W.C. Well, we made it. 60 days in Mexico on roughly 29$ a day. No one puked, no one was arrested and no one died. I'd call that success, wouldn't you? We didn't even spend all our money, nor did we lose anything important through theft or negligence. Ok, we lost a headlamp and the ocean robbed Sarah of her contact lenses and me of my camera, but really, what more could one ask? It was truly a joy to return home. I was flooded with relief the first time I was asked "How ahr ya?" and didn't have to struggle with my caveman Spanish to formulate a response. My first breaths of crisp Maine air, inhaled in the sunlight of Wed. morning were sweeter than baby's breath and bakery steam put together.
While I realize that Tuesday was St. Paddy's Day and we were all celebrating a holiday that, like most modern holidays, has utterly nothing to do with the reason for the holiday, I felt a little like it was a homecoming party set up especially for us, the returning heroes of leisure. My compliments to the party planning staff. I just happen to look great in green. Oh, and I like beer. Seriously, though. It was such a pleasure to see you all again. I felt swaddled in warmth, and not just because of my diaper.
At some point in the evening I found myself on the dance floor, suddenly face to face with a 55 or so yr old woman, a stranger, sporting the requisite green plastic bowler hat of the Lucky Charms Irish set. She, drunkenly, but with great gravity, announced that I was "The cutest thing [she] seen all day". And without a breath between, inquired "Are you gay, too?" I smiled and replied only, "Sorry to disappoint you", and then beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the bar.
And then I went through my mail and discovered that I've been juried into the Maine Photography Show for the 3rd year running. They liked this shot, taken in Chicago last year...
At this moment, I have yet to pick up my piece from last years show...I'd ask for a ride to Boothbay, but I'll just wait 'till I drop off this year's.
So...Here's to the W.C., here's to being home where we're loved, and here's to you all, for sticking it out through the shit. Cheers!
Time for one last post before heading to the airport. It's been great having this blog. In the times when I was missing my home and friends it was comforting to be able to communicate...and hear your feedback. So we're coming home to a black president. What's that like anyway? Ok, so he's not black...ok, so he's not African American, he's half black, half....no, he's....got a really good tan? Seriously though, I'm just excited to take pride in the knowledge that my (first time I've thought that in 8 yrs) president at least has a workable command over the English f'ing language. Here's something I learned from some fellow travelers, just recently. Let's say you are from Country A (not the USA) and you want to fly to Country C (also not the USA), and to do that, your flight has a layover in a US airport, you must submit to fingerprinting. Fingerprinting! Like when you get arrested! These are not US citizens. These are citizens of nations over which we (the USofA) have absolutely no sovereignty. Said foreign nationals must also alert the US at least 72 hours before said flight that they will be making said layover. WTF, man? Did you know about this? I certainly had no idea. Sure, I may be known to enjoy the occassional left handed cigarette, and maybe my short term memory ain't what it could be, but I simply don't recall ever having voted on said issue. You can rest assured that had I seen this on some ballot, I'd have left no dangling, no dimpled chad to leave doubt as to the negativity of my vote. Just who do we think we are. It's an airport...a sort of neutral territory. Until one passes through customs and immigration, which I'm assuming doesn't happen when transferring from a flight from London, say, to a flight bound for Mexico. So I'm hoping that some things will change. Like the unilateral power granted certain authorities to devise whatever invasive policies they deem fit without even alerting the American public, much less, allowing us to decide whether we think it's a good idea. And while I'm ranting...I think it would go a long way towards restoring The USA's place as a favored nation in the eyes of the rest of the world if "W" were brought up on war crimes charges. There, I've said it.
On another note, Mezcal is an evil, evil drug.
So, what do you think, people? This blog was only begun for the purpose of this trip, but I'm not so sure I want to end it. Let me know if you'd be interested in continuing to read my rambling and often addled comments on the world I see. Maybe this won't be the last post, after all.
The kid that puked on the bus...in the aisle. And the single, wadded Kleenex the mom put in the middle of the puddle to clean it up. Oh, and the guy who stepped in it.
The 4 man band of blind kids playing on the street.
The guy who looked like he had a fish hook lodged in his cheek.
Watching surfing videos in Mazunte while eating sushi.
Being in Mex. City no more than 5 minutes before being offered the sale of "todo tipas de drogas".
Granting an interview in English for a seven yr old kid's school project.
3 legged dogs. Lots of 3 legged dogs.
Buying 22 mangos at 7 cents each.
Having to watch Flightplan with Jodie Foster, dubbed in Spanish on the 17 hr bus ride from Mazunte. Twice.
