Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (35 page)

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [Yajalon, Mexico] to Neal Cassady,
Carolyn Cassady, and Jack Kerouac [San Jose, California]

 

Yaljalon
March [
sic
: April] 4, 1954

 

Neal:

 

Carolyn:

 

Jack:

Forgive me for not answering your letter about spiritualism earlier. I received it in a kayuko in the Rio Michol traveling toward Salto de Agua when we met a messenger with months old mail, so I read it and a flippant letter from Claude [Lucien Carr] and Burroughs' messages under the trees leaning back on my knapsack while the Indians rowed in green crocodile water. That Neal is religious is a great piece of news: I always wondered what he would be like with some overpowering Awful thought humbling his soul to saintliness. But wait! I have been doing some magnificent deeds in the last week, and now am sitting in awful dumps all gone wrong and will tell you about it first.

I got to Salto with your letter two weeks ago. To make a long story short, I hitchhiked a plane ride into deeper Chiapas, Yajalon where all the earthquakes have been. I heard about Mt. Acavalna—Tzeltal for Night House? What does that mean—Refuge from Darkness, or Place to Suffer Darkness—casa obscura. A mystery. Acavalna (roll that name, its Blakean, on your lips)—in the mountains beyond Yajalon—haven't got time to tell you all the Mayan sierra and mystery forest ruins details, nor the meaning of names—Tumbala, Bachahon, Lancandon etc. But Acavalna is in that direction. According to geologists source of the quakes—still going on here every day after two months.

So in Yajalon with 100 pesos and no toothbrush and dirty clothes on my back, nothin but a fountain pen stepped off plane empty handed—small Mexican south town, 400 year church at end of ten blocks long, four blocks wide, walled in by high mountains on either side, fantastic scenery—approachable by plane that crashes every ten days or three days of mule inland from railroad town Salto.

I went to Presidente and said I was a periodista on vacation and wanted to visit Acavalna—no newsman ever been there, just one geologist climbed it ten days before and reported nothing but a big crack in its front, said maybe no volcano. But two days later Instituto Geologica his office said maybe there was volcano, in papers. Much confusion, Yajalon frightened. President promised mule free and guide. Next day no mule, just guide, I started over La Ventana—mountain wall between Yajalon and Acavalna—till halfway up a kind of Mexican saw my beard and in midpassage gave me his mule to ride up (he continuing his trip down on foot—true courtesy of local road). I arrived in afternoon at finca or plantation named Hunacmec—was treated as honored important guest—we sent mule and guide back. Hunacmec is at foot of Acavalna. That late afternoon, was loaned hammock and blanket for cold air mountain, given guide and horse to go spend the night at Zapata—a central Indian village lost in side of Acavalna where men wear white and women wear black and pigs gobble your crap by the river, pushing you aside to get it before you're finished. Meanwhile joined by two Laurel and Hardy Yajalontecans who ran up and down mountain after me to go along. Night—drums, primitive church, bamboo pipe, (greatest hollow primitive drums I ever saw by the way they make brilliant drums here) guitars, men on cedar logs around wall, women in black pool at center in front of altar lighting long sinister pagan candles in front of glasscase altar covered with bunting and 1890 German religious paintings containing dolls of Jesu Christi and bearded black Indian saints, another drum hanging from thatch roof—entertainment for me—suddenly boom, stupendous under ground roar like the subway of the End [West End Bar] under years of concrete pavement, and the whole mountain begins to shake, the thatch roof adobe church creaking, tortilla sized adobe chunks falling by my shoulders, women screaming and rushing out the door into the black shaking night, me trembling for my stupid pride in coming to dread Acavalna. Horror of the awful power under the mountain making so much noise and moving so much, and building up the noisy shuddering—then stopped, everything quiet except for dogs barking and cocks crowing and women screaming. It was the worst shake they had since Feb. 5, the first earthquake, and me on top of the fucking mountain right there. Nobody killed or nothing.

