Near Death in Mexico
Words & photography by Justin Chatwin
I act for a living and ride motorcycles in my spare time. And I have a lot of spare time. About five years ago, I had a dip in my feature film career that I blamed on the failure of a not-so-great movie that I did, called Dragonball Evolution. It was basically a live-action adaptation of an anime ninja cartoon series. I was cast to play the world’s greatest ninja, with massive dippity-do hair spikes, and an orange kimono dress. Originally, I thought the character was supposed to be for a small Asian boy, however, 20th Century Studios thought I fit the role perfectly – and so I jumped on a plane to shoot it in Durango, Mexico. That was back in 2005.
In 2015 I decided to take a motorcycle trip down to South America with my adventure buddy Nik. Nik started a delinquent clothing company out of Vancouver called Lords of Gastown. So, Nik and a few of his motley crew showed up at my home in Venice, California, and we took off down the Baja Peninsula. When we boarded the ferry in La Paz, we had a lot of the Sinaloa locals turning their heads to look at us. The Lords of Gastown looked like the spawn of Nikki Sixx, Dennis Rodman and Rob Zombie, and their lives were just as complicated as their attire. One guy’s girlfriend was days away from giving birth; another guy was sleeping with that guy’s girlfriend; and the first guy was oblivious to what was going on. The third guy hated both of those two guys. Needless to say, a lovely bunch. Riding with these guys all came back to bite me in the ass when one of them became imprisoned in Honduras.
That night they went through two cases of Tecate on the top deck of the ferry, along with all the pan-American semitruck drivers. When the boat docked in Mazatlan, the circus entered into new territory: Sinaloa, Mexico, home to a lot of terrifying stories that you may see on Netflix cartel documentaries.
We noticed a mechanical failure with one of the newer Harley-Davidsons, ironically, and so we rode into town to look for help. A local bike gang noticed our custom Sportster dirtsters and came over to see what we were about. Let’s call the leader Big Bobby. Big Bobby was Mexican but spoke perfect English. “Why you guys look like satanic lumberjacks?” No one knew how to respond. “Forget it, man. Come have a beer with us.” Like I said, we were wary of the locals. But I’m sure they were wary of us, as well.
We decided to throw caution to the wind, and grabbed a case of Pacifico and some carnitas. After all, we needed a local motorcycle mechanic. No one else in Big Bobby’s gang spoke English, so we decided to communicate in gestures. Everyone was thumbs-upping each others’ motorcycles, and as smiles began to form, I relaxed. But I’m always a skeptic.
The next morning, the bike was magically fixed. We tried to offer money, but Big Bobby wouldn’t accept. On top of that, they offered to ride us out of town a few hours.
I read on the news that morning that the cartel had murdered some tourists in the same direction we were heading. So we decided to skip the coast and head inland toward Durango on the Devil’s Backbone.
Within an hour, Satan popped my tire, but luckily Big Bobby knew someone in a village 200 feet away. Bobby knew everyone. Again, I tried to offer money for the tire repair, and again they declined. I’ve never been able to successfully pay for a tire repair in Baja. Isn’t that incredible? Free every time.
The afternoon was getting late, and Big Bobby turned back to Mazatlan and wished us well. We were now on our own, heading up into the mountains. Since we were running out of daylight, we hopped onto the newly constructed Highway 40D. It has 135 bridges (one of them being the highest suspension bridge in the Americas) and 62 tunnels. This project must have cost a small fortune, and I was curious – where did that money came from?
It got dark. And cold. December at 6,000 feet made us stop every 45 minutes to warm our hands roadside by fires lit in old oil barrels. Eventually I got spun around and realized I was lost with no cellular service. I could see that my buddies were looking tired, but I didn’t want them to know that I didn’t quite know the road. So, I kept pushing forward as the pavement turned to dirt, and I really didn’t see anything that resembled a city nearby.
It felt like the start of a horror flick. Right when I was thinking that, a vehicle flicked on its high beams behind us. We were riding pretty fast, which meant he was driving pretty fast, as well. Naturally, I slowed down a bit to see if he wanted to pass, but it seemed like he just wanted to continue to high-beam us. A few minutes felt like a few hours when he finally came roaring past us, kicking dust all over us. A black Suburban in poor Mexico. He didn’t keep going, but actually slowed down. He was toying with us. My heart rate was up and we were in the middle of nowhere. At least I had four guys behind me.
The black SUV slammed on his brakes, and so did we. Everyone just stood still. We really didn’t know what to do, or what they wanted.
After what felt like an eternity, a tinted window rolled down, and a hand beckoned me to walk to the SUV. I looked back at my friends, whose faces were mirroring the same emotions I had.
The worst thing here would be to flee and get in some high-speed chase down a dirt road on Harley Sportsters at night. So, I got off my bike and walked very slowly over to the SUV. I was sweating now. No longer cold. Maybe this Simpson helmet would protect me from the gunshot if I were to take a bullet to the head. Maybe I’d only be partially brain damaged, or I could buy them out. I had $400 in my motorcycle boot.
When I arrived at the vehicle, the window was rolled down a couple of inches. I could see five men inside. Bearded men. Mexican men. Wearing all black. Then I saw it. Written on the patch of his leather vest was the group name that I had seen in one of the cartel documentaries that I had recently watched. Why I had ever watched that movie before this trip, I will never know.
They stared at me. I stared at them.
“What’s your name, man?” he said in English.
“Uhhh…Justin,” I replied, hoping my Canadian naiveté would charm them.
Then he looked closer at me. “Chatwin. Justin Chatwin?” I had my helmet and goggles on. How the hell did he know my name? I nodded.
He kicked open the door and grabbed me. But in a bear hug. He was beaming.
“No shit, man. I haven’t seen you in 10 years, man. I was the medic on Dragonball. It’s so good to see you, brother. Bobby told us you were coming, and we’ve been waiting for you guys all day.”
“Oh shit oh shit wow! Wow. Dragonball. Bobby! I mean wow. Fucking great to see you, man!”
I shook the other guys’ hands and called my buddies over as the blood began to come back into my head.
The patch on his vest read “presidente” and the other patch read the word I saw in that documentary. “Well, it’s cold, no?” he said. “Let’s get you guys some food and housing.” A couple of the guys from the SUV pulled their Harleys magically out of nearby bushes and led us over the mountain and into the familiar city of Durango.
My buddies all gave me that look you give when you first take a psychedelic and begin to see faces. I guess we were rolling with it. I mean, curiosity never really did kill the cat, right?
That night, we got VIP at the local discotheque; we ate some of the best food we’ve ever had; and we were put up in an excellent hotel. One of their prospects even watched our Harleys till the morning, when they also brought us out for breakfast. They told us stories of their antics and adventures and how they give back to the less fortunate. A real Robin Hood and his Merry Men story. They have to live like this because the government won’t help anyone. Maybe that’s how the Mexican government was able to build that wicked highway we rode in on?
Who really knows if these were bad dudes or just really big Dragonball fans. Regardless, if this guy really was the president of this group of Merry Men, he really had worked his way up the line from a set medic to the King of the Outlaws. And I respect that type of work ethic. A true American!
So, in the end, I don’t think Dragonball ruined my career. I think it may have saved my life.