Museum guards in every room of the Picasso exhibit sporting fully automatic rifles and long barrel .12 gauge shotguns. "Please don't touch the art", indeed!
Showering with a scorpion.
Being the only male in our posse that English Bob didn't get fresh with.
Realizing that I'm too polite to be an efficient Mexican pedestrian. Even the little old ladies will snake your run here.
Picking a shoeshine man based on resemblance to my dead grandfather. (He did a great job.)
Keeping our container of yoghurt cold...in the toilet tank.
Here we are in Pochutla, waiting for the bus. The nightbus. The 15 hour night bus to Mex. City. Endgame, lillies and germs. This is the pudding from whence comes the proof. The decisions we make in the next five minutes will determine the fates of the rest of our lives. What the hell am I talking about. Seems there was a hefty storm somewhere off the coast and today, our usually tranquil playa has been transformed into a frothy monster, inexorably devouring the beach, gulp after sandy wave. The shore is so steep right now that the receding wave crashes into the oncoming one creating a vertical wall of water sometimes 30 or 40 feet high. Otherwise, the waves are doubling up, like siamese twins, attached in lockstep and thundering down on the boogy boarders and those brave (stupid) enough to dance in the surf. We bid a misty eyed farewell to Elliott and Uwe, the last of our posse this morning and then finally to Mazunte just 45 minutes ago. Here are some shots of my favorite Mazunte.
This is Punta Cometa, the southernmost point in Oaxaca State...limestone, wind and sea...and millenia
Here we are toasting our last night at Sylvia's Bar...after watching "Point Break" on a bed sheet hung from the palapa. Yes, that "Point Break". "Vayos con Dios, dude."
"...And I was thinking to myself/ This could be heaven/ Or this could be Hell" I'm onna git'ya Sarah thinks she's a kitty
The results of...excess
Speaking of excess, I have to tell you about James and Mescalito...But I can't right now. I'll just say that Englishmen could keep to pints and crisps, and leave the Mezcal to them's that knows how. Ahmet and I, late at night, maybe 1am or so. We're pretty mellow, having a heart to heart, when up the stairs comes James of London (Nottingham, really), proper drunk. Highlights of his late night jamboree include a monkey-armed crab dance, feigned seizures and speaking in tongues. The two best gems were directed at a girl on the upper level who stepped out on her balcony to investigate the noise. After an offer of sex was politely declined by the groggy woman, James apologized profusely before becoming suddenly indignant. "Come talk to me when you're perfect.", was gem numero uno. And, in reference to the noise he was making..."It's cheap rooms, innit? Don't forget your fucking earplugs.", was gem numero dos. I'll have to demonstrate the dance for you in person. One last look
Time to go. A little food and then tuck into the bus. Talk to you from Mex. City. Ciao
Hey everyone...Sorry to be out of touch for so long. I've just been right out straight here in Mazunte. There's so much nothing to do I fear I may never finish. I'm so fucking stressed out. You really have no idea how much nothing has been piling up around me. It's like a Gordian Knot of nothing that could take me forever to unravel and I don't have that kind of time. Seriously, help me. I have no idea how to accomplish this much nothing-doing in only a week.
Yeah...It's pretty mellow here. We've decided to basically say F-you to going anywhere else. We left Oaxaca City after finding out that, due a persistant fever, there would be no Mexican surgery for Phil, and he was choppered to Johns-Hopkins in Baltimore. We've heard no news, so can only assume that he survives and will recover.
I've begged and borrowed and, thanks to the kindness of relative strangers, I have pics for you today. Thanks to Elliott, Karla and Bec.
On our last day in O.C. we took a day trip to a place called Hierve El Agua...A spring fed trickle has been building up mineral deposits for millenia and has created a cascade, a waterfall of sorts, of hardened calcite and whatever else is in the water. The trip is a little crazy, up a series of mountain switchbacks reaching ear-popping heights. The view after cresting the peak is quite astounding. The are is rarified and crystaline as are the limpid pools that trickle down the limestone cliffs.
That night we loaded up the night bus and made speed back to Mazunte to work on straddling the perilous fence between tans and melanomas.
Since we'll be here, essentially, for the remainder of our trip, I thought it would be nice to share our surroundings with you. Let's begin... Our Cabaña is on the right with the blue and yellow stripes...
The accomodations...
The view from our hammock...
You don't know these people, but we hang out with them...
A typical family home in Mazunte...
A typical set of wheels...
Here's a place we like to swim called "The Jacuzzi". It's nice for a mid-day swim...
The Crouch...
The Leap...