Well to make a long story short again, next day at dawn we got together an expedition of 54 men Indians all beautiful and numberless boys and dogs more, from Zapata, from Tzahala, dirty town south, and Chiviltic, over the next mountain—everybody scared, and we started a great high dreadful climb under hanging stone thru milpas, to the unknown forest at the top of the mountain to see if there was a volcanic fissure, or ruins, as was rumored, or a secret lake, also rumored. High cedar forest, we caught a monkey—they eat monkeys. Can't tell you how I enjoyed the situation—curious my psychology but it was a perfect set up—I was the leader, I organized and supplied the general power and intelligence—and I was deferred to, boys carried my morale (little bag) and my food, special Indian coffee and eggs for me—the rest drank ground maize for lunch, they asked me questions, dozens of Indians ready to run up and down mountains to get me horses or carry messages or perform any mysterious white man with beard wish. At same time I was weaker on horse or mountain or locality know how, and my weakness deferred to with the greatest love and chivalry. This was the sensation I had anyhow. Well anyhow we got to the top—two or three small noisy tremblers on the way (there were twenty a day)—not exactly unknown, I should say as the geologist had got there with a few Indians last time. They were all afraid to go when he was here, but this time all the men of all three villages who weren't sick or busy went with me—the point being to calm the injuns all over the area who think a volcano is smoking on top. So we got to the top and saw all the mountains around and found nothing and set afire for joke smoke a great cedar tree to scare Chiapas, came down and I sat in middle of a circle and took names and we made a declaration to send to the Indians and towns saying exactly what's going on in the mountain—for there is immense rumor inaccurate of every kind all over around here—and stamped it with official seal of the three villages.

Went back to Hunacmec thinking I'd had a great trip into rarely seen parts more obscure than where I've been all along, though I know well of parts more obscure toward the Usumacintly—and we must sometime with mule go traveling through these parts. I know Spanish now and a little bit of Mayan, pocitito, and I love Indians and get along with them great, really, I think I could go anywhere practically—but anyway, the next morning when I woke up I found forty Indians sitting on my doorstep of the tile roof finca house at the foot of Acavalna. They were from La Ventana, across the way, had got up and walked five miles before dawn to talk to me, they wanted to know what we saw on the mountain—and wanted me to come with them to the other side. There was a legendary cave, they said they didn't know it, but two men from the village had been there years before, and the geologist didn't believe them, and they wanted to see if the earthquakes had closed the mouth. They said [I] should come and spend the night at their village and they would give me horses and guides to get back to Yajalon next day. So I went along on foot, and we stopped at another village on the way and they put me up on a horse in the middle of them—a long line of forty white robed Indians filing up and down the hills—till we came to the end of the mulepath—and I got off horse and twenty men went ahead to clear a path, so we climbed up the east side of the mountain through the brush, till we reached great boulders of ancient volcanic rock, like the great waste plain at Paracutin—climbing over these—mountains ready to shake or explode or god knows what: then shouting ahead, they found it. When I came out in the clearing I saw a hole in the side of the mountain as big as St. Patrick's cathedral, entrance to the great legendary cave—first stranger other than Indians ever there—solving riddle of name of mountain—House of Night—dark cave. Indians have great poetic imagination for names—a mountain anciently named house of night and forgotten why except for one or two who nobody believes centuries later. Well this cave was there, and I climbed over the brush and went in first—I had to do something brave to justify the honor—and we all started staring and wandering in the mouth—suddenly another boom from the mountain, I sat down hard and waited but nothing happened, and there was another innocent trembler fifteen minutes later when we were all deeper in, and could hear stalactites crashing down interior—the mouth of the cave had caved in and enlarged in earlier quakes, so it was very scary. Beautiful cathedral like stalactite formations—it's an enormous cave, one of the big world caves. I never visited caves before like Crystal Cave, but this one is as big I'm sure or bigger, it's just stupendous, and right now thinking of it, it's like some awful dream vision, that big you know—and full of pulpit formations, and naves and arches, like a Piranesi drawing don't you know, pilasters and arks and giant dark religious figurations.

