Tacho and friends.
I was to find out, about 6 years after I had met him, and before many of his friends knew, that his name was Anastasio, everyone always called him Tacho, and other's called him the dog man. Before I arrived the story had always been that he just showed up one day in the woods and stayed. That was true. But, I found out one evening over beers and grilled fish that he was once married, found his wife in an affair and served around 5 years for killing her lover. At least that was the story that evening. I have no reason to doubt it, the questions of his past had never been poised in his decade in the area, I was curious, and he was talking.
Tacho didn't have "mad skills." He certainly wasn't "grueso", just a skinny brown man who almost always was wearing either lime green or canary yellow see-thru flip flops, these would last about 2 years before needing replacement and most likely that replacement was found, not purchased. His animated hands were stretched tight but still felt soft to the touch. When he spoke he almost sounded apologetic about something. His clothes always seemed clean and well kept to me, but I really don't know how that was accomplished. Tacho dressed for each day with his trade-mark plaid "camisas", cuffed slacks and his flavor of the month cap not perched, but tightly aligned, almost in a military fashion, upon his bushy curled hair. He did shoulder a "bolsa" at times, like most men in the area, but in his hands were either a paper bag with beers or a razor sharp machete, never the both at the same time. Even for Anistasio there was a time for work and a time for a party.
Oh, did I mention he was an alcoholic? Alcoholic isn't a term that you hear too much in Mexico, at least not from Mexicans, rather one might say that a person drinks a lot, as in every day. That does sound more polite in a fashion. In the case of Tacho his wasn't drunk every day but when he was drunk it was for days. There is a stereotype of Mexicans being drinkers. I guess that conclusion was arrived by all the drinking going on in Mexico. In Tacho's case I would hate to think that someone would want to ruin his life with sobriety. Every once in a while he would disappear, to the ejido, go drinking at some local saloon then ready himself to set a course back to the beach. His return was like a "weeble". He pinged along, being attracted to and then rebounding off any obstacle in a path that would lead him to a forest trail that only him and a few other local's would know of. After a few days we might worry that while drinking some local "pandilla" might have beat the shit out of him for fun, which did happen a few times. But sooner or later a word of his where-a-bouts would pop up and then he would return, at times with a bump on the head from being abused by local toughs. He was a part of the "family" Xcalacoco and people did love and worry about him. But his connections were not based on "sangre".......rather it was the flowing amber fluids that cemented his connections. Yes, his friends were enablers but they also were protectors, and provisioners. Because of his subdued and gentle nature, vulnerability, his love for animals and his knowledge of the forest and surroundings people just had to like him, I did.
Tacho then lived in an unadorned "casita" located on at the rear of the property at Pancho's. Turns out that building and the piece of land was owned by someone other then Pancho's family, but they were never there, so "no problema." There was a door hung at his place but it never did close. Inside a "Xcalacoop Mayan hammock" was strung from corner to corner with a small handmade table sitting near which was piled of melted wax that anchored a couple of mis-matched candles. You really never knew when he was there. He would slip out quietly followed by a pack of his closest friends wagging their broken and tangled tails and could disappear for 5 days or so before anyone started to worry. On his "walk-a-abouts" the dogs followed and he would stop and wave his hand, mumble something and they would scatter into the forest only to return a few hundred feet later in a single file. I have noticed that the more desperate the conditions the more defined the hierarchy. Tacho came first, then the strongest of the pack, usually a male but not always, followed closely by the older females, their offspring and then young bucks wanting to get in on the action. The pack was as small as three at times but I had seen it as large as 7 or 8. When talking politics once with a local he mentioned that they called the then president....."senor perro". That because a rolled-up newspaper across the back of the head was the only way to get his attention, I would say that worked well also with Tacho's constituency.
The first couple years I made it a point to acknowledge Tacho directly, it did save me from being "comida" for his pack once or twice. Tacho wasn't too concerned with eating but when it came to the trailing covey, that was a different story. I never fed those dogs, like other's I did later, but I did send alot of food Tacho's way when-ever I could. Duke, the camp German Shepard had his territory and Tacho's flock had theirs. They knew it and respected the invisible barriers but when those blockades were breached Duke would put a crink in their waging "colas" or a perforation on a cheek as a reminder that there was a "top dog" and it wasn't one of them. Some years later "Duke" died and was buried on the fence line next to Tacho's. He would point at it and mumble something while looking very sad. That burial spot is now under the new development that has swept the area.
When ever I had extra anything I always looked forward to leaving items with Tacho. During my stays I would drop off food, drinks, maybe a small knife or even a comic book or a few pesos in his lodging, only when he wasn't there. He knew where it came from and we didn't have any need to exchange any thank you's. The special time for me arrived when I left, then a flood of items were placed on his table, including dog food. I would think about it as I started my 3000 miles drive home, it gave me a good feeling knowing I had a place to share what I would just waste. Upon return Tacho would always make special efforts to seek me out and acknowledge our friendship. His hand would gently grasp mine, not in a shake, but with my palm down, raising my arm and pressing the back of my hand to his weathered cheek while calling me ....."Patron...patron". Yes, that was uncomfortable at times. But he was right, I did feel like I was one of his protectors.
