In front of me is Anastasio with a machete sticking out of his face. Dead. There was nothing I could do. Even as a doctor. This rural clinic, equipped with used bandages, basic auscultation equipment and some odd bits of medicine for treating infections and minor injuries is not a place for performing miracles. I pull at the metal and the black blood seeps out. When it stops, I ask one of the young orderlies to help me clean it up. He leaves with the dirty rags, taking the rest of the people present with him. Once alone, I close the corpse’s eyes and turn off the gas lamp. It is now pitch black inside the hut. I head out into the village. The nights in San Teresa Ixcatepec, in Matamoros municipality, are so hermetic that the starlight explodes. I listen to the incessant hum of the cicadas.

Anastasio halted the animal which I was tied to with a piece of rope. He offered me a bowl full of water which he had filled from the river we had just crossed. Not far to go now, he said after we had quenched our thirst. I really need to pee, I have to get down from the donkey, I answered. He untied the knot and lowered me to the ground. When my feet touched the earth, I took off in the direction of the coffee crops, leaving the trail behind. I was laughing, the joy of mischief in my mouth. I had acted without thinking and from Anastasio’s annoyed expression it was clear he wasn’t happy. He came after me and the strength of his embrace frightened me and made me feel ashamed. Stop being silly, your father will be waiting for us to come up the hill.

Santa Teresa Ixcatepec is set in the north face of a hill. There is no electricity and no paving. Its houses are made of wood and have sloping palm-thatched roofs. Drinking water arrives via a pipe which carries it to the village’s ten taps. The only building made of brick is the school; the church and the town hall are made of stone. There is a basketball court where the band plays when there’s a party or when someone dies. Tomorrow they’ll play for Anastasio. Then they will lead the mourners down to the cemetery, which is located at the entrance to the village, as if to offer a welcome to anyone who visits this corner of the Sierra Madre.

My parents were there when I arrived. They and my two older brothers were putting the medicine that had been donated to the clinic away. Did he fall off the donkey? asked my mother. No, señora, I did what you told me, answered Anastasio. They thanked him for having travelled the five hours to collect me from the priest’s house in Santiago Puxmetacán. I went to go to sleep on the bedroll in the back. Being so young, long trips always seemed never-ending to me and made me sleepy. That’s why they had to tie me to the donkey.

I knock on the door of the town hall. The local authorities are inside, sombrely speaking Mixe in hushed voices. I explain that the relatives of the deceased may now see the body. The mayor dismisses his aide with a glance, who then stands up and leaves. I sit down in one of the hammocks and say: this must end. They agree but nobody says anything, save for an old man who gives instructions to the topil, the teenager doing his voluntary community work, in his native language. The topil goes to the wooden shelf and takes down a plastic jug full of mezcal. He serves me some in a glass with flowers painted on it.

A violent thunder storm wakes me up in the middle of the night. The clinic, a hut like any other in the village, also served as our home when we arrived in Santa Teresa Ixcatepec to do our social service during vacations. Through the bedroll, I could feel the humidity of the place rising up from the flattened undergrowth and I could see between the planks of wood that served as a wall. I watched the water gushing down the roofs made of palm leaves, illuminated by the flashes of lightening. The water never came in our direction. I was frightened when the lightening stopped and all that remained were the shadows and the sound of the rain and the wind. The rats were squealing up in the palm leaf-thatched roof. I got up and dragged the bedroll over to my parents’ one. I curled up next to mother.

The light is dim. The topil takes one of the gas lamps and, making a vacuum with his mouth, fills it with fuel that he extracts from a barrel with a hose. He puts the lid on, vigorously pumps air into it and lights a match. The west wing of the town hall is lit up once more. He repeats the process with the other lamp. As he does so, the first one goes out. We’re in darkness again. The mezcal doesn’t taste as strong in the shadows. I finish my glass and wonder if it would be a good idea to go to the house of the deceased, to Anastasio’s. But I get the feeling that everybody would prefer to stay where they are and keep drinking than to go anywhere. My glass is filled. I find it strange that no one has turned on the stereo, and say as much. There aren’t any batteries, says the mayor’s aide.

