Greg Schwendinger has made it his mission over the last several years to explore the whitwater rivers of Central America. Most of his explorations are done solo because the paddling community in this part of the world is non-existant. For his latest adventure I had the honor of teaming up with him for some paddling in the southern-most state of Mexico, the beautiful, remote, and very indigenous state of Chiapas.On January 1, 1994, the same day that the North American Free Trade Agreement came into being, an armed left-wing peasant group calling themselves the Zapatista National Liberation Army (EZLN) sacked and occupied government offices in several Chiapas towns. The rebel leader, Subcomandante Marcos, a masked man reverred by many peasants and campesinos, led the uprising, which marked the first socialist rebellion of the post-communist era. The Mexican military crushed the rebellion, killing about 150 Zapatistas in the fighting. The rebels retreated to hideouts on the fringes of the Lancondon Jungle, having drawn the world’s attention to Chiapas. Their goal was to overturn a corrupt, wealthy minoity’s centuries-old hold on land, resources and power in the state, where many indigenous peasants were impoverished, marginalized and lacking in education, health care and fundamental civil rights. The Zapatista revolution continues to this day, an armed conflict where there is very little room for international kayakers to manuever in the No Man’s Land separating Mexican military ground and rebel-held territory.
Our expedition in Chiapas started off slow at the National Geographic Institute in the state capital of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Greg and I studied topographical maps showing possible whitewater rivers in the areas of Las Casas, Ocosingo, Las Margaritas, and Altamirano - the same towns that were occupied by Zapatistas on New Year’s Day, 1994. At this point I was oblivious to the current political situation in the state. I had no idea that we were putting ourselves between two armed factions who had been at war with each other for the past ten years.
The conflict is everpresent. Military and rebel checkpoints dot the highways. The military is looking for drug smugglers and rebel sympathizers; the rebels are keeping a tight grip on their territory. There have been instances where foreigners have been targeted by the Zapatistas. Some foreign-owned properties, such as ranches and hotels, have been “nationalized” by the EZLN in order to gain more capital for the revolution. Also, there have been reports of foreigners being kidnapped by the Zapatistas and held for ransom. This actually happened to a French-Canadian paddling expedition two years ago. Luckily I found out about this kidnapping after I returned to Gautemala where I was far away from any Zapatista territory. In some cases, ignorance is bliss.
The first river we decided to paddle was a section of waterfalls on the Agua Azul. The Agua Azul waterfalls are beautiful travertine cascadas that are a popular attraction for both tourists and locals. We paddled for about two hours, negotiating many slides and vertical drops, before we decided to take-out as the sun was starting to set. Unbeknownst to us, what we thought was the river-right shore, was actually a large island which we failed to notice among the many channels in this section. We started hiking out, thinking that we were headed towards the main road. The jungle was dense and dark, and without a trail system to follow, it was even more difficult to negotiate than the rapids. The only light we had to navigate by were the LCD displays on our digital watches. After an hour of walking in circles, and then in the wrong direction, we came back to the very spot from which we started our hike. We tried a different route but failed to go more than several meters before the jungle became impassable. Rather than lay down and wait for the sun to rise, I led Greg on an unconventional escape. We couldn’t go downstream because there was a huge waterfall barring our path. So, what we did instead, was go upstream. We paddled the flat pools to the base of each of the waterfalls we descended earlier, then, with a little bit of teamwork, some ropes, and plain old muscle, we ascended each drop and kept going upsteam until we came to the very spot from which we started. Three hours after we mistakeningly took out on an island we were back at our vehicle, celebating an exhilarating paddle, and the first kayaking “ascent” of the Agua Azul.
Our next adventure took us into the pristine canyons of the Rio Jatate. The Jatate is a beautiful river that traverses an area of Chiapas which is very politically sensitive. Not too far from Ocosingo lies the town of Las Tazas, a rebel-controlled pueblo deep in the heart of Zapatista territory, and the put-in for the middle section of the Rio Jatate. Along the way to the river our driver, an Ocosingo-native named Jorge, pointed out several billboards proclaiming this area as Zapatista land. More signs and graffitti with revolutionary declarations and socialist slogans were visible on the sides of the road. Further down the road, Jorge stopped briefly in front of Rancho Esmeralda and explained how this American-owned eco-resort was confiscated by the Zapatistas and its owners driven out of the area by force. We asked Jorge about the dangers of venturing this far into rebel lands. He warned Greg and I that without him, a local to help smooth over messy situations, two gringos on their own would get into a lot of trouble. He said that violent crimes like kidnapping are not that common with tourists for fear of raising an international conflict with a powerful nation. However, what we should expect, Jorge warned, is to pay taxes for passing through Zapatista land. Something else he mentioned was the possibility of detainment. Typically, Jorge explained, the rebels will hold a group captive in order to extort money and gain intelligence. Greg never said anything but I could sense that he was just as worried as I was about the situation.