At times I asked Tacho to guide me into the forest. It was really an excuse to send a few peso's his way but it was amazing. My Spanish is limited but when it comes to nouns, I get it. He would show me different plants, how to use them or cook them, and point out a forest dweller that had slipped my attention proudly announcing that these are rare even to him. He pointed out what not to touch, what to rub on myself and where to walk. Now he was my "patron" in his environment. One day he took me to a ruin that is right on the adjacent property. I had heard about the "Tres Reina's de Xcalacoco" and wanted to know what they were, he showed me. I had walked by this area many times but when we arrived into the interior I found that the remaining ruins were just steps off a path I used many times. It made me feel in some small way like " Bingham at Machu Picchu" or "Stephen's and Catherwood" trekking in the Yucatan and Honduras. I now show people where those mounds are, exacting a little drama each time like finding a new discovery, and hope the future will provide protection to that special place.
On a typically steamy after noon in Quintana Roo I was lounging at my palapa waiting for the shade to creep closer when I heard a cry from nearby. I am always alert to sounds when living in such an open atmosphere but this one was unfamiliar. "Chachalaca's, like a Mexican pheasant range in this area, as do other birds, so, I thought it was just something Ive heard before. After a bit, a moan, that was human, I turned to investigate. It was against all comforts to bind your feet in shoes or even in "sandalia's" while living on the beach, barefooted was the way to go. And that is how I always treaded anywhere in the area, so away I went. I followed what I knew now as a plea for help and it led me through about 100 feet of sand burrs and exposed limestone before I came upon Tacho.
The look on his face was confusing, I thought, shit maybe a snake bit him...and here I am with no footwear. As I got closer I spotted a flip flop bathed in crimson, more burrs, a machete and Tacho sitting on a small outcrop with blood spurting out of the side of his foot. Now, even as he was in pain I could tell he felt embarrassed because he couldn't take care of the situation himself. His machete, an extension of his working hand and as familiar to him as his forest sites, had glanced off a piece of limestone while doing some clearing and produced a large gash on and under his foot. A few more people showed up and I had them bring some cloth to wrap up the wound.
A truck from Juanito's arrived and volunteered to take him to town for stitches, as well as the money to pay for it. He got up and hopped once or twice towards his rescuers and fell right back. After I picked him up and carried him to the truck bed, still with no shoes, I found his bloody flop, wiped off his machete and noticed that not one of those burrs penetrated my feet. Tacho stayed in his little home for about 10 days after returning with his 38 stitches, we brought him food and the like and the healing took some time. But a curious event that caught everyone in the area happened after he was finally able to mobilize himself, with considerable pain. He made it to town one night and came back with a little "companera", I never saw her but the rumor was , not bad. Maybe he told her the story of the washed up bale or she was feeling some "compassion" for him. After that little rescue, and during the recovery period, again came the "patron thing" with addition of the kiss on the hand. I let it continue on for a few days or so, only in his house, and then stopped it.
It has been reported that "every dog has it's day", that goes for their master also. Have you ever seen a photo with DEA sitting atop a large quantity of illegal drugs or standing behind opened packs of "drogas" declaring another victory? This area has seen it's share of "products" dropped out of planes into the ocean in hopes that an awaiting swift craft would be able to pick it up before the local authority's claimed it for their own. At times the military would walk the beach, or drive a Hummer into the area and establish overnight posts to monitor activity. They walked right by my little abode but with my "binoculars" I was usually able to spot their hang-outs at night by the burning embers hanging from their mouths.
That taught me to keep my inflatable boat out of the water in the evening. I may have been giving up a good fishing time slot, but I really wanted to avoid the opportunity to have an AR-15 spray a warning towards me or a declaration that, we see you as trafficking.
I was told that his, Tacho's, photo had been in most of the local papers recently. He was photoed standing near a tightly cotton wrapped bale containing numerous kilos of "Columbia's" top export. The accompanying headline praise him as a local for assisting in this important recovery. What happened was......One morning Tacho was strolling on the north beach area after resting during the previous evening near the tree line when he came upon a floating figure in the early light. He was curious, but not very excited about this discovery. This was just a part of every ones day if you lived in the area and tourists weren't immune to it either, "let's see what floated up from the night before".
He toyed with that heaving mass for a short time failing to get it ashore, then retreated to assess the worth of expending all this energy for some unknown reward. Being a simple sort of fellow he figured there wasn't too much chance to there being riches riding the "olas" and landing directly at his feet. In fact I wonder if he knew anything at all about drugs. So after a short and exhausting effort he contacted some people down the beach, and they contacted the authorities, that's how he got his picture in the paper. I wish I was the first person he ran into on that day. He would own that beach, with a new home, plus all those "hectares" he has wandered during his stay there.
Tacho is a homeless man with a home. Most people don't see too much in him except the fact that he is an alcoholic, and just another drunk. This is not a defense for his faults. I have known many alcoholics, bums and drunks, some I liked and some I didn't. Just happens that I like this one. Now that you know of Tacho the future stories involving him might make a little more sense.
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