Pancho Villa! Pancho Villa!

In early August 1993, I was in the Mexico City airport, going through their TSA between connecting flights from Oaxaca to LAX, when the inspector saw something suspicious in my carry-on and ordered me to open up.

Not unlike Brittney Griner, who had forgotten she had two almost empty cannabis cartridges in her carry-on, the discovery of which landed her in a Russian jail for an extended period, or more recently, the five tourists who potentially faced 12 years in a Turks and Caicos prison for packing forgotten ammo into their luggage, I recalled what was in my luggage that drew their attention. I should have been quaking in my huaraches, but instead was oblivious to what might have befallen me, possible prison for the rest of my days. Mexican jails are no joke, that’s what I understand. Likely not as bad as Russian jails though.

I was hardly prepared for the reaction when the luggage was opened.

This story began in the late 1980s, when I was a DJ at KLON FM88 at CSULB. I got a message that someone wanted to meet me after my show. El Camino College Latin American history prof Don Haley was a fan of the kind of music I was playing over the years and wanted to get into record collecting. I helped him with that.

After a divorce, Don and his third wife Louise spent summers visiting Mexico, often times ending up at his favorite home away from home in Oaxaca. He thought we’d enjoy it too, so we made plans.

The Mexicana flight was smooth, with one passenger helping us understand some Oaxacan customs. In town, we had to sign in at an official office, then sign out when we left.

We met more than a few locals and a few transplants, notably Alfonse “Fonzie” Lancelot from Belgium, who’d been sent by a politician to Oaxaca to help out with car exhaust-caused climate change. He wanted a cassette of car songs and images of gas masks to use in flyers. In Belgium, we’re told some political parties match up with trade groups. Fonzie’s political sponsor was the representative of the prostitute party.

Don hooked up with Thomas from Zurich, Ornela from Italy and their son Dario, there to assist the rural population in keeping livestock away from freshwater sources; a woman from Belgium, Richard from Arizona and a self-described smuggler from Texas. Don was ill during the trip, so he was set up with a local folk medicine purveyor, but he didn’t get better. Upon his return to the States, he underwent bypass surgery.

Days were devoted to wandering the streets, hanging at the Zocalo, the town square, checking out local culture, nights at taverns observing local drinking habits. One memorable spot we nicknamed the aquarium because it was painted light blue and had a partial roof, so when the heavy showers came every afternoon, some imbibers got soaked. The complementary mescal tasted more like gasoline and the urinals were separated from the room by waist-high Dutch doors.

Many multi-story buildings were made of lightweight greenish Cantera stone from volcanic ash and lava in one of the most seismic areas in the world.  A constant presence was the gray pickups carrying police with machine guns mounted in the truck bed. The nearby police station was protected by layers of sandbags. An attempt at a photo was met with the point of a gun. “Are we at war with Bolivia?” was Don’s reaction.

We visited the ruins of Monte Alban traveling in the back of the Texan’s tight camper shell. Posada Margarita manager Moines took us to his family jungle resort, complete with a swimming pool and an in-resort crocodile. More recently, Oaxaca has been swamped with tourists, making encounters like this unlikely.

We also met Jose, maker of huge paper mache characters for the Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration every fall. He had set up a blanket at the Parque Labastida across the lane from the posada. I took a liking to an artifact that set me back $5. That artifact was packed into my carry-on, instead of being mailed to the States like any sensible person would do.

At the Mexico City TSA, the agent saw what looked like a six-shooter in my baggage. A female officer ordered me to open the bag and the agent pulled out a skeleton barrel, handle and trigger guard of that ancient gun I’d bought for a sawbuck. Uniformed officials gathered around to watch him hold it up, yelling, “Pancho Villa! Pancho Villa!” That broke the tension. Laughs all around. They repacked in the suitcase and I was on my way.

Only after this incident, did it occur to me it could’ve easily gone sideways, after all it was a weapon, probably last used in the 19th Century as there were no lands or grooves in the barrel, meaning no modern bullet was ever placed in this artifact. Ever. I was able to leave the danger zone, no questions asked. Not so lucky, those in Turks and Caicos or in Moscow.