Back to Oaxaca
Saskia and I returned straight to the hotel, checked out and drove to Puebla for the night. With three surfboards on the top we’d stand out like earrings on the Pope, but at least we could do all our driving in daylight.
The return trip was mostly silent. There wasn’t much either of could say. Saskia wanted to be dropped at the villa and I decided not to go back to the hotel. Instead I camped the night beside the Rio Atoyac with my little automatic.
As often happens when praying like crazy for help, it arrived the next morning in the form of Bob and Susie Beadle from California in their VW campervan. Bob was an old surfing buddy and I’d met his beautiful Brazilian wife shortly after they’d returned to California from Brazil. Back in California, Bill Cleary had told them that I was on my way to El Salvador and they had hoped to catch up with me there. But they had no idea I was in Oaxaca – and I had no idea they were on their way to Costa Rica.
Bob and Susie met in Rio de Janeiro when he was working as a journalist. Like many journalists in those turbulent times, Bob had been arrested by the thugs who worked for the military government and thrown into one of Brazil’s notorious prisons. What he saw and experienced during that violent period could easily fill another book.
My friends listened patiently as the kidnapping story unfolded and Bob, who had some experience in such matters, assessed my situation as being “dangerously vulnerable.”
“Keep the bastards guessing,” he advised. “Don’t ever let them know what you’re doing. And above all, keep them worried about that press conference. It’s the only bargaining card you have.” They insisted on watching my back until the kidnapping saga was resolved and I could join them on the road.
“Come on Feigel,” urged Susie. “We could be like those Western wagon trains and park in a circle when the Indians attack.” “But we only have two wagons,” I countered. “Ohhh … don’t be such a poop, Feigel.”
The following day I sold my car stereo and tape collection to a local businessman for significantly more than I paid for them. Another prayer answered, I also received a bank draft for a thousand dollars, loaned to me by a trusting friend named Roger Hanson, and was able to turn it into traveler’s checks.
That afternoon Saskia was contacted by the local police who told her that the authorities would send a car drive her to Tuxtla Gutiérrez to pick up Stefan and then fly them back to Mexico City. By this time she had no idea whether she was dealing with the Army or the Federales and neither did I. But one thing was certain, as much as she wanted to get to Stefan, she was not about to drive off into the sunset with potential rapists. She asked if I would see her through this last ordeal, “Besides, I want you to meet the little boy you saved.” All I could say was, “Yes.”
Before we left the next morning, I made a phone call to Saskia’s parents and told them briefly what had happened. I then turned the phone over to a subdued Saskia. I also phoned a friendly journalist in Mexico City to ensure someone trustworthy knew our plans. Later Saskia confided that her parents were sending money for her to fly herself and Stefan back home.
| Kidnap in Oaxaca © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All rights reserved |
Pieces from a Puzzling Life 