The Mexico Incident

By Norman Kelley

Street violence in Mexico's tourist areas follow a 1990 financial meltdown, brought to life through two Americans left behind after a major evacuation effort by the U.S. Navy.  These Americans tell their story of escape, integrating involvement by US. Navy personnel, The White House, the Mexican government, a middle class Mexican family together with a radical and unstable Mexican professor who seeks a new Mexico.

Financial crisis is almost a regular event in Latin America but this differs from most, spinning  out of control, bringing together  a  political crisis to the White House, international conflict with a Mexican governor, and on through the respective armies, to Mexicans and Americans caught up in the ensuing violence. Common Americans and Mexicans, each with their own personal stories to tell, illustrate the quick effect that politics can have on ordinary citizens. Ultimately, the crisis is resolved in major part due to the insights and unusual bravery of Americans and Mexicans.

The President, military leadership, U.S. Navy initiatives, street violence, recession, romance and legal punishment are all a part of The Mexican Incident.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PTP Book Division
• Release date: Aug 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386088127

Norman Kelley

Norman Kelley has been a resident of Mexico, Central Africa and Saudi Arabia as well as considerable worldwide travel and understands the workings of developing countries that are not obvious to tourists. Kelley also has worked for the U.S. Government on an overseas assignment in the Middle East, as a consultant to an African government, as well as an executive with the California government and  a consultant to Alaska.  Kelley and his wife Patricia live in Oceanside, California where he writes, builds model ships and occasionally enjoys a scotch as the sun sets over the Pacific. He holds a Bachelor of Science degree from New York State University (SUNY). Kelley can be reached at [e-mail].

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Prologue

From Africa to Mexico, 1962

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The Katanga was a high stakes effort to create a modern country in Africa. Today there remains controversy over the motives for the Katanga province’s secession from the new Republic of the Congo. The Congo declared independence in June 1960 and the Katanga seceded one month later. Some believe the motive was simple greed in order to maintain control over copper mining interests in Katanga province. Others insisted it was an honorable effort to create a modern country apart from a huge and unmanageable Congo. The Katanga proceeded to create a government, currency, army and all of the accoutrements of a nation, but had recognition from only a few nations. International controversy immediately erupted, warfare followed with the UN on the side of the Congo. The Katanga technically ended in January 1963. Practically, it was finished and in chaos in early 1962.

Ultimately, the Congo remained geographically intact but along with it, depravity, starvation, disease and corruption on a large scale, lasting for decades. Even today, fifty-five years later, the U.N. pursues investigations into the death of United Nations Secretary General. Dag Hammarskjold, killed in an airplane crash destined for Ndola, Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia) for peace talks. Opinions continue to rage: was it an assassination or an accident? The Congo remains primitive and it will probably take another century to sort it all out. Some believe that The Katanga was a step in the correct direction.

This then, is the story of Americans Tony Ward and Mike Genard, recruited by The Katanga as snipers, but now exiting the failed country under extreme conditions and, ultimately, on to Mexico.

Lilongwe, Malawi, central Africa

1962

For a week, Ann and I luxuriated in being together, free from violence and enjoying life. Our escape to Malawi erased the threat to our fragile lives of just a few days before. The capitol city, Lilongwe, was idyllic and dream-like in comparison to The Katanga. We were in a modern hotel with clean sheets, good food, a swimming pool and much loving. The immediate past brought tears to our eyes when we looked back on our trying to conduct a romance in the middle of a civil war. It was beyond belief we were finally together and reasonably safe. The operative word here is ‘reasonable’. After all, this was still central Africa.

Comfortable as we were, when we ventured outside the walls of the hotel, the crunching poverty and hopelessness of Africa presented itself in full color. If the kids dressed in rags did not tell the tale, their diet explained it all: corn mush and if lucky, cooked termites, or maybe a piece of fish.

