Faith and suffering on the shores of the lake of sorcerers - Part 2

How far will suffering take us? Are border situations an important crossroads before going astray? And what role does ritual sacrifice play in all this? I sought answers at a black mass in Catemaco.

WARNING: THE ARTICLE CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF DEATH, SOME MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING PHOTOS AND VIDEOS DISTURBING.

„Black magic puts in, white magic removes,“ Haciano Cruz, a one-legged vendor of tegogolos on the shores of Lake Catemaco in the town of the same name, explained to me.

In case you're wondering what tegogolos are, they're the local pride and golden fleece - they're snails that live only here on the rocks in the Lake Catemaco and are a renowned delicacy in the town and the region around it. And for some, like Haciano, they are also the only source of income. Next to witchcraft, shamanism, white and black magic.

He loaded a cup full of them for me, along with shrimp and salsa, and went on to say, "White magic is used by shamans. Black magic is used by sorcerers."

“That's the difference,” I understood. Haciano nodded.

"And nahual is another thing altogether. Nahual turns into a pig, a bird, a horse, a dog, a lot of things..."

“And then it does harm,” I added.

"Yes. For instance, if someone wishes to prevent his friend from doing business, he will seek out such a person and he will arrange it for him. They take the dirt from a grave and pile it up for the acquaintance's business," the vendor instructed me.

“All this for envy?”

“Exactly!” Haciano almost shouted. Envy, as I mentioned in the first part of this reportage, is taken seriously here.

“And if, on the other hand, you want business to be good for you, you have to have aloe, and you have to add seven pieces of garlic to it, a horseshoe, and seven colored ribbons.”

+++

It was Thursday, March 6, the last day before the magical portals opened here in Catemaco. At least, that's how the locals tell it. On Friday, the town fills with superstitious people from all over Mexico to seek the help of local shamans and witches on the day their powers are supposedly strongest. And then there's the evening witches' march, which is more of a glamour for the out-of-towners.

In the first part of this report, I showed you how difficult it can be in these parts of the world to tell the authentic from something that's just pretending to be the real thing. I found out that not everyone here who claims to have supernatural abilities is being serious with you. That a lot of people are exploiting the reputation of this place for their own enrichment. That some of the local occultism is just a tourist attraction.

But I also knew that on the night of the first Friday in March, many places held real witchcraft rituals behind closed doors. At least real in that those who participate are deadly serious. And the deadly here applies literally, because killing and blood is part of it.

But how do you find something that by its very nature is meant to remain hidden?

You mustn't be in Mexico. A country where street gossip and connections will get you anywhere you need to.

I tried to write to Alison, the girl from the jungle - if you still remember her - to see if she knew, had any idea... And she did. I didn't even have to wait so long, and she'd already forwarded me an invitation to one of those black masses, to be held somewhere in the backwoods outside the city on Thursday night to Friday.

How important is “the truth”?

Well, the mass... Looking at the video invitation, I rather got the impression that it was inviting the audience to a theatrical performance or a circus. The protagonists were a trio of men and a woman, all dressed in colorful witches' robes and with all sorts of witches' props, to the point where they looked more like a scene from a fantasy movie than someone who would be invoking Satan at a secret convention at night. The video inviting this event could have been screened in a movie theater easily; it had quick cuts, dramatic shots, voiceovers, even drone footage. And at the end of it, information on where and when the mass would be held.

I was perplexed all over again. Shouldn't the black mass be non-public and shouldn't there be some shady figures rather than these well-dressed, good-looking buffoons? Shouldn't it be held in an unknown location and shouldn't the invitation be wrapped in parchment and written in blood? It was clear to me: it must be a tourist trap and they'll just want money.

I was sick of the whole witches' ballast around the Catemaco lagoon. But I also knew I had to bring back some pictures from here. Taking pictures of some local rituals was my chance to not leave the “cradle of witchcraft” empty-handed. After all, I reasoned, the event was happening and I was here to bear witness to it. Whether it's authentic enough, I'll let the reader decide.