Well we drew up a declaration of La Ventana later and I returned to Yajalon and read the mayor my declarations. I became a local hero—the cave was legendary, I was the first to verify it officially, as I had the forty La Ventana witnesses and the seal, etc. So they asked me to stay and write up my story for newspaper and inform the Geological Institute at Mexico and have them come down and see if the tremblers have anything to do with the cave (I don't know)—and gave me a room in the president's house and told the local restaurant to send the bill to city hall and everybody in town wants to talk with me and invites me for coffee and merchants sell me cigarette packages cheap and don't charge me for pineapples and suchlike.

Chapter 2: Treachery in New York

Meanwhile first thing I do is spend thirty pesos wiring Claude [Lucien Carr], giving him a scoop for his Mexican U.P.—for Mexican newspapers are full of Acavalna tho no mex newsman as I say has ever seen the place, just typical Mexican rumors via the geologist about secret lakes that don't exist (the cave has a river)—and mail him the documents to make sure and write up 3000 words describing trip, Indians, night of quakes on mountain, discovery of cave. Asking him to have mex U.P. inform the geologist, etc. so he can have the story first and me maybe a little money like 50 bucks say for expenses.

In this telegram I said went to the top unvolcanic and next day discovered legendary cave secret of name.

In the middle of this sentence my typewriter began shaking—and the room trembling back and forth, dust falling from walls, I'm in the president's house in Yajalon, another earthquake, a kind of shuddering sound, but not like in the subway up in the mountain. No damage, though they say a house fell down at the end of the street near the airfield, I'll go and see when I'm done writing.

And said to Claude in this telegram that geologist don't know, etc. and described cave. I wait three days and I get back: UNVOLCANIC CONDITIONS KNOWN STATESIDE APPLAUD MAGNIFICENT DISCOVERIES GONE BRAZIL WRITE

Which means, the ironic stupid bastard, that he misunderstood my telegram and thought that I thought I was telling him something new about the top of the volcano (whereas I was giving him my itinerary shorthand) and that the cave didn't register, or mean anything to him—and that he was going to Brazil (his vacation is April 2 or something to visit De Onis) and wouldn't receive my explanation about the cave nor the interesting description in detail about what it's like in a primitive Indian church in the middle of the night when an earthquake shakes the mountain. In short I am left hung up on Yajalon with no money to telegraph anybody about anything, all my sweat writing three days no carbon in air to no hands in N.Y. and all my adventure slipping from my hands into the anonymity which it so richly deserves. So I'm leaving this dump, I've got 10 pesos left and soon my welcome here will be worn thin. I wrote Von Harz to read Claude's mail from me and use what he can—but it will be a week before anybody in N.Y. gets the idea and meanwhile I can't delay informing the Mexicano Institute, which will give the story to the Mexican press and maybe I'll get my name in the papers here but no chance of collecting any small $$$ if there ever was one—though to be sure I haven't seen a paper for months and have no idea how absurd all this sounds in U.S. ears unless anybody has enough imagination to see the importance and news value, however minor, of the cave. Well, I have some money—20 dollars in Salto, will return to the finca for rest and to still my troubled irritated nerves and explore legendary mountain Don Juan there and wait for another 20 bucks in checks the stupid embassy in D.F. returned to sender with the rest of my mail.
World Telegram
back wages they were. If I get that I'll have enuf money I guess to get out, and come to Frisco right off the bat. Meanwhile if you get a sudden wire from me asking for 25 dollars please get it to me if you have to pawn the family jewels because it will mean I am desperate and broke. Incidentally anyplace I wire from, Salto if anywhere, will receive money wired back. I add this glumly since the last time my family sent me money the U.S. bureaucracy tried to say there was no such place on the wireless maps. Write me if you haven't since last.

Love,

Allen

 

And if that damned cave hasn't been reported by the time you get this letter do something—write Giroux or my mother in Pilgrim State.

P.S. Jack: Re a meeting—I won't be in Mexico much longer—don't have plans yet, waiting for money to get out—write and wait.

 

 

Jack Kerouac [New York, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [n.p., San Jose, California?]

ca
. late May 1954

May