At the put-in everything was calm. Greg and I prepared our boats and changed into our paddling gear as quickly as possible in order to get on the water fast and avoid any encounters with Zapatistas. This was a lot easier said than done. Within a short time a small crowd had gathered to gawk at the two gringos and their brightly-coloured kayaks. Soon more villagers arrived and the crowd grew. As we finished our preparations Greg pointed out another group forming on the far side of the river. They were unmooring a large dugout canoe and filling it with surly-looking men. These men, obvious Zapatista-supporters, were armed with machetes and in a hostile mood. Not wanting to find out whether or not it was us that was the cause of their hostility, or their being armed, Greg and I quickly snapped our spray decks on our boats, grabbed our paddles, said good-bye to Jorge, and set off downstream paddling hard.
After about half a kilometer I looked back upstream and realized that the cause of those armed-men’s anger was, indeed, the two of us. There we were on the Rio Jatate with a 500-meter head start over a canoe full of 6 machete-clad men in hot pursuit. Whitewater kayaks are not very fast vessels on flat water and no real match for a long and sleek dugout canoe. Lucky for Greg and I, our control of the kayaks and ability to paddle well and fast in a straight line was much better than the pilot of the canoe, who opted for the less direct route of zig-zagging across the river. As the river narrowed and the current speeded up we increased the distance between us and the canoe. By the time we arrived at the first rapid we looked back to see that the canoe had already given up. Nevertheless, Greg and I ran the first rapid without scouting in order to give us a greater feeling of security. After escaping from what could possibly have been a kidnapping or worse, Greg and I were faced with our next challenge, paddling the impressive and difficult Rio Jatate.
The Rio Jatate is a relentless class 4/5 torrent which threw challenge after difficult challenge at us. After the river narrowed and we lost the Zapatistas the first whitewater we encoutered were boulder-choked rapids. Shortly afterwards the river narrowed further as we entered the main canyon section. This tropical canyon has vertical walls which tower some 1300 feet above the river. We realized quickly that as we paddled through the entrance rapid to the canyon there was no turning back – we were absolutely committed, regardless of what lay ahead.
The actual canyon section was 13.6 kilometres in length and challenged us with dozens of rapids ranging from class 3s to class 5s. Fortunately for us, the river was at a level that allowed us to get out above some of the steeper drops and scout. In a few instances the exposed boulders near the base of the canyon walls allowed us to portage some of the scarier drops. Our progress was slow and meticulous.In Mexico in late December the sun usually sets around six in the afternoon. In a river canyon as deep as the Jatate the sun leaves you much earlier. As we approached the end of the canyon section we started running out of light. Soon we were in darkness. Whitewater takes on a whole new dimension in the dark. Everything sounds bigger and more dangerous. Scouting in the dark is even more difficult because you can’t see where you’re walking. The only thing we could see were the whitecaps of the big crashing waves and hydraulics. We navigated by feel and by whatever white we could see.
This mission was becoming much too difficult and dangerous now that we were in the dark. We didn’t know how far we had travelled and we didn’t know how much further we had to go. At this point Greg suggested we set up a makeshift camp for the night and wait for daybreak. The thoughts of having half a Snickers for dinner and sleeping in my wet paddling clothes didn’t really appeal to me.
As I scanned the horizon downstream wondering what challenges we would have to encounter the next morning, I noticed a strange thing. There were actually two horizon lines on the river. I pointed this out to Greg and he realized quickly that one of the horizon lines that I pointed out was a bridge – the bridge that marked the end of the whitewater and our takeout. We bounced our way down the last rapid and headed to the bridge, marking the end of another adventure here in Chiapas, or so we thought.
With my last stroke I skidded to a stop on the shore and tossed my paddle on to the rocks. Like the instantaneous reaction of a light turning on after the switch if flipped, once my paddle hit the rocks both Greg and I were illuminated by two high-powered search lights. Dazed, confused, and blinded by the lights we heard several Mexicans fumbling about nearby. We heard heavy boots hitting the rocks, rapid Spanish being spoken, and the clank of metal on metal. As our eyes adjusted to the lights the first image my rods and cones were able to decipher was the outline of the barrel of a M-16 assault rifle pointed my way. I have never had a gun pointed at me in my entire life, but now, as I regained my eyesight, we had half a platoon of soldiers pointing automatic rifles at us.