According to the invitation, the mass was to take place 10 kilometres from the town of Catemaco, while - if you still remember - I lived another 10 kilometres away on the shore of the lagoon in the village of La Victoria. Which complicated the situation, as I had no idea how I would get back to my accommodation sometime in the middle of the night after a black mass somewhere in the jungle. And how would I even get there?

But I didn't entertain those thoughts just yet; it was sure to be a night full of surprises anyway, and planning its course now was useless. After dinner at a simple homestay in La Victoria, I caught the last pickup going into town and pulled into Catemaco before 8 o'clock. There I had to improvise. Ideally to go somewhere near the taxi drivers and secure a ride into the jungle with the promise of a night pickup. By the way, would you trust anyone in these parts to pick you up in the middle of the night somewhere in the jungle? I had no choice.

But before that, higher powers brought Rodrigo my way. He was standing outside one of the many half-empty restaurants along the boardwalk around the lagoon, offering toritos to passersby. My Achilles heel! 

It's an alcoholic invention from the state of Veracruz that could be compared to eggnog or Baileys, but with exotic flavors, often masking more than a small amount of alcohol. I couldn't resist making sure it was homemade.

“Of course, fresh,” Rodrigo nodded, “I make it myself.”

“Can I taste it?”

“That you hesitate!” He plunged his hands into his bag and handed me a full liter bottle.

“Just the cup, that's enough,” I argued. Rodrigo was a little disappointed, but especially found the cups lacking.

“Well, keep an eye on this place for me, I'll run to the market,” the man said, and ran off into the darkness. I was left there alone with his bag full of homemade cocktails for sale.

He finally returned with a stack of plastic cups and poured his drink into one for me. It tasted divine and strong.

Somehow I didn't want to leave him. I had another cup and chatted with Rodrigo about life in Catemaco. Across the street, an oversized poster hung from the terrace of one of the houses inviting me to the black mass I was going to. It had the same figures on it as in Alison's video. My doubts about authenticity were raised again.

But Rodrigo tried to explain to me that it was all part of tradition and local folklore. I wondered if some of the locals were exaggerating a bit to attract tourists. This almost offended Rodrigo. "No, no, no, they are not exaggerating. Look, I'll tell you again: Catemaco is a place that's famous for this culture. Whether we're talking about culture or tradition. The products they offer are part of the Catemaco tradition. A lot of people are looking for that, and you have to respect that."

“It does,” I nodded, "it's just that a lot of people have warned me about charlatans, for example. Or aren't they here?"

"I can answer that exactly: Why? Because a lot of people say what they want to say. And that has to be respected, too. It's all about respect. Everything has to be respected."

That was a bulletproof argument, though, and I preferred not to tease him any further, so I said goodbye and continued down the boardwalk.

Unexpected encounters

Less than two hours remained till the start of the Mass. I still hadn't figured out how to get there. I bought a can of beer and looked out over the lake drowned in darkness. In the distance on its shore, I saw flickering dots of yellow light. A fire, perhaps. The distance didn't suit me too well, but maybe the darkness was distorting. I was almost certain that the fires marked where the night's activities would take place. What else would be going on there on this day?

I figured I'd try to get there. I crossed the boardwalk and, past the last remnants of the development, followed a sort of dirt road along the lake. I felt that this was again the moment when my adventurous expeditions traditionally turn into spectacular disasters. Even though anxiety began to grip me in the darkness, I ordered myself to continue.

In the distance, right on the road, I saw more fires. I was heading towards them. The first one was burning abandoned in the middle of the road. No one was there. Or so I hoped. But at the same time, this desolation made me all the more afraid. Someone must be around, but I can't see them!

I continued on to the next fire in the distance. Suddenly I noticed a movement in my back. I turned and recognized a silhouette in the darkness. There was nothing to do but grit my teeth, keep calm and hope it was just another curious person like me. I continued to the next light in the distance and the shadow followed me.

When I was within sight of them, I could distinguish a familiar object in the flickering light. A giant boulder with a carved face! The head of the Olmecs! An artifact from pre-Columbian times. Lights from a nearby campfire on the road bounced across the stone face. On the other side, they were letting us know about the silhouettes of a group of people having a bonfire.

