Tales of San Felipe
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Tales of San Felipe A Life and Times Memoir By J. Jeremiah Jefferson III As told to Dr. Fraser M. Livingston © 2008 Mark D. Smith All rights reserved. Tales of San Felipe, A Life and Times Memoir. Copyright © 2008, 2016 by Mark D. Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations (“fair use”) in publicity, critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Mark D. Smith, 2272 Vanderbilt Drive, Geneva, IL 60134. Tales of San Felipe “Not many people believe they can live their dreams. I’m here to say you can.” J. Jeremiah Jefferson III – or J3 as you’ll come to know him – proves his point in, “Tales of San Felipe.” This amazing life-and-times memoir takes you on a Caribbean odyssey spanning more than five decades and intersecting with some of the region’s most fascinating – and notorious – historical characters, including Fidel Castro, the Duvaliers, Che Guevara, and assorted presidents of Mexico and the United States. (Turns out J3 was on pretty close terms with Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson!) Thanks to a combination of chance and curiosity, anthropologist Fraser M. Livingston makes the discovery of a lifetime when he finds his way to the Caribbean island paradise of San Felipe. There he meets and interviews the legendary J3, who not only shares the story of his own mercurial career, but explains the mysterious history of San Felipe. Told in the inimitable first-person voice of J3, “Tales of San Felipe” recounts a lifetime of adventure, humor, danger, love, triumph and tragedy. J3 takes you to a face-to-face showdown with Baby Doc Duvalier, a tense negotiation with Castro and Che Guevara, a brutal confrontation in a Honduran banana field and a narrow escape from danger in a Guatemalan jail. He also tells stories about his pals, roguish Alfonso Sanchez (the purported “inventor” of guacamole dip!), wily Don Padrone, tough-as-nails Mike Castle and the avuncular Texan Charlie Grutwilder; and he shares the touching tale of his story-book romance and marriage to the wise and beautiful Rosalia Gatos. As J3 himself might put it, “When I say you’ll enjoy this book, I know what I’m talking about.” Published by Mark D. Smith, Geneva, Illinois. © Mark D. Smith, 2008, 2016. All rights reserved. Table of Contents Foreword 5 Introduction, Part One – Paradise Rumored 6 Introduction, Part Two – Paradise Found 11 Chapter One – I Wasn’t Always J3 19 Chapter Two – Living the Dream 26 Chapter Three – Alfonso 38 Chapter Four – Caribe’s 44 Chapter Five – Guatemala 50 Chapter Six – The First Mrs. J 57 Chapter Seven – Che 63 Chapter Eight – The Last Mrs. J 68 Chapter Nine – Passages 78 Chapter Ten – Haiti 84 Chapter Eleven – Jack 89 Footnotes 93 Foreword What you are about to read is the product of five interviews I conducted with Mr. J. Jeremiah Jefferson III at his home in Pitts Key, San Felipe, during the period of February 7 through 18, 1986. With the exception of a two-part introduction, the words are all Mr. Jefferson’s, which I recorded with his permission. As an academic, my role was limited to verifying the accuracy of dates, names and statistics contained in Mr. Jefferson’s reflections. In the few instances when his prodigious memory was inaccurate, usually regarding exact dates, I have noted those discrepancies. I also have noted several historical facts in an effort to clarify events for the reader. I beg your indulgence of my rather lengthy two-part introduction, but I believe it is required to provide an understanding of the chain of events that led me to conduct these remarkable interviews. At the time of the interviews, Mr. Jefferson was 78 years old. His motive for granting these interviews was to place into the academic and public record information concerning various events of which he had personal knowledge. He believed historians would find his recollections valuable in clarifying several major historical events. Mr. Jefferson asked me to delay the publication of this document until his death, which unfortunately occurred November 16, 2007, when he was killed in a tragic parasailing accident while celebrating his 100th birthday at his beloved Pitts Key. The only restriction Mr. Jefferson imposed, and to which I readily agreed, was that I verify all names and facts, and report faithfully and honestly his recollections. That I have done. Up until his untimely death, Mr. Jefferson pursued a vigorous life of adventure, and retained one of the most extraordinary memories I have ever encountered during a long academic career. I was honored to call him my friend. In light of my own advancing years, I