Tight security surrounded the making of Apocalypto, but Michael McCaughanbraved mosquitoes, wire fencing and possible human sacrifice to sneak on to the set
When Mel Gibson arrived in Mexico to film Apocalyptoin November 2005 there was a flurry of media speculation about the nature of his project. A press conference revealed only that the film would have more gore than The Passion of The Christand that Mel had grown a beard down to his knees. The storyline was inspired by the Mayan sacred book, the Popol Vuh, and the protagonist was a farmer whose livelihood comes under attack.
Gibson demanded a closed set with a "locked" script, and only a handful of insiders knew just what was happening on any given day. Each copy of the script had a unique code which made it traceable should leaks occur, and savage punishment awaited transgressors.
The secrecy surrounding the film gave rise to whisper campaigns, and one website denounced Gibson for chopping down "thousands of trees", a strange notion given that the director had come this far to shoot in pristine jungle surroundings. There was also the thorny issue of Mexican sensitivities to a gringo with a big budget coming to tell the story of their heroic ancestors. A generous donation to the government's post-hurricane relief fund soothed state doubts.
A few begging calls from this writer to the production team yielded nothing.
"It's totally off-limits, forget about it." The challenge was too much to resist.
The set was located in a patch of rainforest in Veracruz, south of Mexico City. The crew set up base in Catemaco where thousands of visitors come each year in search of "brujos" (witches) who apply remedies to help find a new lover, get rid of an old one or forge a new career.
The town was in bad shape, with large chunks missing from the main road and buildings cracked open by Hurricane Stan, a force five tropical storm which had struck Catemaco a couple of months earlier. The Hollywood dollars were more than welcome here as hotels were block-booked, caterers called in and labourers called out. Gibson shacked up in an elegant ranch belonging to a wealthy businessman.
A taxi driver delivered me to my hotel and asked me my business, prompting a hasty confession. The driver flashed a conspiratorial grin and told me to have a backpack, water and wire-cutters ready by the early morning.
Pancho turned up at dawn and guided me expertly in the direction of the set, pointing out the various homes rented by production staff along the way. We reached a turn in the road where a large field was packed with trailers and tents, thick cables and people with clipboards. A tall fence divided us from the set but we could see crew members applying make-up to semi-naked men.
The track turned away from the fence and became impassable.
"Ya esta," said Pancho, signalling the end of the road. "Go under the fence and across the stream." As the car disappeared I heard voices and dived into the bushes. A couple of actors were walking toward the set so I hid for a moment then followed their trail.
I was soon immersed in spectacular scenery as orange-tipped butterflies danced before me and trees stretched upwards toward the sky, not forgetting the loathsome mosquitoes buzzing expertly around exposed flesh.
I climbed over a huge tree-trunk and tripped on the knotted roots. A sharp white light then caught my attention along with a handmade sign that read "Jaguar Hill".
Then came the unmistakable sound of a film crew setting up a shot.
"Rehearsal!" came the cry. It was Mel Gibson. He's really here, I thought, as if he might have sent underlings from LA to do his dirty work instead.
"They're popping out of the bushes," explained the director as I inched my way closer to a line of chairs behind the camera. Gibson came into view, beardless and casually dressed. A group of men in red skirts and dark tunics watched as the director explained how they were going to attack a tapir. The first attempt was unsatisfactory.
"Come on guys, this is lunch for a month, show me some emotion." The language barrier was evident as Gibson called an assistant to translate the finer points of his directions. I raised my head and noted one actor with jet black hair and a fierce look on his face. He looked straight at me as walkie- talkies crackled into life. I wasn't alarmed - this was standard equipment for the crew - until I saw the neat uniforms of the hired muscle drafted to keep snoopers out.
I imagined myself trussed up like a turkey at Christmas and brought before Gibson.
"Ah," he would say, "at last, the blood sacrifice." Suddenly every sound I made seemed to echo through the jungle. A group of extras noisily moved along a nearby path, giving me precious seconds to dart toward deeper growth.
When I finally made it back under the wire fence a number of wood cabins lay ahead where fish roasted on an open grill and cleaning staff moved quietly as if in a temple. I had reached Nanciyaga, an eco-retreat minutes away from the Apocalypto set.
The relief was immense as a mud-bath and a peaceful night lay ahead in cabins that jutted out over a river, with iguanas murmuring underfoot.
My sleep was disturbed by dreams of wild animals and extravagant tyrants. William Wallace, Christ and Mad Max clashed in a war without end. As I departed the next day, a new layer of fencing had been erected and additional guards strolled the perimeter.