I pretended to take a picture of the stone phenomenon. The silhouette in my back continued with me. I greeted the group by the fire and took no further notice of them. Until I heard, “We're from the capital!” announced one of the figures, "I hear there's some sort of black mass going on here. How are we going to get there? Are we going right?"

Apparently, some person in the group was well acquainted with the local traditions and now he was explaining to them that they were going wrong and that the black mass was happening a little further away. "You have to follow the road and then turn towards the lake. But it's a short distance," said the young man on the scooter. That made me move closer. “You mean the mass of the four witches?” I asked.

The group turned to me. “Yes,” the boy said. "There are several of them around town. But this one you say is still about seven miles away."

“We can go back and get the car and drive there,” the Mexicans from the capital suggested.

The higher powers probably wanted me not to miss this event. “Would you have room for one more?” I asked.

“Sure!”

“Great, let's go!”

“What about your buddy,” they asked, pointing to the shadow that had emerged from the darkness where he had followed me, now also inspecting the Olmec head, only to disappear again without a word.

“That's not my buddy,” I said, “he just followed me the whole time.”

“Strange,” someone in the group remarked.

Together we returned to town, where we bought three cartons of beer. A guy on a scooter informed us that the entrance to the mass was free, but it would be nice to bring an offering for Santa Muerte. "She likes alcohol. Or drugs," he instructed us. Then the four of us - me, three other guys and one girl - headed northeast along the lake shore.

After about a quarter of an hour of driving, we found a turn off the main road leading somewhere unknown. We pulled off the road and followed this unlit trail descending to the lake. Soon it became a ready-made tankodrome, and we were bouncing around inside a big sedan, packed in like sardines, with cartons of beer under our feet. There was no doubt we were on the right track, the worse part was arriving at the finish line in one piece.

Finally, we saw a house lit up with neon lights and cars parked in front of it and a swarming crowd of people. We parked and went to join the others. So far, it looked more like we had arrived at some private rave party where soon the snorting and mass banging would begin. This house in the jungle didn't look like just any house, but a large multifunctional villa with a garden. Not just anyone in Mexico owns one of these.

Magicians and Influencers

A few people were now just shyly hanging out in front of the house. But soon I recognized among them the woman from the invitation - with a sweet face and wearing a dress with embroidery. After all, they were serious, I realized only now. My European cynicism was again beginning to override the local spirit. "What the hell am I doing here? I'm out of my mind," I cursed to myself as I watched the whole thing from afar, sipping the beer we'd brought as an offering to Santa Muerte.

Even my companions seemed confused and unsure of what to do. But the fair witch greeted us - not in some otherworldly voice and in otherworldly tones, but like a mere mortal, as if you'd really only arrived at an ordinary party. No pretentious haggling around. "Welcome, good evening. Make yourselves comfortable for now,“ she invited, ”we're glad you came."

Meanwhile, we settled down to a bench nearby, from where we could see the lake and the area in front of the mansion. Every now and then people came in and out of the garden inside the villa. There was a large gate leading into it and behind it we could see more lights and lit candles. Among the crowding people I recognized the other protagonists from the invitations. Also in their witch robes.

“Feel free to come in,” one of them announced, “but wait a minute, there are still YouTubers filming.”

What?! Now there was no doubt that this was a shady business to say the least. A black mass and youtubers at it! I should have known right away.

Now there was nothing left to do but continue the charade. After all, there are people around here who probably believe it. So I'll just capture it as it is here, not as I would like it to look.

In the mean time, our group got to talking to a girl waiting nearby. We even found out that she used to work for these wizards. It was she who then told us the story from the beginning of my story - how a nahual had been murdered in her street, who was turning into a vulture and harming people. Her story, and the way she approached these supernatural phenomena in general, was extremely convincing to me. I almost started to again dismiss the European cynic in me and let myself drift down the path of Latin magical realism.

“My boyfriend is at the mass of Unicornio Negro, the Black Unicorn,” she told us between words. I knew the name from my research; he was one of the most popular brujos mayores in Catemaco. Not only was he a descendant of a local witch legend, but he also had his own podcast and shared snippets of the witch's life on Instagram. Like how he goes to the gym and so on.

