NACHO KNOWS BEST
By Gil Gevins

Nacho, despite the fact that he had once caused me to run over my gardener, was someone whose friendship I had always valued. Over the years he had bombarded me with such a colossal amount of unsolicited and largely useless advice and information that on more than one occasion I had felt the overpowering urge to take out a gun and shoot him.

But Nacho always was absolutely certain of his facts. No matter how arcane or trivial the question, Nacho possessed the definitive answer. When, on those rare occasions Nacho did not know where you should go or what you should do, a sort of volitional vacuum was created in which your only apparent option was to stay at home and do nothing. In retrospect, staying at home and doing nothing would have been by far my best move when Nacho suggested that I take my annual two-week retreat at the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs.
“Netza … say, what?”

“Netzahualcoyotl,” Nacho began in his maddeningly precise and pedantic way “was one of the minor Aztec emperors whose power reached its zenith shortly before the conquest. Today, he is best remembered as a great promoter of the arts, as well as a talented poet in his own right. The most famous of his poems, many of which were preserved by Father Francisco De La Cruz …”

“Nacho,” I said, interrupting my friend, “I have a pressing engagement early next week. Could we stick to the Hot Springs, please?”

“The Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs,” Nacho changed gears with no apparent effort, “are located high up on the eastern flank of the Nevada de Toluca Volcano in the state of Mexico, which should not be confused with ...”
“I know where the volcano is, Nacho.”

“The Hot Springs sit at an elevation of approximately four thousand one hundred and twenty-two meters, which in feet …”

Nacho had on more than one occasion actually talked me to sleep, a fate I will attempt to spare the reader by summarizing the remainder of his discourse. The Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs were extremely isolated, rarely frequented and located in a wild and beautiful setting. Set by the side of a rushing river, the sprawling complex contained two pools, a small rustic hotel and an equally rustic restaurant serving fresh trout. Winding as it rose gradually from the end of the property was an old abandoned logging road, along which one could walk all the way up to the cone of the volcano.

It sounded ideal, especially for my purposes. After a stress-filled year of responding to the same two tourist inquiries over and over again (“What’s with all the skeletons?” and “Do you like living here?”), I was in desperate need of a break. A peaceful, unpeopled place where I could take infinitely long and solitary walks, bathe in thermal waters and attempt to unsnarl the matted ending of my novel was almost too good to be true.

The moribund bus dropped me off near the end of the road, then turned on its wobbly wheels to begin the suicidal plunge back down the mountainside. I found myself standing at the foot of a heavily traveled goat trail, surrounded by steep pine-covered ridges and spectacular gorges. It was wild and savage country, bathed in swirling mists and a ceaseless fine rain. Totally alone, I felt the mood of the immense mountain overwhelming me.

From where I stood, the Hot Springs entrance was only 200 yards away. I set off at once, suffused with optimism and a sense of boundless, timeless wonder. My sojourn into the land of Samadi lasted nearly an entire minute, or the time it took me to walk 20 paces up the steep trail. Too late, I recalled Nacho’s warning not to exert myself on my first day at an elevation of 13,396 feet. All at once I was on my knees gasping for breath, my heart smashing murderously against the narrow walls of my oxygen-challenged chest. Putting my timeless mood on hold for the moment, I waited to die.

But of course I didn’t die. Little by little, crouching on my hands and knees and panting like a bedraggled dog that has just had his way with all the bitches in the neighborhood, I began to recover. After a while a couple of campesinos came walking by leading a pair of skinny burros. The two men stopped and stared at me uncertainly. “What are you doing?” one of them asked me. Rising unsteadily to my feet I told them between gasps that I was having a heart attack. “Perhaps,” I added, “you could give me a ride up to the springs. I’ll be happy to pay you fifty pesos.” The men insisted on payment up-front, just in case I expired along the way. Then they dumped the pile of firewood off one of the burro’s backs and loaded me on in its place.

Ten minutes later I made my triumphant entrance through the gates of the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs, sliding off the skinny rear end of a malnourished ass. The Hot Springs was nestled in a narrow mist-shrouded valley and consisted of a large compound dotted with pools of boiling water and a half-dozen rustic structures, the largest of which was the ‘hotel’. Nacho had described the Springs as ‘rarely frequented’, which was not exactly how I found it. I found it full of 400 frenetically squealing thirteen-year-old girls on a field trip from their school in Toluca, an excursion which had apparently been timed to coincide with the precise moment they all reached puberty.

