The gunshots ring out into the dark stillness: 16 rounds from the AK-47. 5 new shots shock the night, then 6 more. These bullets have an international ban because they explode inside a body and leave a massive hole as they exit. They have the highest lethality of all gun ammunitions. Firing 600 rounds per minute and traveling at a speed of 2, 346 feet per second, they can kill a victim before he’s even heard the sound of gunfire. The night grows even quieter. Every person around the campfire freezes, tensely holding his or her breath. No one knows what’s prompted the gunfire – it could be a rattlesnake, target practice, or the approaching army. This is the marijuana harvest and the most dangerous time in the Sierra Madre.
The night we arrive to our base camp, one of the farmers is waiting for us – his horse saddled and ready to ride. He’s anxious to get to his plantation. The army is only 2 miles away and they’ve been burning crops all day. They’ve discovered a farmer who was using a local school to store his marijuana or ‘Mota,’ as it’s called here. Our farmer and others in this area plan to transport their crops all night to safe places high in the mountains – caves where one can still find the remains of ancient Indian tribes: hieroglyphs, pieces of ceramic pots, arrowheads and human bones.
Two hours after our farmer leaves, we spot headlights on the only road into the camp. From this road, the farmers can see a truck’s arrival from miles away, long before it ever reaches the houses or plantations. We count 4 trucks and we are certain it’s the army. If we’re caught, we can try to explain we are tourists – visiting for the scenery and the horses – but it’s not likely they’ll believe us. Tourists don’t vacation here – it’s too remote and well guarded. We move fast to hide all traces of computers, cameras, recording equipment and mota. After several anxious minutes, we are relieved to discover the trucks belong to growers. They will work until sunrise, transferring the crops to the caves.
The next morning we’re told that on our drive into the camp the night before, the farmers had 6 machine guns trained on us. They were expecting our visit but they didn’t recognize the truck so remained on alert. They also trailed us in a Hummer with 2 armed men. These are nerve-wracking days on the marijuana ranches. Losing a crop means losing everything. If this crop isn’t sold, the farmers can’t pay their workers or feed their families; their entire livelihood rests on a successful harvest.
I ask one of the farmers what the army does when they catch a grower – do they always burn the crops? He shrugs and says, ‘It depends who you get: some only burn, some kill you, some arrest and torture you, some will take a pay-off and let you go – it just depends on who you get.’ Why doesn’t he grow corn? He glances into the fire, ‘Corn sells for 100 pesos per kilo, mota for 800-2000 pesos. I have to feed my family.”
Another round of 16 erupts, then 14 more. 10 shots per second. Silence again, but it’s a heavy silence, filled with the deafening sound of waiting, watching, listening. One of the farmers sitting at the fire quietly instructs us to make sure the shooters can’t see the red light of our camera or our sound equipment – they mistake us for a target and focus their shooting on us.
Another round of gunfire and I am aware this must be what it feels like to live in a war zone – Iraq, Beirut, Sarajevo – where machine gunfire is a daily if not hourly occurrence and the only certainty is that there is a person – most likely dead – on the receiving end of the gun.
