by Brian Blickenstaff
We had been walking for seconds, when three local men, in their mid twenties, came out of the nearest house and approached us. The youngest of the three - handsome and shirtless - greeted us in English.
"Hey friends!" I looked down the road at the rumbling cambi as it turned out of view. "Friends, what are you doing here?"
"We're walking to the statue," said Sylvan confidently. I kept my distance, mouth shut.
"Ah, yes. Jesus." He glanced at his friends - one on either side. "Where are you from?"
"Switzerland," Sylvan offered up easily.
I was able to dryly choke out, "The U.S." as I focused, intently, at stopping my body from shaking. I took a deep breath and, thinking of my camera, tightened my grip on my backpack's straps.
"Ah, an American!"
Oh shit.
"Where in the states are you from?"
"California."
"Oh. I worked in El Monte for four years. Do you know it?"
"Yeah. I'm from Claremont, right next door!" At this, I relaxed a bit. The two of us laughed.
"Well you guys be careful up here, OK? You could get into trouble." We told him we would, and before the three of them walked off, they gave us more specific directions to the top of the mountain.
After a several minutes of silent walking, we came to a small trail. At the intersection of the dirt road and this new trail, well outside city limits, stood a tiny snack-bar. The two teenage girls that were sitting behind the counter giggled when Sylvan asked them if the small trail would take us to the statue. We had been instructed by our English speaking "friend" to look for a smaller trail that pointed up and to the left. The girls told us we were on the right track. I bought a bottle of water, and we began on the new path, in a more direct route to the summit.
The small hiking trail we were now on was steeper and less forgiving than the washed out dirt road had been. The two of us were relieved when the path entered the thick forest. It was a sign that we were getting close. The high canopy also provided a natural barrier between us and the afternoon sun. Despite being cool and peaceful, the serenity of the forest led my mind to wander. I began to imagine, with startling clarity, images of armed bandits stepping out from behind trees and robbing us mercilessly. I quickly vetoed Sylvan's motion to take the opportunity to sit in the shade and rest.
"No way, man. Let's keep going." I didn't care any more if he knew I was scared. I was scared; I was terrified. You should be too, you crazy bastard. I found myself suddenly angry with the guy. He was making me look bad. First, he learned Spanish in two weeks - granted he already spoke fluent Portuguese. Now, he remained completely calm as I chewed on my receding fingernails, and pulled and pushed - vainly trying to crack my stubborn, swollen knuckles.
After rounding a bend, I let out a yelp. Something had moved, quickly, off the trail to my left. It turned out to be a couple of teenagers necking in the dirt behind a tree on the side of the trail. They snickered. I took a deep breath; Sylvan openly laughed. Around the next switchback the same thing happened. Apparently, we had been walking through Taxco's own "lover's lane." At this point I was beginning to lose it. I could feel my hair turning grey and I noticed that I was taking short, quick breaths. When the statue, in full size, became visible through the trees, I couldn't hold back my smile.
We emerged from the forest to find ourselves standing on black asphalt. A Volkswagen taxi darted around a turn and parked next to several other cars, all of which sat no more than fifty feet from the statue's back. I passed a group of American tourists, hungrily snapping photographs, and purchased another bottle of water from a nearby snack-bar. For the next hour, the two of us sat in the shadow of Jesus, sipping water and smiling.
"I think we should take a cab back."