After several panicked inquiries, I discovered that the kids would be leaving in a few hours, so I decided to go for a very slow walk up that wonderful gradually sloping logging road so painstakingly described to me by Nacho. Finding the road was not difficult: it was merely a continuation of the interrupted road up to the Hot Springs. Setting foot on it was another matter. The road was blocked by a locked gate and guarded by an unfriendly looking fellow holding a shotgun.

“The road is closed,” he said.
“Closed?”
“Yes,” he said. “They’re dynamiting. No one can go up there until they’re finished.”
“When will that be?” I asked.
“Quien sabe?” he answered helpfully.
“Well, how long has the work been underway?” I asked.
“About five years.”

It was then that I recalled Nacho mentioning in passing that he had last visited the Springs more than 20 years ago. This was the principal pitfall in attempting to base one’s actions on Nacho’s helpful information: there was so much of it that small, but key, pieces tended to get lost in the shuffle, like mismatched socks in a laundromat.

Though the Springs, as well as the road, ran through a narrow valley with steep impenetrable terrain surrounding it on both sides, there was a long meadow, which paralleled the road, rising gradually into the distance. Determined to walk somewhere, I climbed a barbed wire fence to explore this pastoral piece of terrain, and to kill time until the kids left. Unfortunately, this was an area of almost continuous precipitation and the meadow, proved to be a bit on the boggy side. Nonetheless, I trudged intrepidly upriver, sinking up to my ankles in mud, until I came to another barbed wire fence. And then another. And then another. And then, I gave up.

Back at the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs, the children had all departed in a flotilla of hormonally infused yellow buses. Now the place was blissfully deserted; it also was getting rather late, so I decided to reserve my room. The door to the hotel was locked, naturally, and there was no bell. Not knowing what else to do, I proceeded to bang on the door and yell at the top of my voice, “Buenas tardes!” over and over again. Five minutes of this noisemaking got me absolutely nowhere, so I went to look for a human being.
Thirty yards upriver from the hotel was a much smaller building. The sign falling off it read, ‘Office’. Inside, I found a pair of men, one old and fat, the other young and thin, sitting at a small table playing dominos.
“I’d like a room,” I told them.

“It’s 100 pesos a night for nationals,” the fat one, who turned out to be the manager, told me, “and 500 pesos for foreigners.”
When I handed the man 100 pesos, he said that I would have to pay another 400 because, obviously, I was a foreigner.
“But I live in Mexico,” I protested.
“You can live anywhere you want to,” he said, laying down a double three, “you’re still a foreigner.”
“That’s absurd,” I said. “Not to mention illegal. Let me speak to your superior.”

His superior, it turned out, was in the ‘main office’ in Toluca, several hours away. “Well, let’s call him,” I said.
The marvels of telephonic communication had not yet reached the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs; so, picking up the microphone of a rusty two-way radio, the manager called his boss.
“There’s a foreigner here,” he shouted into the microphone, “who claims to be a Mexican and wants to pay the national rate. Over.”
“Absolutely not,” a voice crackled out of the radio. “Over.”
“Sorry,” the manager said, “he says absolutely not.”

“I heard him,” I said. “May I speak with him myself, please?”
The manager reluctantly handed me the microphone and the following conversation ensued.
“I may be a foreigner,” I said, “but I have lived in Mexico for many years, so I am not a tourist.”
For 10 seconds I stood there like an idiot, waiting in vain for a reply.
“Say ‘over’,” the manager advised me.
“Over,” I said with disgust.
“You live in Mexico City?” the man in the radio asked accusingly. “Over.”
“No, I live in Puerto Vallarta. Over.”
“You’re a long way from Puerto Vallarta. Over.”
“I am aware of that. Over.”
“But you are not a tourist? Over.”
“No, I am not a tourist. Over.”
“Then what are you doing at the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs? Over.”
“I’m doing research for the Mexican Tourist Bureau, for whom I work,” I lied. “Over.”
“What kind of research? Over.”
“I’m investigating discriminatory pricing practices at remote tourist destinations. Over.”
“Oh … Over.”