“But he charges a grand to get in,” the girl remarked. And my civilized soul immediately questioned: How much are we going to pay for all this? The circus won't be free, I don't buy it!

At least I finally went to see what awaited us in the villa's courtyard. In the middle of the vast grassy area, a green pentagram made of green lights shone out of the ground, with a giant statue of Santa Muerte at each end. At the head of the space, a low building with a terrace enclosed the courtyard, on which were scattered candles and smaller statues of Santa Muerte, Lucifer, and a human skull.

There was an influencer or a youtuber or a model or whatever crawling around on her knees, and a guy with a phone on a handheld tripod was filming her. From time to time, there were other botherers - with lights, stabilizers and wearing sweatshirts of different YouTube channels. There were at least two or three professional crews there, plus a lot of individuals with pro equipment.

The wizards were willingly cooperative: they stared at the cameras with serious expressions, extended their hands to the cameras in grand gestures, filmed and posed in various ways. They knew exactly what expressions the cameramen were interested in, and they indulged them. I was surprised I didn't burst out laughing. This is just one embarrassing masquerade!

I walked out of the circus and there was a minibus parked right in front of me. A whole group of pensioners, who had come to see the parade, got out of it. This was too much for me. One of the wizards (gee, I said wizards) took charge of their group and began to explain what was going to happen. I was already taking the whole thing lightly, so I didn't listen too much while focusing more on finishing the beer we brought as a holy sacrifice. Therefore can't tell you what he was telling them.

Perhaps it's just that today is seen in this community as the end of the old year and the beginning of a new one. Therefore, people will have the opportunity to say goodbye to their old lives and prepare for new challenges. They are supposed to write down on paper what they would like to see from the New Year.

Everything is otherwise

Catemaco has definitely earned for me the label of a bizarre enterprise of deranged individuals who mainly want to attract attention to themselves and benefit from people's naivety or lack of foresight. On the other hand, if it makes the visitors happy, can we be angry with one side or the other?

I was back to the question that has occupied me all these days: if someone believes in a medicine that doesn't cure itself, but the mere belief in its effect helps the person, can we be angry with the doctor who gave it to him? Or at the desperate patient himself? I thought of Alison and now Rodrigo: we need to respect the beliefs of others, even if they tell us nothing ourselves.

Captivating, mysterious music drifted from the speakers, the sorcerers descended to the pier on the shore of the lake, and even boarded a decorated boat to make the impression of their arrival as grand as possible. They couldn't have handled it better in the theatre. There were now about fifty of us onlookers, and we clustered on the edge of the hill in front of the house, from which we descended to the lake.

There was a deafening crash and a quartet of wizards in the spotlight landed on the pier, where lit torches were already waiting for them, as well as a microphone. “Welcome to the Black Mass,” called in what was apparently the most important of them, who, unlike the others, was wearing a golden robe, "we are gathered among the four elements: water, earth, fire and wind. Together we will perform a ritual cleansing of evil influences and pray for good and positive energy for the year to come."

One would expect such a black mass to be rife with evil energy, curses, incantations, invocations of anything and everything. But that hasn't happened yet. On the whole, we've heard only positive messages. About the need to honour and care for Mother Nature, about the need to avoid negative influences and to go towards the positive ones, that man deserves health and happiness and goodness. There was nothing I could not agree with. 

After the opening words and introductions of the ritual, the chief mage said that they would begin the ritual cleansing. "It's voluntary, anyone who wants to participate can. But first, I ask that seven people step forward. Seven who think they need help the most. Please give priority to the elderly or the seriously ill."

At that moment, something within me shifted. I saw people rushing to get the opportunity. Older men from the retiree bus were moving about on canes, followed by other, often hunched figures. The nervousness of them could be felt even from a distance, but not the nervousness of what was about to happen, but rather the nervousness that accompanies a person who doesn't know how much further they will go at all.

One by one, the wizards took the first arrivals into their care. First they had them burn the papers on which they had previously written their wishes. Then they spoke to them and performed an egg cleansing - a practice quite familiar in these regions. It is believed that the egg can soak negative emotions to itself. And so the shaman, or in this case the witch doctor, runs it around the body and says a prayer.