The next day the sun was shining as if the clouds from the previous night had never even existed. The paths around the village were covered with mud and it was difficult to walk down them without slipping. Even the path out of the clinic was muddy. The cuffs of my trousers got dirty and my boots got more clogged up with every step I took. About twenty meters down the trail was the house where we used to eat. One of the women from the village used to prepare breakfast for us. A plate of black beans and a gigantic tortilla spread with pork fat. Sometimes they would give us eggs or a glass of milk. I would usually cry because I didn’t like the food. My mother would tell me to be quiet and force me to finish my plate. She would smile uncomfortably at the cook, who didn’t understand much Spanish.

The mayor is drunk. He knocks the glass over when he tries to pick it up. Everyone laughs raucously at him, without trying to hide it. The laughter is infectious and I can’t help but join in. Then the silence resumes and I remember that there we aren’t playing any music because we don’t have any batteries. Nobody is willing to go knock on one of the closed shops, even when I offer to pay for the Evereadys. Merchants are the enemy, they betray the natural order of things, the community. Or at least that’s what the band of coffee farmers led by the village’s cacique says.

My brothers’ absence after breakfast puzzled me. I asked mother about them. They went down to the river early, she said. I want to go too. Sorry, there’s no one to go with you. I asked if Anastasio could take me on the donkey. Anastasio went planting and the crop fields are very far away from here. I started crying. The cook carried on with her work. She was plucking an old hen for lunch. Moments before I had watched in fascination as she had wrung its neck. Mother had just collected the pewter dishes. My outburst in front of the señora must have annoyed her because she stood up, abandoning the bucket she was washing dishes in, and took me out of the hut. While I was stood outside, a group of women walked past and found my tantrum amusing. That infuriated me. I ran at them with my fists raised. One of them grabbed me firmly by the wrists and said a few words in Mixe that made everybody laugh and led to further jokes at my expense. I went running to the clinic. To father.

These days there is a dirt road to Santa Teresa Ixcatepec. Before, just a couple of years ago, the only way to get to the village was through the pass, either on foot or by riding either a donkey, a mule, or a horse, for five hours. My father always preferred to go by donkey, claiming that they were best suited to the steep and narrow trails. I preferred donkeys too, although more because of their tender faces than for their suitability for the terrain. I used to insist that Anastasio’s donkey was mine and asked to be picked up and taken around on it. My little quirks didn’t bother Anastasio and he dragged the animal over the place to keep me happy. Now that there is a road, pack animals are not exploited quite as much. Trucks carry passengers, food, and materials, which is why commerce, although still in its infancy, has become profitable business. The village is changing rapidly. My parents are no longer able to come and see with their own eyes what is happening, they say they’re too old for those adventures now. Under this pretext, the baton of responsibility for Santa Teresa Ixcatepec’s healthcare was passed to me after my graduation.

I was still crying. My parents were sick of it. They asked a patient from towards the back of the line to go to the town hall to get one of the topiles to take me to the river. I stopped crying. Well then, said father and filled his syringe with an antibiotic. He tried to inject the patient three times and his needle broke each time. He asked him not to clench his buttocks so much. I found all this pretty surprising, but I wasn’t so surprised that I forgot about the river. When Crescencio arrived, I took some swimming trunks and a towel. Mother gave me a kiss and some insect repellent. The topil offered me his hand as the ground was still slippery. I refused and paid the price: a few meters down the road I fell and got mud on my t-shirt and the seat of my pants. Everyone laughed but I didn’t say said anything. I just carried on walking. On the way out of the village we crossed paths with a few other children. Several of them were barefoot and, unlike me, they weren’t wearing hats.

I leave the town hall and instantly regret not having brought the lantern with me, which must be bored sitting on that desk and doing nothing. Due to the mezcal, the ground beneath my feet feels more treacherous than it really is. This is the first time I have gotten drunk here in the village. A skinny dog appears from somewhere and follows me to the clinic. I kick it as it tries to come in and it leaves without making a sound. I take the lantern. On the way to Anastasio’s house, I have a change of plans. Feeling emboldened and wanting to have a go at being the peacemaker, I change direction and head for Cresencio’s. He is part of the family who own the shops.

As we descend, we tread sure-footedly down the gentle stretches and more carefully on the steep parts. The villagers had carved steps out of the earth along the most difficult stretches, but the day’s heavy rain had virtually washed them away. I had learnt my lesson and when I wasn’t sure where to tread next, I grabbed Crescencio’s hand and he guided my steps. He even carried me at times. The children from the village ran along without paying any mind to the lack of footing. One of them stopped in front of a bush, tore off a leaf and folded it in half, then put it to his mouth and with it produced a resounding whistle. A response came from far away, which he answered. I asked Crescencio what they were saying. Nothing, they’re just greeting each other. Can you show me how to do it? He took two leaves and started to explain, as best as he could, the different techniques for folding and blowing. I didn’t understand and immediately gave up trying to. I could now hear the river.