“So what’s my room number?” I asked the manager, who had returned to his dominos game.
“They’ll tell you over there,” he said.
“Over where?”
“At the hotel.”
“There’s nobody at the hotel. That’s why I came over here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well,” he said, laying down a six-two, “someone will be over there soon.”
“How soon?”
“It’s hard to say.”

“Is the restaurant open?” I asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
The restaurant, a small log cabin that looked as if it had almost survived a mudslide, was indeed open. The décor was Neo-Neanderthal. Instead of chairs, there were termite-ridden tree trunks. The tables were slabs of rough wood, some with the bark still on them. I chose one of the barkless tables and sat down.
The waiter, who also was the cook, cashier and dishwasher, took my order without enthusiasm and 30 minutes later I was served what appeared to be a pan-fried guppy. For a moment I sat there staring at his tiny tail and wondering what had happened to his parents.
“This could qualify as child abuse,” I told the waiter.
“No, no. It’s absolutely fresh,” he assured me.
The poor little fish was accompanied by a badly wrinkled baked potato and a mound of non-specific greenish flora. The trout, truly the smallest I had ever seen, I consumed in one swallow. The green matter and the potato, which you could tell had been grown underground, I left alone despite the fact that I was faint from hunger.
“Do you have any bread?” I asked the waiter, hoping to fill myself up on something.
“No,” he said with condescension, “we only serve tortillas.”
“Great, I love tortillas.”
“So do I,” the waiter said. “Too bad we don’t have any.”
“What about rice? Have you got any rice?”
“We did,” the waiter said, “six kilos. But the rats got it.”
“All right,” I moaned, “bring me five more trout.”

An hour later, still famished, I returned to the hotel, which was still locked, and began pounding on the door again. After several minutes the skinny young man who had been playing dominos unlocked it from the other side and let me in.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Summoning vast reserves of self-control, I replied, “My room.”
Yawning and vigorously scratching at his left ear, he said, “You have number five.”
“And the key?” I asked, gritting my teeth.
“The key is kind of hard to get to,” he said.

All the keys were hanging on nails at the back of a small alcove. The door to the alcove was locked and, according to the young man, could not be opened because the key to it had been lost for almost a year. In order to reach the room keys one had to scramble over a narrow chest-high counter, which needless to say, I was not about to do.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Nacho,” he said.

Briefly, I wondered if murdering two people named Nacho would get me into the Guinness Book of Records.
“Well, Nacho,” I said, “If I’m not mistaken, you work here. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Nacho said. “I have worked here ever since I was a child.”
“And what exactly is your job?”
“I’m the assistant manager,” he said proudly.
“And who else works here? At the hotel, I mean.”
“Just me,” he said bitterly. “No one helps me. I have to do everything.”
“Well,” I said reasonably, “since you do everything, how about climbing over the counter and getting me my goddamn key!”

Watching Nacho maneuver himself awkwardly over the high counter was, up to that point, the highlight of my entire day. When he handed me the key, it was attached to a small log with the number five scrawled on it in fluorescent orange paint.
“Thank you,” I said.
Nacho said, “You’re welcome,” and then disappeared.

Leading off of the small circular lobby was a long, dark narrow corridor with doors running along both sides. Halfway down the left side I found number five. Naturally, the lock was oxidized. Badly bruising my knuckles on the absurd little log, I struggled forever to get it open. Finally, the blasted thing gave. I opened the door and stepped inside.

The damp, dim windowless room appeared to have been transferred intact from the set of Schindler’s List. Roughly the size of a mini-van, it contained two incredibly narrow bunk beds, another tree stump and a lamp with no bulb. Just for laughs, I picked up the small pillow from the bottom bunk. It was shaped like a football and felt lumpy to the touch, as if it had been filled with clumps of dirt.
It was getting dark now and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Removing two sweaters and a coat from my pack, I put them on and extracted my writing tablet and a couple of pens. The hotel, as far as I could tell, was totally deserted. At least I would get some writing done in peace—if I didn’t freeze or starve to death first.