“From now on, everything negative will stay here,” the wizard promised one of the volunteers as he threw the paper with his wishes into the fire, "feel it in your heart. Free yourself! Because the only one who will decide about you from now on is you. No one else. You are free. So be it, amen."

The trick was that after the first seven volunteers, others interested in the cleansing could come forward. Which was happening in large numbers. People of all ages, men and women, were descending from the elevated area by the villa to the lakeshore to find their resolution with the local whisperers. Each with their own difficulties, pains, each experiencing their own personal dramas. I realized that we all have ours and that some of them go so far that we need to seek help. When we lose a loved one, or when we start to lose ourselves. The places in our hearts, the people, the dreams. Some ailments are simply not enough on our own, and often traditional medicine fails. And all that's left is the belief that someone will stand up for us.

I heard an elderly man trembling in tears say that he was dying. A woman nearby was also crying, and it seemed that supernatural forces were her last hope. I stopped laughing. I realized that there are situations so serious that one might as well resort to witchcraft and magic. When there is nothing left to hope for, one might even eventually sign up with the Devil if it meant comfort for oneself or one's fellow man.

Only one thing nagged at me: can those who act as sorcerers in this theatrical séance really heal a person, rid them of negative forces, or do they just pass on the belief that they are taken care of? Like a placebo effect?

I guess I'll never know the answer to that. Again, the only universal answer is: Faith. Faith that things will be okay. That I did the best I could. And that things happen the way they're supposed to.

Fear and death on the shores of the lake

The cleansing by the lake was complete, the participants parading back up to the mansion. Before the wizards allowed us to enter the house's garden, they poured some flammable liquid on the threshold, probably also for purification purposes. So we entered through the flames.

Inside, people were instructed to form a circle in the bottom right corner. Five statues of Santa Muerte nearby kept guard at the five points of the pentagram. People formed up side by side while one of the mages stood in the middle of the circle with an armful of leafy tree branches. The branches were sprinkled with water and the mage began to whip them around, lightly slapping and drenching each of the onlookers. A sign of life.

The action then moved to the top right corner. There, too, people were asked to stand in a circle and another of the sorcerers stood in the middle with a lit candle. He then handed out more candles to the others and urged them to come and light theirs with the flame of hope from him.

Finally, we were all to stand in a circle around a giant glowing pentagram on the ground and hold hands. This applied to everyone without exception. And so I stepped in as well, though I was more on the sidelines taking pictures for now.

We were supposed to close our eyes. I lowered my camera for the moment and held hands with someone standing next to me on both sides. The quartet of wizards stood in the middle of our circle. They spoke to us about bright tomorrows, about how we had shaken off the negative influences and now it was up to us to summon the good to us. That we all have all the strength we need within us and that above all we must believe.

We should have closed our eyes for a while. I became absorbed in my own sorrows and fears. I tried to free myself from them, as they told one of the volunteers at the lake. It was intense, quite frightening. I was teetering in my mind between wondering if this all made any sense, or if I had gone completely mad.

Someone from the quartet announced that in order to keep the power of that evening with us in our regular lives, they had amulets ready for us. This is it! I thought, now they are going to start selling pots! Let's see how much this must-have item will cost, my rational self screamed.

“You must carry the amulet with you at all times,” the wizards urged us, "and no one but you must touch it. Otherwise it will lose its power. From now on it will protect you!"

I was excited to get this unique souvenir from the journey. But I was also terrified to have something like this on me. What if it does work and is now my connection to the dark forces. Kind of like the pact with the Devil that freaked me out a few days ago. And what if I lose or forget it somewhere? Will that automatically bring me bad luck and misfortune? I'd hate to hand over all responsibility for what happens to me to some little thing that I'll have to carry with me from now on. And why does its power disappear as soon as someone other than me touches it?

Meanwhile, the pretty witch made a circle and stopped at each of us, looked us in the eye, and placed the amulet in our palms. They were a sort of round pouch the size of a larger coin: two circles of leather, sewn together with colored threads around the edges. Both sides were painted with magical symbols. But each one was different, mine had a Star of David with a cross in the middle.