We were reluctant to get serious about anything except having a good time, but there was no future in Malawi. In some respects, the hotel had become a prison and we both thought a life in Africa was probably not realistic. It was great for an interlude from war, but we had to come up with a plan and after a week, we decided to face the future. Holing up in a near luxury hotel was great fun but we had to pick up the pieces and look ahead

We knew when our friend Mike Genard left Ndola in Northern Rhodesia for Cape Town, his intention was to look up Renee Stolz, as he was convinced this would be the start of a new life, even though they had not had a single date. To be fair, the final chaos of life in Elisabethville did not lend itself to orderly dates. Renee had left before everything went to hell in a handbasket and she was obviously the smartest one in our little group. On the other hand, she had managed a telex to Mike, mentioning she had acquired a new apartment overlooking the South Atlantic Ocean and asked if he could visit. After that, it was difficult to keep him focused on our final duties and contracts in The Katanga. When our world came unglued, there was no doubt his destination was Cape Town. Assuming Mike and Renee had hit it off and had come up for air by now, we decided Cape Town would be our first stop.

Stop number two would be Brussels, where Ann’s parents had fled as The Katanga became shaky. Ann’s only communication was a telex explaining that she was now married and had left their family home in Elisabethville to the hordes of unmanaged soldiers, particularly the U.N. supported Congolese soldiers and we would see them soon. This message prompted a deluge of telexes to our hotel. ‘You are married? Who is it? When did it happen?’ It must have been a wrenching decision for Ann’s parents to leave their twenty-two-year-old daughter behind in Elisabethville, however, she was a nurse at the local hospital and as an idealistic young woman and she thought everything would work out. It did not and importantly, her parents did not know there had been no marriage at all, the only ceremony being a ring consisting of a flimsy paper band from a cheap cigar.

We talked about California but delayed a decision. Ann could not shake her belief that Bakersfield was just around the corner from Malibu and Beverly Hills. It would take some time to unravel the myth I had created. On the other hand, how could I have otherwise received Ann’s attention?

We struggled through day number eight but then decided to get moving. We procrastinated over our departure with a moonlight dinner at the pool and even discussed staying another week, but abandoned the idea by the next morning.

It had been a kind of an artificial world, as there were only about twenty residents in a hotel designed for sixty. There was just not enough money or commerce in Lilongwe to fill all of those rooms, nor was there any apparent future for us in still another newly independent country. On the morning of the ninth day, Ann packed her huge suitcase with clothes and medical books that represented her entire life in Africa, while I stuffed my belongings into a duffel bag along with $35,000 well-worn bills, two P.38 pistols and a spare change of cammies. Ann continued to monitor the location of her .357 magnum pistol and never left the room without it. In her mind, chaos and violence was always just around the corner and she might have been correct.

The next day we booked a flight on Air Malawi’s single airplane to Cape Town via Johannesburg. Renee had called several times, excited about our visit and she also brought up Mike in almost every sentence, so we assumed their romance was in full bloom.

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Cape Town

We easily cleared entrance into South Africa because in 1962 no one cared about guns or thousands of dollars in cash. We just walked right through customs, declaring nothing at all. When we got to the arrival area, there was Mike and Renee literally jumping up and down, waving their arms and it was no wonder. Renee had left The Katanga when it was relatively quiet, departing Elisabethville on a scheduled flight and had quickly started a new job with a newspaper in Cape Town. ‘Quiet’ was a relative term, because even then, the Congolese army was on the march and the Balubas were attacking soft targets wherever they could, not because they had any particular political objective but that is what they did: killing people in the most barbaric way possible and then, at times, eating them. For Mike, Ann and I, leaving was much, much worse as The Katanga simply imploded. Officials in the government, good men, committed suicide or simply disappeared. We had stayed until the last elastic limit and departed in airplanes, busses and helicopters. It was a dicey exodus and it was amazing we all ended up in Cape Town with no bullet holes or other injuries.