I enter the hut. There are photos and cut-outs from newspapers pinned to the wooden walls. I catch sight of a metal grill at the back of the room, behind which are cans of soft drinks and three boxes of canned sardines. There is no lamp so we sit down on a bench by the fire. Crescencio’s children must be sleeping behind the sheet hanging down from the ceiling which divides the room. His wife gives me a glass of sugar-water. The sugar-water makes me feel nauseous after all the mezcal, but I don’t refuse it and drink it down quickly. This fighting has got to end, I tell him. He answers that there’s nothing that can be done, that they aren’t going to give a share of their profits to the cacique. To the cacique? It’s for the village’s communal fund, to maintain the tequio, I assert. He shakes his head. My family does our share on the common land. The common lands fund the tequio. What about the shops? The shops are ours, they don’t belong to the community. Clarify that in the meeting tomorrow, I say to him as I put my hand on his shoulder. We will come prepared, he says. I stand up, light the lantern and start to make my way out. I plead with him to reconsider, saying that violence won’t solve anything and that the type of thing that happened to Anastasio should never happen. Crescencio’s eyes are full of guilt as he looks at me. Anastasio crossed paths with his own devil in the forest, he replies.

The river was getting louder and louder. It was so powerful. In the spaces between the trees and bushes, I could catch glimpses of the river shimmering below. I ran with the other children towards it. Even Crescencio allowed himself to get caught up in the enthusiasm. In one hand he steadied the sheathed machete he carried in his pants and with the other he held the knapsack. We let out excited cries as we ran, our footsteps raising clouds of dust and causing the pebbles on the path to fly. My brothers caught sight of us and turned around to watch us from the river below, calling for us to join them. I wrapped the towel around my waist, took off my pants and underwear and put on my swimming trunks. The other children stripped naked and we headed towards the part of the river where the water was shallow. Our clothes were piled up on the shore. Once we were in the water, we started to splash each other. Now that we were soaked through, we headed to the deeper part. Twenty meters up was a rock which served as our diving board and higher still, the waterfall.

I arrive at the wake and have more mezcal diluted with coffee. I offer my hand to the widow. In Santa Teresa Ixcatepec, it’s not normal to offer your hand as a greeting, least of all to the women, but I do so as a sign of respect. The body, wrapped in a sheet with a blood stain where it covers the corpse’s face, is lying on the floor on a bedroll and is surrounded by lamps. The rest of the house is lit up by Coleman lamps borrowed from the town hall. Some people are standing while others are sitting on sacks full of grain. Outside, a racket is picking up: it’s the mayor, even more drunk than he was last time I saw him. He’s carrying a pistol in his belt. I go out to calm him down. He tells me that he has come looking for the store owners, that they are the ones who murdered his friend. I tell him not to be rash and offer him a drink, which calms him down a bit. We sit down on stools fashioned from logs. I don’t care if I die, he confesses. He doesn’t seem quite as drunk as he says this and I don’t get the feeling it’s the alcohol that’s doing the talking. My children are grown up, no one is dependent on me. Is it about money? I don’t care about the money, I care about the village. Then he starts talking like a drunk again and I decide it’s best if I leave. On the way to the clinic I stop by the town hall  and ask the topil to go to Santiago Puxmetacán and fetch the soldiers, without saying a word to anyone.

There were stones in the river, green ones, coffee-coloured ones and grey ones. Some of them were the same size of my feet and covered with moss. The smallest ones were good for skimming and we threw them towards the shores. As we floated belly-up in the calm water, the children from the village said a few words in Spanish. Their Spanish was pretty limited so they thought carefully before they spoke. Their pronunciation was fast and they couldn’t form sentences so the words they said came out in isolation. My brothers and I only knew one Mixe word: Meyepe. It meant hello. They laughed at our pronunciation. Meyepe. Hahahaha. Meyepe. Hahahahaha. We started swimming again, against the current, and we arrived at the big rock. The children from the village started climbing up the side of it then jumping off into the river. I was scared, but the sight of their bodies hitting the water was impressive and everyone was smiling. I geared myself up to jump. I went to the shore and grabbed on to the root of a tree while, carefully, I hoisted myself up. When I got up on top, I looked down. It scared me. I tried to climb down but that was even more difficult. They started shouting, jump, it’s fun, jump. I went to the edge and jumped. There I was, suspended in the air, terrified and fascinated at the same time. The sky was perfectly blue and the warm, shimmering water was waiting for me.