Had we stumbled upon a drug-smuggling base deep in the jungle or were these the Zapatistas we had eluded earlier in the day? Both Greg and I were scared and confused. Another light then appeared on the scene, this one from the bridge just downstream and above us. This light was from a small flashlight and it was moving as if its user was running over uneven terrain very quickly. The soldiers gave little attention to the man with the flashlight and kept their guns fixed on us. One soldier broke from the formation to confront the man with the flashlight as he came closer. There was an exchanged of rapid Spanish in front of the big lights. Eventually, some commands were given to the soldiers by their superior and the men stood at ease. Then the man with the flashlight was made visible and much to our hearts delight it was Jorge, our driver from Ocosingo, who was there at the takeout to pick us up.
Greg and I had stumbled upon a Mexican military base. Remember that Chiapas is divided into rebel land and military territory. Our takeout, a place called La Sultana, was controlled by the military. Thinking that we were Zapatistas sneaking down the river, or more likely, drug smugglers with boats full of narcotics, we are stopped and nearly arrested. It was Jorge who smoothed everything over with the authorities and explained who we were and what we were doing.
By this point it was very late, and remote jungle roads in Chiapas are not safe places to be at night, especially if you’re a foreigner. Jorge, who by this time was becoming more and more of our guardian angel, urged us not to drive the 6 hours back to Ocosingo in the darkness for fear of bandits on the roads. We heeded his advice and took refuge with a local family in the nearby village. They fed us and gave up a space on the dirt floor of their home for Greg and I to sleep that night.
Roosters gave us an early wake-up call the next morning. Greg and I had contemplated changing our plans, with respect to returning directly to Ocosingo, the night before, and instead continue downtream on the Jatate from La Sultana and explore another canyon section of the river. Despite yesterday’s difficulties we were more excited for another paddling adventure than for a 6-hour drive back to civilization.
We were back at the truck preparing for another river trip when Jorge returned from a gathering with several of the village men. He came with a somber look on his face and some disturbing news. Apparently the Zapatistas from Las Tazas had alerted other rebels in the town downstream of La Sultana that the two gringos who had escaped them the day before were on their way there. Jorge informed us that the next town, the take-out for the next river section, was loyal to the Zapatista rebels and probably not a good place to go. Again, taking the advice of our Mexican guardian angel, we cancelled our plans for further paddling on the Jatate and headed back to the safer confines of a larger town.
From Ocosingo Greg and I headed to more secure territory and the Rio Santo Domingo. The section of river we wanted to explore had had one kayaking team there perviously, according to the local farmer whose land we used to access the river. The first 12-15 kilometers of this run were great: beautiful scenery, turquoise water, and fun class 4 whitewater. We knew heading into this river that there was a very difficult section to negotiate. It was marked on the topographical map as having a drop in elevation of about 60 meters in a span of less than 2 river kilometers. What we discovered was a spectacular class 6 rapid which started with a 10-meter waterfall then funnelled into a 100-meter deep vertical-walled canyon less than 2 meters wide. It was one of those rapids which you could stare at for days because it was so awesome. But time was running short and we had to find a way around this beast.
There was suppose to be a trail on top of the ridge on river right but we would have needed rock climbing equipment to access it. So, instead, we tried river left. Along steep jungle trails then through open pastures and dense cornfields, following fence lines and the sound of the water, we hiked and hiked and hiked. Access to the river was barred because we were about 100 meters above the water with no way to get down the vertical cliffs. Finally, after nearly three hours of exhausting portaging, we managed to get back to the water after bush-whacking our way through 400 meters of extremely dense jungle. We finished the Santo Domingo and celebrated the end of our Chiapas oddyssey for December 2004.Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something that scares you everyday.” I think if that is the secret to really living life then everyone must experience kayaking in Chiapas. I was scared everyday I paddled in Chiapas. I don’t know what scared me more, whether it was being lost in the the jungle at night on the Agua Azul or being lost in the jungle during the day on the Santo Domingo; was it some of the whitewater I paddled and nearly messed up on the Jatate or the unrunnable whitewater we found on the Agua Azul and Santo Domingo; was it the Mexican military’s rifles or the Zapatista rebels’ machetes; was it narrowly escaping an angry mob or being taken by surprise by armed soldiers. Regardless of what scared me the most, the fear factor definitely added an element to the adventure that I had yet to experience in my young whitewater career. Paddling with Greg, the expert on Mayan whitewater, was my first post-WILD river adventure. If my future adventures are as special as this one, I’m going to have incredible stories to tell my future gandchildren about my paddling career.
