We had picked up our connection on the highway between Guadalajara and Tequila.   He had been looking for us for two hours at the marketplace in Tequila, but he had finally given up and was hitchhiking back to his home in “Gaud”, when we spotted him on the highway and stopped.

We had been in the same market looking for him, too, but it is a really confusing conglomeration of shops and stalls. After a while all of the short little guys with dark tanned faces with heavy black mustaches becomes like something out of a Felinni film where everybody looked the same.

But at last we finally had him in the car with us and we were now all heading out to make our long anticipated deal for the pot. We had flown in jets, driven several cars into the ground, ridden horses and hitchhiked at least twice, in getting ourselves here from Dallas, Texas. So we were glad to be at least near the halfway point, in our little adventure.

We turned the scraped up dull green Plymouth Duster we were driving off of what passes for a freeway in Mexico, and onto a dirt road that took off into the vast fields of cactus plants that they cultivate for the tequila. They seem to stretch on to the horizon and beyond. The ruts we were following only varied in direction when the rows of cactus changed. Apparently it was going to take us a while to get to the meeting place because as I looked up from the backseat I could see that our connection’s head was bobbing up and down and his eyes were closed. How the hell could he tell us when to stop if he wasn’t watching?