The three unexpected visitors riding into a remote Jalisco pueblo in October 1968 seemed more than a bit reckless.
For local observers, the three seemed dangerously rash. There was a good chance that some flavor of Mexican armed forces were near by, looking for strangers on the run. These dusty riders seemed an obvious fit for what federales were seeking. The fact that one was a North American increased the possibility of federal interest.
Yet silently that North American — Spencer Adams, riding at a leisurely trot — appeared to ignore such a conclusion. He seemed unconcerned that he might be heading for certain trouble.
But he trusted his friend, Selmo Rios, and his about-to-be l6-year-old daughter, Yoli. Both assured him that a family friend, who seemed to have no official standing, ran this small, isolated village. Evidently, the unexpected appearance of friends of that man would “probably” not prompt a gush of gossip. The threesome was supposed to assume that remote rural Jalisco villages were incurious about strangers showing up at moments of national emergency. Especially in the immediate wake of the government’s October 2, 1968 student massacre at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in the Tlatelolco sector of Mexico City.
More than 300 students and civilians were said to have been killed, and thousands were on the run from the armed forces and riot police. (The count of 300 killed, is still peculiarly agreed upon by many sources, including — it is said — some students and their allies. But many who were on the receiving end of government gunfire at Tlatelolco have never believed that “small” number.)
Whatever some people still believed, the threesome riding into the small pueblo that day was not among them. Yet they rode into that tiny rural town confident one man’s personal influence would protect them.
They stopped at a tile-roofed, adobe-sided house that seemed to serve as a home. Actually it was proudly called a meson, and sitting at a dented tin Cerveza Corona table outside was a man named Guicho. He wore a hard-used leather vest. Spencer was certain that under the vest was a conveniently-placed pistol.
He was the former equivalent of a mayor, who had offended national authorities by going to Mexico City to look for his student son. For someone of his thin agricultural income to put his son (even with the help of relatives) in the National University was an awesome accomplishment. Guicho went to Mexico City to bring his son home, away from government threat. But by the time Guicho got to the capital, his son had disappeared. Had he joined a group of student rebels, or simply hidden?
Guicho had been visited by a federal police off-shoot at the order of President Diaz Ordaz’s office. After some rigorous questioning — scars of which still marred his limbs — Guido was stripped of his municipal government seat, and further threatened if he was discovered hiding his son from authorities. And Jalisco authorities were ordered not to allow Guicho to occupy any local government position of any kind.
Now, a small boy, maybe 10-11 years old, ran beside Guicho’s horse as he joined us. “Señor, Señor, my papa has a secret for you.” He pulled on Selmo’s left pants leg and whispered at him. When the kid disappeared, Selmo said, “A detour.” Guicho nodded and led them out of the pueblo, into a wooded brecha. There, a man waited astride a black gelding. He and Selmo gave each other abrazos and began to hastily exchange information. The man squinted around and turned away into a thick copse.
There he stopped. “No one knows where your boy is. Rumor is he’s just missing, but not killed or captured. Which is very good. The federales are torturing many students to death, including girls.” He glanced at Yoli. “Friends have warned him not come home or be seen here. Too many pendejos.”
“But he is safe?” Selmo asked.
“Depends how smart the people he is with really are. Smart students are not experienced fighters, or guerrillas. They have to think differently — evil, like killers.”
“What can we do?” asked Spenser.
“Don’t attract attention. Don’t go home. They’ll be watching.”
“What of those who are fighting in Guerrero, Chiapas?” said Selmo.
“Too many. Attracts attention.”
“A big city where no one knows him?”
“Not Mexico City, or maybe even Guadalajara,” Spencer ventured. “Something of size, but not with a rebellious reputation.”
“Students nearly everywhere are rebelling.” Spencer added. “He needs some place conservative. Some place Catholic?”
“Where priests want to avoid trouble,” Selmo said. “But he wouldn’t stay there.”
“If he gets across the border,” Spencer said, “I have some people who will help him. But if he’s determined to commit suicide, he going to do it, no matter where he’s goes. He’s got to know that the students are right but they don’t have the know-how, the weapons or the allies. It’s a dream that Cuba will help them.” The other’s frowned at Spencer. “I can explain it,” he said. “But it’ll take an hour or so.”
Resolutely, they spread out and finally found the young man in Guadalajara’s huge San Juan de Dios Market. He was both working and enlisting workers to join the “revolution.” It was Yoli and Spencer who finally exhausted his reluctance. The idea was to have the light-skinned Mino asses the student movement’s progress from a semi-Mexican Los Angeles neighborhood. When it was apparent that the student movement was not going to wage a full-tilt war with the Mexican government, and that the government was making gestures of calmness, we got him some gringo papers and he entered a junior college. Soon he was studying in Mexico City, though he continued to be doubtful and careful. Then, after graduation, as a Mexican journalist in South America, he remained both watchful and doubtful.
(The last of a series looking at the 1960s government student killings.)