I was wondering what is inside that pocket. I got a little paranoid. What if there's a tracking device in the amulet? What if they're trying to control us through it? Maybe they're using it to send us messages so we'll believe it's really magical. And that only magic will help us, so we seek out the wizards and pay them for the promised spells and hexes.

I put my talisman in my pocket and waited to be asked to pay for it. Voluntarily, of course.

But no such thing happened. Instead, it was goodbye. “This concludes our ritual, thank you all for participating,” said the head sorcerer. It seemed to me that the grand event could not end so easily. It's like being at a concert and the greatest hits haven't even hit yet.

And even here, there was an addition: “Anyone who would like to join us can now move with us back to the lakeshore, where we have one more act to perform. A reminder that this is not part of the ritual, it is not necessary to participate, you can go home without fear. This is our private activity, but anyone wishing to join in is welcome to do so."

Of course I'm going to continue with them. After all, I didn't have much of a choice, almost everyone had made their way back to the front of the house and the cliff above the lake with the wizards.

As soon as I stepped out of the yard, however, I shuddered. In the shadows on the road were two military pickup trucks and maybe two dozen masked soldiers wearing helmets and holding long guns. What are they doing here? In Mexico, as I've mentioned in previous posts, the presence of the armed forces is not meant to reassure you, quite the opposite. Soldiers and policemen are usually not your friends, quite often they will rob or kidnap you. And what are they even doing here in the middle of the jungle where a private event is taking place?

But no one else was really concerned about this visit, so I put them out of my mind as well. In the meantime, a bonfire was lit by the pier on the lake. The gathered observers were now giving way to the sorcerers and their crew, making their way towards the lake. Here I saw the main star of the night approaching: a horned goat was reluctantly moving forward to its fate. He tried his best to resist, digging his hooves into the dust of the road, but he had no chance. They dragged him by his rope until they brought him down beside the waters of the lake.

One of the wizards carried a black dagger with a decorative blade. This is their grand finale.

“Once more we repeat,” the wizard shouted to the crowd: "this is a purely private activity and it is up to you if you wish to participate. For some, what will happen here may be drastic, so if you don't feel up to it, you'd better step away."

Thus I got as close as I could. Someone had set fire to pentagrams covered in cotton wool soaked in gas, and the heat was so intense it almost pushed me into the lake. A group of occultists up ahead took the goat. Two grabbed it by the back, another by the horns, and one of the sorcerers cut its jugular and was now slashing and cutting. The animal twitched and the head would not separate from the body. It was evident that not only the goat, but the man with the dagger was at the end of his strength. Until at last he managed to cut off the horned head and raise it triumphantly above his head.

Another warlock, who had meanwhile been collecting the black-red blood in a ritual bowl, now raised it above his head and then took a long sip from it. He passed the bowl on and offered it to the people in the front rows. Some did not hesitate, others just made a step back. I chuckled at the idea, as I would surely have been among the first takers a few years ago, but now I was much more reticent. It's strange enough that I have a satanic amulet in my pocket. God knows whose skin it's made of and what's inside.

One of the executioners had torn open the chest of the dead animal with a dagger and now he was searching through it until he pulled out the heart. He stepped in front of the crowd and bit into it. Then he offered the organ to those of us standing around. Women and men alike stepped forward to take a bite of the muscle that had just ticked off the last seconds of the life of the sacrificed goat whose ritual death was to seal what the black mass had asked for. Some rushed at them like savages, straining their jaws to snatch a piece of the expiring raw meat.

I approached the dead body with my camera to take a picture of its torn chest. “You want to open it up more?” one of the sorcerers, who was watching, offered. “That's fine, thanks,” I replied.

It was time for the final farewell. The moved participants of the black mass embraced the wizards, shook their hands and thanked them. They smiled and wished them well in return. They were smiling, warm and friendly, as they had been all along. “If you need anything, spiritual cleansing, magic, cards, ask anything, you can find me here and here,” one of the wizard quartet repeated patiently to them.

