Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Creator of El Topo

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. When Ejo had finished his lesson, the sun was going down behind the mountains. The peasants were very grateful. They brought us two bottles of beer and some tortillas stuffed with refried beans. An old newspaper served as a picnic cloth.

As Ejo ate, the peasants all kneeled before him. It was clear that they recognized him as a holy man. This reverent silence was interrupted brutally by the noise of an army truck arriving. Ten soldiers, ordered by a civilian, leaped out of it. About forty years old with a potbelly, the civilian was dressed in a coat with enormous epaulets, a black shirt, a green tie, a large sombrero, dark sunglasses, and a holster with a revolver on his belt. He introduced himself in a loud, barking voice: Salvador Cepeda, official of the Mexican government.

The soldiers began shoving and striking the terrified peasants with the butts of their rifles, herding them all into their houses and shutting the doors. Then they all aimed their rifles in our direction as the potbellied man shook a finger with a large brass ring at us and shouted.

“Filthy communists! Guerillas of the great whore! Go fuck yourselves! We’re going to smash your skulls to teach you a lesson about stirring up rebellion among our workers! What we grow here is corn, not this soybean shit! I’m the man in charge here, and I can kill anyone I decide to kill. Show me your papers! I have a notion to have you both shot to set a good example for all those assholes who might want to imitate you.”

Revealing not the slightest fear and without even uncrossing his legs, Ejo calmly searched in his sack and brought out a few papers. I remembered that he had told me that when he was a child during the American bombardments of Japan, he was ordered to continue meditating without flinching, even amid the noise of the bombs falling. One child monk could not take it and fled from the meditation hall. He was killed by an explosion. After telling me this story, he had added: “Fear is useless.”

The fat man was having some difficulty reading the documents. “Monk. . What? Zen?. . Minister of Education, embassy of Japan. . bishop of Cuernavaca. . Well, it seems you have some very good recommendations, don Baldhead! I can see you’re not a guerilla, at least, but your friend looks suspicious to me. Get moving, hombre, show me your papers!”

Though I knew my pockets were empty, I pretended to search them, trembling. I had nothing on me to prove my identity.

“Aha! So you’re traveling incognito, you asshole, trying to get these stinking Indians to revolt! Show me an ID or a passport pronto or I’ll have you shot by this firing squad!”

I realized that the fat guy was serious, convinced that I was some kind of communist. No doubt he considered communists more dangerous than scorpions.

“Señor Governor,” I addressed him humbly, trying to quell the tremors I felt in my body from head to foot, “I am a very well-known artist. My death would create a huge scandal. Please do not make this terrible mistake.”

“You shitty little worm, how dare you tell me I’m making a mistake? You communists have no respect! A well-known artist? You? Skinny, filthy, and with that ridiculous chopped-off hair? You’re a liar and a coward as well. You don’t deserve to live!”

He pulled out his revolver and pointed it right in front of my nose.

“Be thankful that my gun isn’t loaded, otherwise I’d just shoot you right now, like a coyote. Instead, you’ll have the dignity of being executed properly by a firing squad, though you don’t deserve it.”

The soldiers formed a line and aimed their rifles at me. Ejo stood up and stepped between us.

“Señor Governor, this young man is my student. I assure you, he is a very famous theater director.”

“Shut up, don Chinaman! You’re a monk — of course you want to save the skin of this dangerous person. Sit back down and cross your legs! If you try to interfere again, I’ll consider you his accomplice and have you shot too!”

Ejo sighed. Then, with a beatific smile, he told me: “Death is an illusion. Life is an illusion. You will cross through the lake of the mirror. You will come to rest on the ground of emptiness.”

“Is that all you have to say to me? These guys aren’t joking! They’re really going to shoot me! I’m an intellectual, I still haven’t learned to die! You, who know no fear — teach me how to do it.”

Ejo sat once again in his meditation position and with absolute calm, recited: “Truth can never be attained by us, for we carry it forever within us.”

It was incredible. I was in the midst of a nightmare and I had to wake up! At this moment, an intense, immeasurable, unconditional love of life descended upon me. Everything was vibrating: the red of the earth, the yellow of the corn, the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, the majesty of the mountains, the warmth of my body, the transparence of my consciousness, the song of the birds, the odors dancing in the air, the uniforms of the soldiers repeated ten times like a musical motif, the sugary glint of their rifles, and above all, this love for myself. I understood why Ejo had spoken of a mirror as vast as a lake. . I was this immense mirror, and my soul was rooted in the ground of emptiness.

Suddenly, a great gust of wind covered us in a thick cloud of dust, interrupting the fat man’s orders to fire. The wind scattered the old newspapers we had been using as a tablecloth and one of them landed next to me. As my eye fell upon a large photo that covered half a page, I shouted: “Wait! Right here is the proof of my identity!”

I grabbed the paper, and feverishly showed the fat man the picture of myself and the Tigress. A banner headline announced our future marriage.

Taking it, he removed his hat, scratched his head, and finally let out a long, noisy breath. Then, breaking into loud laughter, he patted me on the back. “Well, well! So you were the one who fucked the ex-mistress of the president? You must have a golden dick, you rascal! Why didn’t you tell me before? Well, no matter. That’s enough joking for now. Of course, I already recognized you — I just wanted to give you a little scare, that’s all. Just a little joke of mine — a pretty funny one, right?”

I emitted a phony laugh. “You have quite a sense of humor, don Salvador. Now can we be on our way?”

“Of course, my boy, of course! But don’t ever come this way again, you hear? I don’t want you stirring up trouble in the henhouse. In these lands, we plant corn, and that’s how its been for centuries. I’m willing to admit your ignorance of that. One mistake is forgivable — but not two. If you come back here, you’ll hear the sound of a different rooster — and his crowing will sound like rifle fire.”

The soldiers doused the soybeans with gasoline and set them on fire. Then they got back in the truck and started the engine.

Cepeda called to us: “You can ride with us — we’ll drop you off near Oaxaca.”

The Indians came out to say farewell, giving us a half dozen oranges and waving their red bandanas as we drove out of view. Inside the truck, the soldiers, with insolent grins, stole the oranges from us. I felt humiliated.

Later, as we rode the bus toward the train station at Puebla, I said not a single word, though Ejo’s silent calm exasperated me. When we sat in the crowded third-class, I found nothing intelligent to say, but I wanted to speak. “After such a painful experience, no commentary comes to us. Where is the error?”

Pointing out the window, Ejo contented himself with a grunt: “The mountain!”

I was furious and fed up with this Japanese style. For every emotion, for every doubt the masters reply, “Mount Sumeru,” implying that this silent monolith is never submerged by mere feelings, that it never wonders about life and death, that it imperturbably allows the seasons to pass, never forcing nature, never prey to the dualism of actor — spectator. In sum, it is a panacea — just cross your legs and sit as still as a corpse.