When the Mexican federal police captured
me and my American partner in my pot-growing venture, we were taken to the town
of Uruapan. Over the course of the next
few days, they began to round up and arrest Mexican citizens who they thought
were involved in my nefarious deeds. They put them with us in a police
compound. All told, including my friend
Jack, they brought in nine people. Five
of whom I had never met in my life. They didn’t even know my name nor I theirs.
During the day we were free to roam the
compound and at night we were locked into two small rooms. After a few days, two of the Mexican nationals they brought in escaped at night by simply getting out of their room
and climbing over the compound wall. Needless to say, my captors were none too thrilled about this and from
that day forward they handcuffed us together at night while we were locked in
these two rooms. I was always handcuffed
to my friend, Jack.
The compound itself was a strange place. Under a two-story covered part was stacked up
at least ten tons of marijuana. We felt free to pilfer small amounts for our personal
use. The police knew we were doing this
but did not seem to mind in the least. When we grew hungry, we were allowed to send out for food from a local
restaurant provided I paid for it.
The
police who had us were a strange lot, friendly
one minute, brutal the next, often times apologizing for the brutality saying
it was only their job, nothing personal.
I did not know about the others, but I did take being tortured personally.
Although for the most part they were far more violent with the Mexican citizens
than with Americans, I nonetheless got a pretty good taste of some of their
“questioning” skills. The very first day
they had me my right elbow was broken with a rifle butt. It still at times bothers me to this day.
I was also subjected several times to
the Mexican version of water-boarding.
What they did was this: A popular mineral water was given several good
shakes while still sealed in the glass bottle. A towel was stuffed into my
mouth, so I could only breathe through my nose. I was tilted backwards in a chair. They poked a small hole in the bottle cap and
shot the bubbly water up my nose. The sensation was akin to drowning and
burning at the same time – a tad uncomfortable to say the least.
After about eight or nine days of this,
Jack was brought back to our cell about dusk. They had been very hard on Jack
that day and he was clearly in a great deal of pain. When I awakened the next
morning, Jack’s cold dead eyes were staring at the ceiling. As usual, I was still
handcuffed to Jack. I went crazy.
Absolutely barking mad. I began
screaming at the guards that I would kill all of them. They were afraid to even come near me and as
such I remained handcuffed to Jack’s dead body for the next day or so. Being
handcuffed to a dead man creates many logistical problems. Going to the
bathroom for instance. I was so crazy that I began talking to Jack and thought
he was answering back. It was the closest I have come to pure insanity in my
entire life. Dead people can, at times, have quite a lot to say.
About two days after the handcuffs were
removed, which had connected me to my dead friend, the Federal police who had questioned me flew me back to Guadalajara in a private twin-engine
aircraft and placed me in a local jail. A few days after that I was transferred
to a Mexican prison, where I spent the next two years trying to escape. The
Federal police’s last words to me were, “Gringo, the next time you come to our
mountains, you need to work with us. If you buy one ton of marijuana from us we
will give you another ton for free.” Believe me, they were quite serious. I
know because I later took them up on their offer.
The author of this blog entry, Weird Al, was deathly sick a few months ago. He’s presently in a nursing home battling hepatitis C. Please support Weird Al at his Facebook page. His email is: iammd53@gmail.com
Shaun Attwood
2 comments:
great read mate
Michael
Nice one al : )
Lincoln
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