After all the hugs and backslaps, we loaded into Mike’s little VW and headed toward town, which was an amazing sight. Clean streets, bars, restaurants and people walking around without fear from a rampaging mob. Truly, it was another world. Still, something seemed odd and disconnected and I finally grasped the obvious. African countries are overwhelmingly black but here, you could see hundreds of white people walking around town. In Lilongwe, Ann and I had remarked we could walk around the small downtown area for a week and see maybe one or two white people. The Dutch, on the other hand, had settled Cape Town, in the 1600’s and had displaced much of the black population, but acceptability 300 years ago was quickly becoming unacceptable in the 1960s. An example of the eventual end of apartheid was visible when we drove near the outskirts of town. This was ‘District Six’, a traditional colored area for 80,000 people destined to be cleared by bulldozers in a couple of years to become a ‘white’ development. After we left Africa, we learned the entire community was gone and nothing existed except the grid marks of the street system. The former inhabitants were relocated to other townships in the ‘flats’. A community destroyed, a slum created. Renee introduced naive me to the South African system, which did not particularly surprise Ann, although she was in disagreement with the policy. It was a total shock to me and was exactly the kind of social separation we planned to eliminate in The Katanga. How could this exist? How could a relatively few white people control the destiny of many millions of blacks? For me, it was one reason why eventually I decided this was not the country for me. More importantly, this seemed like an incubation period destined to explode. Even though we had been remote from worldly events, we understood that the ‘60s were a tumultuous time and issues such as these had brought riots and upheaval in many countries, including the US. I doubted that Cape Town would be exempt.

These observations became obstacles for our plans, but in the near term, took a back seat to the happiness of being safe and together. When we parked in front of Renee’s tiny apartment, the women were still chattering away but I was already wondering how this was going to work. It was a little confining for newlyweds. Still, our enthusiasm over being in a modern city overcame all of my doubts. There were no guns on the streets, no soldiers harassing civilians, no boarded-up buildings. This was paradise. Despite District Six.

When settled in, the stories and the partying started. The beer flowed and the steaks were superb. There were never ending stories to tell and I had to remind myself I had put Mike on a plane only two weeks before. Ann and I had left Elisabethville in a Jeep to Northern Rhodesia and she continued on to Malawi on a final flight. I was the unluckiest one, travelling on a cross-country bus through central Africa. Ann had spent her last night in Ndola locked in a tiny room at the American Consulate. As the drinks flowed, she laughed and told the story about Counselor Officer Vinson. It was Vinson’s creative thinking, placing a paper cigar ring on her finger establishing our marriage, allowing a Belgium citizen to stay in an American facility. More seriously, it was amazing that Vinson got Mike and Ann on flights and me on a bus. Without Vinson, we would still be in Ndola, or possibly in a ditch. It all somehow seemed years ago, yet it was still very fresh in our minds.

Renee’s small apartment was something else. On the second day, we talked about finding a place of our own and Renee and Mike helped us scour the city. Who knew? We might be permanent. There were many doubts but not any final decisions. For now, we thought the negatives exceeded the positives but we also thought we should not decide these things on the first day. By the next afternoon, we had a small apartment with a patio overlooking a unique expanse of water where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic Ocean. Some called it the South Atlantic. No matter, this was at land’s end. The next continent was Antarctica.

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The Clinic

Except for the time Renee worked at the newspaper, the four of us were inseparable. We bounced around Cape Town in the VW with Renee showing us the city. We were enjoying the restaurants, sitting on the beach, barbecuing and enjoying the fact there was no torture, or guns. More importantly, there was certainly no cannibalism or concern that death could be just around the next corner.

I could not tell if Mike was excited about living here or not. Renee put all that to rest. They could have been in the middle of the Sahara and it would have been fine with Mike.

While life was a complete dream in our apartment, after about a week we became curious about the surrounding area and borrowed Mike’s VW for a drive up the coast toward Namibia. This is where the South Atlantic becomes the plain old Atlantic and as we drove north with no particular destination, the surroundings became rural tending toward primitive. ‘Primitive’ brought back memories of the miserable trip I had made from Ndola to Malawi in a bus, which revealed all of the hardships Africa has to offer. Like central Africa, we noticed there were small villages scattered around, although they were not usually on the highway. If you took a typical dirt road for about a mile, you would always find yourself in the middle of a tiny village. As we explored, we were back to mud walls, thatched roofs or maybe corrugated tin roofs for the ‘wealthy’. We took a few of these detours and found most villages consisted of ten or so houses surrounded by endless acres of maize. Little kids stared at us as we idled through and culturally, we were a very long way from the luxuries of Cape Town.