have entrusted the copyright of this memoir to the executor of my estate and curator of my library, Mark D. Smith. The Library of Congress and the United States Trademark and Copyright Office classify this as a work of fiction. I leave it to you, the reader, to decide. Dr. Fraser M. Livingston April 1, 2008 Santa Barbara, California Introduction * * * * Part One: Paradise Rumored For years I had heard there existed in the Caribbean an island unclaimed by any country. The notion was, of course, totally fanciful. Every few years the newspapers report on the fantasies of adventurers who plan on starting their own countries. As a social and political anthropologist by training and inclination, I can tell you their fantasies never become reality. Indeed, virtually every square inch of the world’s land area falls under the administrative authority of at least one sovereign nation. This includes islands and atolls, populated or not. Yet people continue to believe that with gumption and grit they can form their own countries. In truth it doesn’t happen. At every attempt, government authorities have intervened, often on a multi-national basis. The rumors persisted, though, of an isolated, unmapped, autonomous island, unclaimed by any nation – in essence, a tiny country without a government, a modern day Wautauga Association(1). It was too preposterous to contemplate, let alone investigate. I first heard the rumor in 1954 during my junior year at Michigan State University as I was deciding on social and political anthropology as my life’s calling. It surfaced again in 1958 while I was pursuing my master’s degree, and again in 1959 and 1961 when I was an instructor at Pennsylvania State University working on my doctorate. The rumor was always the same – a tiny Caribbean island, self-sufficient and independent, unclaimed by any established government, and functioning peacefully as an anarchy (by which I mean an anarchy in the academic sense; that is, a society without rulers, not without rules). I always wrote it off as a myth on equal footing with the giant alligators of the New York sewer system and the Abominable Snowmen of the Himalayas. I’m an academician, a logical man, someone not easily fooled or hoaxed. I have spent a long academic career studying myths and debunking them. I was, however, sufficiently intrigued in 1961 to check every available map – official or not – to satisfy myself that every island in the Caribbean, every atoll, every speck of land could be verified as a sovereign nation, a colony, a territory, a possession or at least a claim of an existing government. I pored over hundreds of maps – current and historical – to put this myth to rest. The answer seemed conclusive. All lands were present, all were accounted for. People want so desperately to believe such a myth. Or so I thought until 1985, when my wife and I were celebrating my 50th birthday in Paris. Ordinarily, I’m a very frugal man, which has served me well over the years, allowing for a comfortable, but certainly not flashy, lifestyle. Genteel with a small “g” as my wife has always put it. But, given the special occasion, we decided to splurge. As faith and providence would have it, that decision changed my life. Instead of the modest Left Bank establishments I usually choose, Helen and I threw all caution to the wind, along with common sense and my checkbook, and decided to stay at the famous – and frightfully expensive – Hotel Bristol. The Bristol seemed populated by men wearing bespoke-tailored suits that cost more than my 1978 Chevrolet Malibu, and sleek women who spent more at the Chanel boutique in a day than many people spend on a house. On my birthday, September 12, we wandered into the hotel’s bar for a pre- dinner drink. It was crowded with its usual cast of rich and powerful characters. Just as we arrived a couple was rising from one of the small tables for two along the wall and we hurriedly made our way through the crowd to claim it. Helen and I aren’t much at small talk, particularly in situations like this; so over the years, we’ve developed a habit of sipping our drinks and listening in on the chit-chat of our neighbors. As we settled into our seats, I noticed to my right a middle-aged gentleman with a lady substantially younger than he. Their conversation was animated and intense, but they were speaking Italian, which I didn’t understand. However, on my left were three gentlemen of obvious means who, from the sounds of their voices, had been enjoying their libations for the better part of the afternoon. “I’m telling you, J3 has this job completely in hand,” said the Armani blazer with an upper crust New England accent.