It was 1968 and French actor, director (and sometimes boyfriend) Christian Marquand invited me to a remote fishing village in Mexico called Puerto Angel. We flew in on a small plane, otherwise, it was a 12-hour drive south of Oaxaca. Sizzling hot. Nothing but jungle‑In fact, no-thing.
A shack on the beach was the main place to eat—fish, tortillas, salsa for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Our hotel—two cots and two hammocks… and a cold shower.
Oh well … only two nights and we'd be out of there. The plane was scheduled to come get us. The sand went on for miles before you actually could get in the water.
We sat in the shade of the fish shack picking bones out of tiny fish on our plates. About 50 feet away, a dog was hacking and coughing, having a terrible time.
"Look at this dog," said Christian, "He is choking on something." He jumped up and ran to the dog sticking his hand down its throat. What an odd sight. Christian bent over this black dog.
He came back to the table, "There was no bone. I couldn't help him."
At sunset, we were watching the colors change by the water's edge. Two men approached.
"The dog, we think it has rabies."
They were going to send his head to be checked… to Mexico City.
“His head … Oh my.
“This is the correct way to do it.”
"Okay, I said shaking one of their hands. “We will be in Acapulco. You can contact us there.”
"Oh no," they exclaimed, "You will wait here." All one had to do was look at the bearing of these men—they were in charge. We could be arrested if we tried to go.
So now we were quarantined to this place, my blood pressure dropping by the hour. "Stuck Inside of Mobile" running out of jokes and stories.
The villagers got back to us a few days later. The dog had rabies.
"We heard your hand was in his mouth, they said. “This is not a problem unless you have a wound.
I remember the sunlight beaming on Christian’s index finger as he held it up —a big cut, right below the first knuckle.
Christian and I just looked at each other. “Merd”.
They ordered us to see the doctor, the only doctor, it turned out, for hundreds of miles.
"You will find him in the jungle. Big Al will bring you." Who the bleep was big Al?
It turns out he was the only guy in that part of the world with a car that he used to take tourists on dives. What dives? What tourists? We hadn’t seen another soul except the locals.
So now Big Al, porky pig's doppelganger, would be our Chauffer into the jungle to visit “the doctor. Big Al’s scalp was pink with a great number of freckles. He incessantly combed his thinning hair in the side mirror of his black 1950’s Caddie.
It might have taken 45 minutes plowing through the jungle, five miles an hour, to get to our destination. Christian and I were in the back seat, his big palm resting on my now sunburned knee, squeezing it as we would go over tree roots. This outrageous Frenchman, who had “Gaul” that couldn't be bottled, was somehow feeling vulnerable.
All the while, big Al was winking at me in the rearview mirror whenever he got the chance.
No one told us anything about this doctor, so we were surprised when we finally arrived at a clearing in the jungle. There he was, standing in the sunlight waiting for us. A tall, stately German gentleman in his 60's. I got out of the car like Anne Frank. I could hear the sirens going. I remembered my mother telling me as a child, "They cooked little girls like you in ovens."
He covered over his own surprise when he saw my eyes go wide. I expected he’d had at least twenty years of practice with the few tourists he had met in this part of the world. But it wasn't about me, it was Christian, who needed help.
The doctor's home was a charming hacienda with doilies, a table set for lunch, lovely artwork. I imagined he had re-created his home in Germany. “I wonder why he didn't go to Argentina,” I thought looking around at the little cherubs and knick-knacks.
After his house lady served us tea on some very nice china, he escorted us into his treatment room. He drew a diagram on Christian's stomach, explaining that for twelve days, Christian would need to get a shot. How can I forget the look in Christian's eyes as the doctor presented one of the biggest needles I had ever seen.
I looked around his office at his instruments and supplies. Even with the ceiling fans —it was hot and clammy. The room started to swirl .. I had to remain conscious! The only way back to “civilization” was big Al waiting outside.
Christian had to make that trip for twelve days. There was no way I would ever return to the doctor’s house and I’m sure he was as relieved as I was that I stayed in Puerto Angel.
At some point Christian started to go mad, running at night through the surrounding hills just to keep his sanity. He began looking like a rabid dog. He would tease me and pretend to come after me to bite my neck.
There's much more to this story that happened later including a torrential storm that completely wiped out the lower village, bringing dozens of sea turtles to their deaths on the rocks.
Any ideas of romance were long gone with the two of us—stripped now of any pretense, all I could pray was to never be in a place like this again.