The noise of the instruments wakes me up. The mayor is making an announcement on the village’s PA system. I’m surprised to see him on his feet after the state he was in yesterday. When I arrive at the basketball court, the mourners head off to the cemetery. The women have covered their heads with shawls, even though there was no mass as the priest didn’t show up. The band played the deceased’s favourite song, Dios Nunca Muere. Anastasio is still wrapped in the same sheet and on top of the same bedroll from the wake. That is how they will bury him. The grave is waiting and it will be the same as any other tomb: no foundations, just death and a mound of earth with a wooden cross on top. The band stops and the eldest man in the village says a few prayers in Mixe that I don’t understand. They lower my friend down into the ground and quickly cover him up. No one is crying except some of the women. On the way out of the cemetery, the mourners cross paths with Crescencio and the other half of the village.

I hit the water and sank several meters down. I thought I was going to run out of air before I reached the surface. I didn’t. I came to the surfaced took a deep breath. My brothers congratulated me. They said it was a really cool dive. My legs were shaking, but I couldn’t resist doing it again. Nervously, I climbed up the rock a second time and jumped off. I repeated it as many times as I could. I was starting to learn how to do it without making a big splash and I was getting better at not sinking down so deep as well. As we were leaving, I looked back at the rock several times. Crescencio was still waiting on the shore, at the start of the trail. I told him about the diving on the way back. He didn’t pay much attention to what I was saying as it was getting dark, we didn’t have any lanterns and the ascent was going to be tough, two hours at my pace.

They look at each other with angry expressions. There are equal numbers of people carrying machetes on either side. I see that the mayor has the clasp on the holster of this pistol open. He is sweating out the mezcal from the night before and beads of it are running down his face. We’re not going to give you our money, says Crescencio. There are no longer any women or children among the mourners. I don’t know what to do. I only have two choices: watch or leave. One of the old men speaks. He must have suggested that we go to the basketball court. Once we have arrived, the villagers form a circle around the mayor and Crescencio. Neither one has put down their weapon. Voices come from the crowd, agitating in hushed, hurried tones. The soldiers arrive on the scene and surround us. The captain speaks Spanish with the two leaders, although he clearly understands Mixe. Then he comes over to me and orders me to collect my things. Some soldiers accompany me to the clinic and help me to pack. They lift me on the back of one of the trucks. The captain orders all his men to fall back and sits down at my side. The driver pulls out and the rest of the soldiers follow. We set off down the road. They’re going to kill each other, I implore to him. Exactly, he responds. We can’t stay. Or would you prefer me to kill everyone? I’m saving you, that’s all.

The ascent was tough. You would come to the top of a steep climb, have a meter that was flat than have to start climbing again. Crescencio noticed I was tired and that I couldn’t go on. He put me on his shoulders for a while, but the floor was slippery and if he fell we would both fall, so he put me down. My brothers took my things and pushed me up the slope. I started crying. Crescencio told me he would make me a knife out of wood if I carried on walking. That lifted my spirits a bit. But the slopes were too steep for me and I had to stop every three steps, I was exhausted after all the diving. The other children were getting worried. One of them, the oldest, quickened his pace. An hour later I saw him coming back down, followed by Anastasio. They had the donkey with them. They lifted me on to its back and told me not to fall asleep. I won’t, I told them, I’m big now. At that moment I made up my mind to go back to the river the next chance I got. I told the others. They were discussing the coffee harvest and the road that stopped short of the village.

The army trucks approach the river and cross at the part where the water is shallowest. The tyres dirty the water. Further down I can see the rock that I used as a diving board. I ask the driver to stop. I want to get off, I said. The captain looks at me scornfully and asks if I’m out of my mind. No, I reply. I want to go for a swim. Keep going. They throw my stuff down and continue on their way. I strip naked and dive into the deepest part. I swim quickly over to the rock. The water is cold, it is nine O’clock in the morning. By two in the afternoon I will have decided whether to return to Santa Teresasa Ixcatepec or to press on to Santiago Puxmetacán. For now, I will just dive into the river to see if I can stop feeling scared or if the water can wash away the blood-stained sheet.