In one of those nameless villages, a little more developed than others, we found a tiny store where we had a lukewarm soft drink and talked to a wrinkled, ancient woman who sat on a stool behind a counter consisting of a board supported by two oil barrels. Interestingly, there is some kind of custom in these backwater places that you always receive a receipt for any purchase, which in this case were two canned drinks. She carefully placed two carbon papers between small pieces of paper, wrote out the sales receipt and handed us the original. I had to wonder what kind of an accounting system these places maintained. As we relaxed, a small group of kids gathered around, looking at us for entertainment. White people in rural African villages, even in 1962, were curiosities.

I asked the old woman if they had a school and in a language I did not understand, she immediately issued an order to the kids. She said, They will take you to their school.

We followed and Ann said, I wonder if we were messing up her rush hour? We had a good laugh as I stuffed the receipt in my pocket and we followed the kids up a dirt trail. After about a quarter mile, one of the older kids spread his arms out and said, School. It took a minute but we figured it out. This was a grassy area situated under a huge tree. There was a blackboard leaning against the tree with a stool for the teacher. We later learned these ‘schools’ were the only way out of the villages, with only a tiny number of top students making it on to organized middle schools and a much tinier group on to high schools. Theoretically, college was possible, but practically, the odds were about zero. Renee told us there was no horseplay or fooling around at schools like this one. No matter how crowded the class might be, or how young the students, the kids knew this was decision time. Either they made it or they were destined to a life of tending maize crops, eating mush and generating a whole new generation of poor kids.

We made a loop around the ‘school’ with a dozen kids following and we ran into a health clinic, made of concrete bricks, painted white with a big red cross on the wall. Being a nurse, Ann had to look. We poked our heads into the open door and there was a room about twenty-five feet long with benches along the walls. Several people were waiting for treatment. One old man had a rag wrapped around his foot oozing some kind of fluid. Three women were quietly attending a crying baby and a young couple held hands, waiting silently. At the end of the waiting room, there was an opening into what appeared to be an examination room and a small office and storage room off to the side. The patients looked up at us with a ‘what are you doing here’ question on their faces. We peeked into the examination room and there was a young white woman and a black man treating a teenage boy, sprinkling some kind of powder on a wound. They nodded to us but continued their work until they had bandaged the patient’s leg and the woman walked over to us, while the man got the boy on his feet, ready for the next customer. The woman introduced herself as Peggy Ernst, a Peace Corps volunteer nurse, an organization recently created by President Kennedy. Amazingly, she was from Taft, California, a fading little oil town only 35 miles from Bakersfield. Imagine that. We were both many thousands of miles from home only thirty-five miles apart. My only contact with Taft was an annual football game with Bakersfield High but here in Africa it was like old home night. The two nurses hit it off right away and Ann helped Peggy with the rest of the patients, while chattering away about treating sick people in the bush. The man was a Mr. Stock, who pointed to a certificate on the wall describing some kind of technician status. Both of them kept busy for over an hour and they were happy for Ann’s help. I sat on a stool along the wall and was just amazed at Ann’s competency and her willingness to step in and help.

Mr. Stock spoke reasonable English and explained the common problems they faced. The population was always barefoot and puncture wounds and foot problems were a daily problem. I thought some cheap boots or sandals could eliminate many of their medical problems but there I was again, thinking about changing things not bothering the natives.