Back in the small lobby once again, I eyed the handful of badly battered chairs set around the large empty fireplace. A fire would have made the place nice and cozy, I thought, and when several moments later Nacho returned, I asked him about the possibility of getting one going.
“Well, yes, a fire would be nice,” he replied, “but unfortunately I forgot to bring in the wood and now it’s too wet.” Then he disappeared again.

It was quite dark now so I turned on all of the lights and sat down to do some work. After several hours I was beginning to make some serious progress on the tangled ending of my novel. Then Nacho returned.
“Oh,” he said, “I see that you are writing.”
“Very observant,” I muttered without looking up.
“Yes, I have always had excellent vision.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Did you like the trout?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, adding in English, “you chicken-brained moron.”
“I caught them myself,” Nacho said proudly.
“With your bare hands?”
“No, I used a rod and reel – a gift from an appreciative guest,” he said suggestively. “I understand you ate six entire trout. You must have been hungry.”
“I’m still hungry.”
“Oh,” Nacho said. “Unfortunately, the kitchen is closed.”
“Naturally.”

For several minutes Nacho stood in the center of the room staring guiltily at the empty fireplace, while I stared at my writing tablet, praying he’d disappear again.
“I hope the high altitude here is not affecting you adversely,” Nacho said, just as I was beginning to regain my lost train of thought.
“No,” I said, “but the damp freezing air is giving me a sinus headache.”
“Well, in that case,” Nacho suggested, “you should drink the juice of several limes. Limes contain a great deal of vitamin C.”
“Really? Do you have any limes?”
“No.”
I picked up my pen and began writing again.

“The altitude here affects many of our visitors who are not used to it,” Nacho said. “We are at an elevation of four thousand, one hundred and twenty two meters, which in feet would be…”
“Wait a minute!” I said, dropping my pen. For the first time I took a good long look at him. There was something eerily familiar about his face.

“You know,” Nacho said, “I’m afraid I must apologize for the lack of amenities here. I have tried to improve things, but no one listens to my suggestions. For example, in my opinion, the hotel should have been built closer to the pools. As it is, our guests must walk a total of 75 meters from the hotel to the pools, and then another 75 meters from the pools back to the hotel. To me, this seems an excessive amount of distance. What is your opinion?”
“So what was your suggestion, Nacho, that they move the hotel, or that they move the pools?”

“Also,” Nacho said, ignoring my question, “there is an important lack of cultural background available to the guests. Did you know, for example, why the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs are called the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs?”
“Yes.”
“Well then,” Nacho said, “you are one of the lucky few. Towels are another of our shortcomings. In my opinion, our towels are rather small. In fact, they measure only …”

“Excuse me, Nacho,” I said, repressing the urge to take my pen and drive it through his heart. “How old are you?”
“I am 21 years old. I was born on November 20, which you may not realize, since you are a foreigner, is an important date in Mexican history. On that date 100 and…”
“And you were born where?”
“I was born right here at the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs. My mother was the maid at the time and …”
“And your father?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, he died before I was born. That is why I was never able to get to know him personally.”
“That’s too bad,” I said consolingly. “If he was already dead, getting to know him personally must have been difficult.”

“Yes, but my mother gave me his name,” Nacho said. “In honor of his memory. I will be honest with you. I am very unhappy here. One day I may have to resign my position. It’s all the manager’s fault. He has very poor judgement. For example, when you checked in, I feel he should have informed you of the fact that tomorrow we are expecting a large group; one of the largest we have ever had. I am afraid that all of the rooms have been booked, so you will have to leave. Check out time is officially 9 a.m., but I’m certain that if you wish to stay until 10, or even 10:30, that will not present a problem.”

“What?”
“Tomorrow, we are expecting a large group; one of the largest we have ever had. I am afraid…”
“Nacho?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
I made it back to Vallarta late the following afternoon. The first thing I did upon my arrival was to call my friend, the other Nacho.

“Back so soon?” he said. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story. By the way, Nacho, were you by any chance at the Netzahualcoyotl Hot Springs around the 20th of February in 1978?”
There was a long silence on the line while Nacho did some mental arithmetic. “Yes,” he said finally, “how in the world did you know that?”
“Nacho,” I said, grinning maliciously into the mouthpiece, “Are you sitting down?”