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friends, he never quite fit in-not among the English aristocracy to whom he was born, and not among the famous artists whom he later befriended. James was a loner millionaire, an only child reared by nannies and butlers in Sussex' West Dean Park. As a young man he hopped from continent to continent and from arts circle to arts circle, bringing his collection of snakes and birds wherever he went. He played patron to Picasso, Dali, Magritte and Giacometti. He hobnobbed with Freud, Fromm, Maugham, Isherwood, Mann, Bunuel and Huxley. He commissioned ballets from Balanchine and symphonies from Stravinsky. He rented his Italian bungalow to Greta Garbo, became a financial savior of the Watts Towers in LA. But in the end, James' life with the illuminati only made him feel isolated . He wrote poetry and novels, but they were hardly ever published. He painted and sculpted, but the works were rarely exhibited. He couldn't possibly match the brilliance of his entourage. He was too ... out there. As Salvador Dali once said to him: "Look, we move among a bunch of 'pseudo-realists,' who ... produce nothing but junk. So, they try to act like madmen to justify themselves. On the other hand, you who are really mad, labor to act sane." Ultimately-and fortunately for the few who've discovered Las Pozas-James decided to quit acting. Disillusioned by the snobbery and back-stabbing of the belle monde, he began to travel regularly to Mexico. In the mid-1940's, he met Plutarco Gastelum, a former boxer and rancher who worked at a telegraph office in Cuernavaca. Gastelum soon became the kindred spirit James had always sought. The two came from different worlds, but they shared a certain eccentricity. Over the years, James was welcomed into the Gastelum family, becoming Plutarco's creative inspiration and the children's indulgent gringo uncle. And over a period of two decades the two men built Las Pozas, spending millions of dollars, employing hundreds of laborers and commanding countless kilos of concrete. Scattered with 228 reinforced-concrete structures, the estate has a primordial quality. The constant barrage of rain and humidity has deteriorated the structures, creating a sense of ruin, enhanced by the fact that James never finished any of the houses. And from all accounts, that was his intention. Inspired by his experience with the surrealist circles of the early 20th century, James concocted an environment with no beginning or end, whose sole purpose was simply to be. And indeed, Las Pozas was a mirror for James' meandering, poet's soul-a place where the dreamer-eccentric could sequester himself later in life. Here, in the jungle, he could be alone to cultivate the air orchids that grow wild in these tropic mountains. Here, his menagerie of peacocks, monkeys, ocelots and crocodiles could prowl their ornate cages. And here, he could order his own universe-a confection that evolved over decades with Gastelum's co-vision and friendship. In Las Pozas, as in James' own wistful existence, there are no rules.The park offers no designated tour. There is no right or wrong way to approach the overgrown paths and fantastical sculptures. Explorers are left to negotiate the maze as best they can. A wanderer myself, I slowly became immersed in this strange tropical world. Something about James' vision held me where I was, as if the town and its secret garden had cast a Borgesian spell over me. Every morning, I would vow to get on the bus and explore the surrounding areas, and every morning, I would find myself drawn like a sleepwalker to the edge of town, propelled down the sloping, rocky streets-past village houses with yards full of skinny roosters and curious, dignified kids. Past rusted farm equipment and Coca-Cola signs and satellite dishes. Past invisible city limits, and into the dense jungle where I'd met Rigoberto that first day. Always, I would find myself at the high pavilion near Las Pozas' entry. And always, at day's end, I would gravitate toward the giant waterfall bordering the park, where locals take breaks at the cascading pools or picnic on the concrete platforms built by James. Sometimes, while I ate bread and mangos at Las Pozas' tiny outdoor cafe, a tropical storm would come pounding over the mountain, cutting through the jungle with an otherworldly force, then disappearing as suddenly as it had come. Other times the sky was as smooth as blue porcelain, stirred only by the fluttering wings of butterflies or the faint scent of air orchids. But once, I swear I saw old Edward James-the Mad Hatter himself, clothed in the Oriental robes he'd worn in his portrait, a parrot on his shoulder. He was scurrying down the paths between banana trees and bougainvillaea, passing the House Destined to Be a Cinema, and disappearing into the mist above the Stairway Without End. •

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