Mr. Stock, who explained we should just call him ‘Stock’, began to feel more comfortable with the two of us and he explained all the other problems he and the villagers faced. Broken limbs, malaria, insect bites, a tendency toward dehydration among young people and the absence of protein due to a constant diet of corn mush, called ‘Nsema’. All of this taking place in a tiny clinic where these two handled ailments with the most basic medical equipment. Stock had been a nurse in a Cape Town hospital and said after a year, he was still adapting to the primitive challenges only 100 miles from a modern city. Stock and Peggy’s quarters were bedrooms attached to the clinic and they lived exactly like the natives.

She explained that every four weeks a van would stop by to pick up her and several other Peace Corps volunteers in the general area and take them to training sessions in Cape Town. She blushed and said, It is primarily just a sneaky way to get us out of the bush, staying in a modern hotel for a day or two and eating decent meals. Plus, a social means of talking about home, watching a movie and so on, before being carted back to the clinic. It made me proud to be an American, especially knowing here were young people doing something productive, as opposed to Mike and me killing people at 1700 yards.

Eventually we said our goodbyes with hugs and handshakes and vowed to get together. Ann held back a little and I heard her ask Peggy, How far is Bakersfield from Malibu? I will never live that one down.

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Rescue

We hit the asphalt road and continued north into Namibia and all Ann could talk about was the work Stock and Peggy were doing out here with practically no resources. And all of this so close to Cape Town with its shops, restaurants, fine homes and modern medical facilities. Abruptly, the chitchat suddenly ended.

Ann put a hand to her mouth and yelled, Stop. Go back.

I left the black top, skidded into the dirt, asking, What is wrong?

She looked shocked and said Back up. Back up, I crunched the transmission into reverse and slowly backed up, not knowing what the emergency was. In a couple hundred feet, I saw the problem. Ann said, Stop, I did not need any urging. Sitting upright in the dirt beside the road was a tiny child, sitting upright, all alone and seemingly oblivious to the surroundings, just staring into space. Before we came to a stop, Ann had the door opened and ran to the child. She sat down beside the little waif, picked her up and began wiping the flies from the child’s mouth and around her eyes and wrapped her sweater around the tiny little body. The child was clothed in some kind of a flour sack and clung to a small doll looking like an old towel. It had eyes painted on it and this little tyke was not letting go of it. I jumped out of the car to help Ann and began surveying the area. Could someone have just abandoned this tiny child? I walked about a mile around the area and as far as I could see, there was nothing but scrub bush.

When I got back to Ann, she announced this was a little girl and she was in desperate condition. Even though we found her sitting up, she must have been suffering terribly. Ann stood, hugging the child and headed for the car, where she put a water bottle to her lips. She did drink a little but her eyes had a strange far-away look. As I walked around the car, I saw the doll on the ground and gave it to Anne through the window and the little girl immediately came to life, grabbed and hugged the doll to her body.

Good sign, said Ann and without taking another breath said, Let’s get back to that clinic right now. We might lose this little girl if we don’t act fast. A small piece of paper fluttered to the ground with some writing on it so I stuffed it into my pocket, started the car and made a quick U-turn back toward the village.

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Liz

In a cloud of dust, we skidded to a stop in front of the clinic, which sent several scrawny chickens scattering. Peggy came to the door, wondering what was causing the commotion and she quickly figured out her newest friends had a crisis. Ann and Peggy hurried to the examination table and laid the tiny child on a soft cloth as she began to cry. Ann had a different take than I. A good sign. We must be quick. We have to get an IV going. This little bundle is terribly dehydrated. I followed them into the exam room where Peggy professionally wiped an area on the baby’s wrist and Ann found a microscopic vessel and started the solution into the tiny body. In about ten minutes, the baby dozed off, still clinging to her little doll.

All four of us sat on stools and just gazed at the sleeping child. I asked Stock, How could this happen? How could someone abandon a small life?

Stock responded, This happens more often than you would think. I do not know what happened in this situation but oftentimes the child’s parents are sick or dying and they hope someone will come along and care for the child. The problem is, that usually does not happen and, in this case, the child would be dead by morning had you not picked her up. We’ll look around the area but it is unlikely we will find anyone who will claim her.

