pulled a few myself. You can count me IN!!
"Raise your words, not your voice. It's rain that grows flowers, not thunder." ~Rumi
"It's the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it." ~ Aristotle
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Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Since there's some interest here we could go for it, make it a happening like the "Burning Man". I'm afraid if it's my gig, my idea, we'd have to call
it "Stupid Man".
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dtbushpilot
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3294
Registered: 1-11-2007
Location: Buena Vista BCS
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Mood: Tranquilo
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I'm in! An event called "stupid man" would be right up my alley....
"Life is tough".....It's even tougher if you're stupid.....
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Cypress
Elite Nomad
Posts: 7641
Registered: 3-12-2006
Location: on the bayou
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Mood: undecided
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Ever see all those holes in the vicinity of Baja Patties place?
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vivaloha
Nomad
Posts: 140
Registered: 11-12-2007
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Mood: mellow
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Thanks osprey - you da man!
Baja California can be a heaven or hell experience - often the determining factor is your AWARENESS in the moment.
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