I couldn't get my head around it. Without exception, these people were extremely hospitable to us at all times. They held a mass at which they healed, or at least pretended to heal, the sick and troubled. They gave us amulets, prayed that we would have good luck in life, sacrificed an animal. Why all this? I couldn't think of anything. Perhaps to attract more future clients to their witchcraft practices. Or maybe... they were doing it because they believed in it? Because they were truly the bearers of the art of magic, mediums between the mundane and supernatural worlds, and it was their job to harness that power?

“Shall we go?” One of the group I had come with turned to me. We got into the car, mostly silent. Only two of them told us that as we stood around the pentagram, eyes closed, they felt a strange tingling sensation over their bodies that they said was almost constant. I didn't feel like talking. I had mixed feelings. I still wasn't clear on how to sum this whole thing up. Believe it all? Or just respect it?

Now I was mostly hoping that my group would offer to drive me the ten kilometers from Catemaco to my village. After all, it was almost three in the morning and I could only hope that in a town full of Satanists and occultists there would be a taxi at this time.

We arrived at their hotel by the promenade in Catemaco and there my companions said goodbye to me. They didn't seem intent on prolonging their journey, and I couldn't blame them. I walked up the boardwalk toward the bus station where the taxi drivers used to gather in broad daylight. But I didn't even approach it. I had barely gone a few steps when a military pickup truck appeared in the opposite direction. It hit the pavement and cut the road off.

Eight masked men in helmets and holding long guns jumped out of the truck. “We are the army of the Mexican Republic,” one announced to me as his other compañeros flanked me.

I knew it was bad. I didn't have anything to hide, I wasn't doing anything illegal, but that doesn't matter here. I've fallen into the hands of the police countless times, who always stop me on some pretext and then rob me of everything. But that was in the middle of a busy city, not in a deserted village in a forgotten corner of Mexico where people are more likely to get lost than found.

"Where are you coming from?" their spokesman asked me.

I knew there was no point in denying or making things up. After all, quite possibly they were the ones I had seen patrolling the mass a few hours before. "I'm coming from the black mass. Over there from here," I pointed.

"We need to inspect you. Put your bag down and take everything out of your pockets," he ordered. So I dumped my camera bag on their car and then my wallet from my right pocket and my cell phone from my left. Then I felt something else: Amulet!

Now I knew it was really bad. Suddenly it all started to sink in. I now knew why the soldiers had been to patrol the mass. And why we were all given this talisman to carry with us at all times. I'm sure there are drugs in it. And now these sons of the Mafia will charge me with trafficking, as they have done here many times, and I'll have to buy my way out of jail!

I left the amulet in my pocket and tried to continue pretending I was in control. "Hands behind your head, spread your legs and face the car," the soldier ordered. I obeyed.

He started patting me down to see if I had a weapon on me. Unfortunately for me, he spotted an object in my jeans pocket. He took out an amulet. I guess he won't protect me now, I said to myself, no longer believing in a good ending. But the soldier examined the object closely, and as if he recognized it, he put it back in his pocket.

He glanced at my photo bag again. "You're a photographer?"

"Yeah," I replied, sensing my chance for rescue, "I'm a journalist. I've been documenting this mass for the media in Europe." This usually works; no one wants to draw the attention of the so-called civilized world to themselves.

"All right, you can go," the soldier finally told me.

A rock perhaps larger than the Olmec head I had encountered that night fell from my heart. I gathered my things and returned them to my pockets.

With my newfound freedom, my courage returned. "Do you know if I can find a taxi around here now?" I asked, "I need to get to La Victoria." I was kind of hoping they would offer me a ride, but instead one of the soldiers just laughed, "Hardly at this hour." Maybe it was a good thing they didn't offer me a ride.

The car disappeared and I wandered to the bus station and then into the city center. I met only one taxi car, it was parked on the street and the taxi driver was asleep at the wheel. Out of sheer desperation, I tried to wake him up, but my tapping on the window only made him angry.

There was nothing to do but stand by the road by the square and wait. Along with me there was another such unfortunate man. He was also returning from a black mass, but from another one. After an hour or so, the taxi driver dropped the man off first and then rode with me to La Victoria.

"Do I believe? No, but I respect. All sorts of things happen here in Catemaco. I believe in Jesus,“ he said, stroking the knitted figure on the rearview mirror, ”He saved me when I was dying."