The short explanation: this is Africa. Here we were 100 miles from a modern city and this happens? What a cruel, fucking world. I was descending into a real funk when I remembered the piece of paper stuck to the child and dug around in my pocket and pulled it out. There was writing on it in a language I had never seen and passed it over to Stock.

He studied the writing for a few minutes and said, This is very unusual. It is in Amharic, one of the Ethiopian languages. He went to a shelf, took a dusty old book down and said, This is a book on African languages and maybe I can figure out what it says. There are only three words. He thumbed through the pages and settled in on one and intently studied it. I looked over his shoulder and saw the book was really just some common phrases for each of hundreds of languages. He ran a finger along a page, moved from one page to another and said, I think I have it, or at least close. It says, ‘Please be kind’. Then three of us cried as we looked down on the child, sleeping soundly, hugging her doll. Stock was dry eyed. He was sad but he explained this situation was common. You have to accept these things."

An hour later, the child began to shiver, despite her light blanket wrap. Ann picked her up, hugging her, said, What will become of her?

Stock shook his head and said, She is obviously not from this area and might be a part of a family from Ethiopia working on some kind of a contract but I really don’t understand this. Ethiopia is almost an entire continent away, so this is a real mystery. The local people will be reluctant to adopt her and, if she survives, she will probably end up in a primitive orphanage. Her outlook is very poor.

The IV ran its course and Ann wrapped the child and laid her on a cushion. She slipped off to sleep as Ann caressed her small body. We watched and talked for an hour about what to do, when the child awakened and grabbed Ann’s finger and held it with a very firm grip. Peggy made some kind of semi-liquid gruel and placed a few drops on the child’s lips; she opened her mouth, eager to eat.

Ann said, Not too much. This needs to be done slowly. After a few mouthfuls, Peggy reached over to the exam table, picked up the doll and placed it on the child’s chest and she quickly lost interest in the food, grabbing the doll and holding it to her. Soon she drifted back to sleep.

Ann said, We have to do something about this. We can’t allow this little life to be sent to some hell hole after surviving this horror.

I asked the obvious. What do you suggest?

Ann looked over to Stock and asked, Would it be possible for Tony and me to take her? I about fell over. It had not occurred to me Ann might be thinking in this direction. Did she actually want to adopt? We were not even married.

Stock put his hand to his chin and thought for a minute or two. I had noticed he was a very thoughtful person. Accompanying every question with a pause, he considered every aspect of the question. His answers were informative and factual. It would be the humane thing to do but there would be many complications. Where had she come from? Who is the person depositing her by the roadway? Can we find that person? Could she have come from an outlying village? Could there be a relative? Then there is the government. Even in this situation and location, you cannot just pick up a little girl and take her away.

Ann looked puzzled. Hers was a world of fixing problems. Her thinking was bring me a sick person and I will try to heal them. She seemed flummoxed by the potential of some bureaucratic obstacle. The child had been only an hour or so away from almost certain death and whoever abandoned her with that note stating ‘Please be kind’ surely hoped someone would take her.

Ann picked up the child, still bundled in a small blanket and we walked outside and sat on a concrete bench. I had to be the bad person. Ann, we are planning to go to Brussels for a visit then maybe on to California and we’re taking along a native child?

Ann did not accept my hesitation. We cannot let this happen. This is an innocent, helpless tiny person. At least in the short term we need to nurse her back to health. Please be with me on this. I saw so much of this in the hospital in Elisabethville. Babies with some kind of disease, even a simple illness, left to die. We can postpone any permanent decision on adoption. I don’t even know if that is possible.

That did it. There was no way I could deny Ann. At this point, she was my complete life. All I could say was, OK.

We stayed with Peggy and Stock for three days on makeshift cots and cared for the child. I reached Mike and he wondered where in the hell we were with his car. Reluctantly, I told him the whole story and there was silence at the other end of the line.

Then he said, Are you nuts? How can you adopt a kid? Do you recall all the guy in Ndola gave you was a paper cigar ring?

I said, "All good points. We’ll see