I competed in a ping-pong tournament the other night at a local bar/hostal...Sporting the Nombre de Guerra of "El Rojo", I won my first round match against a sallow German fellow, but was knocked out in the second by a lightning fast Spaniard.
Ok...that's all I can take for right now. I've been sitting on this hard-ass internet cafe chair for too long and it's hot as hell. So...Tune in soon to hear about the harrowing tale of English James meets Mezcalito, and some photos of my absolute favorite thing in Mazunte...besides this girl...ta.
This place reminds me of Brooklyn. It's a big city. There are lots and lots of people here. There is a certain urban panache, without ostentation, that makes Oaxaca (Wa-haka) feel different from any other place we've been so far. It's a workers' city. An honest place where the flash of Manhattan lights give way to neighborhood joints and bustling indoor markets, festooned with, well...everything. There's the clothing and dry goods market. Wend your way through the maze and you're in the meat section where great slabs of fried pork fat hang alongside endless ropes of spicy chorizo. This gives way to the seafood area, the chicken sellers, Oaxacan chocolate, mounds of mole', mezcal vendors, the produce market, old ladies offering samples of their spicy toasted Chapulines. I ate scorpions on Isla Mujeres but I have yet to bring myself to suck down seasoned grasshoppers. This is all under two connected roofs and is an absolute riot of noise, aroma and humanity.
Checked out a jazz club the other night where a four piece act of mixed heritage was blowin' and smokin' like the old days. The faded velvet couches pulled us in, and the Mezcal kept us there. The walls were done up with these great Xerox inspired murals in a Banksy-ish style. Drinks were pricey though. And that's an issue as we near the finish line of this journey.
Brother Phil is in hospital and awaiting surgery. It was scheduled for yesterday, but he was running a fever, so they had to put it off. For some reason there are no surgeries performed in Mexico on the weekends, so he has to just lie there for another two days and wait. I'd crack a joke about that, but I just don't find it funny. The good news is that rather than spinal and skull fractures, he suffers from dislocated vertebrae which are straining the nerves that extend to his hands. That, combined with a lot of internal swelling, accounts for the paralysis in his arms and the severe pain he's in. The surgery for this is not exactly routine, but should be a walk in the park for the doctor here. Recovery time is expected to be a matter of weeks, not months. Good, good, good.
We're in a cool hostel here, run by three brothers, avid rock climbers all. They have an assortment of animals as pets...two cats, 4 or 5 dogs. Two of the dogs are a pair of aging Basset Hounds that spend most of their time on the rooftop terrace that surrounds the open central courtyard. When they do come down to visit, they get a leash tied between them and they snuffle around the place like some long-eared, four-pawed tandem bicycle. It was explained that they're not exceptionally swift, mentally or physically, and that this arrangement prevents them from slipping out the gate and under the wheels of a city bus.
We've re-united with Elliott from Indiana, who was just about to return to Mazunte when he received news about Phil. So our crew right now consists of us, Elliott, Ahmet the Aussie-Turk ex-intelligence operative, Uwe, the perpetually optimistic German metrosexual (unlike in the States, it's still cool to call oneself metro in other countries), and English Bob from San-Francisco (not English in the least).
I'm reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera right now. He's such an amazing writer that I feel like an absolute pauper who shouldn't have permission to string more than three words in a row. If anyone knows a good necromantic chant I'll see about getting Marquez to "ghost write" the blog from here on out.
We'll remain here in Oaxaca for a few more days before heading back to the beach to soak up as much sun as possible before returning to the hinterlands of Maine. Prepare to fawn over us and our tans. On your knees. Yes. Oh yes.
We're leaving Mazunte today, perhaps a little ahead of schedule. There is a couple, Lauren and Phil that we've hung around with here. They're from Warren and I think I mentioned them in the "Small World" post. Something happened to Phil in the ocean yesterday as he jumped into the waves. Sarah and I came upon the scene about a half hour after the incident. Through her tears Lauren could only manage to say that she thought Phil had broken his neck. He was laid out on the beach surrounded by onlookers. A doctor was also there. Two other friends of ours here had seen him floating face down in the ocean and when it became obvious something was wrong, they rolled him over and he gratefully sucked in air. Had they been a moment or two later he would have drowned for sure. There is no doubt that these two, Ahmet and Andreas saved Phil's life. When we arrived he could neither feel nor move anything from his neck down. He was lifted onto a surfboard and carried up the beach to the shade of a palapa while doctors and those with both English and Spanish translated back and forth. There aren't enough ambulances in the area to dispatch one to this remote beach, so a collectivo truck is called. Someone swipes a pile of the foam mattresses from one of the hostels to line the bed of the truck. As we are strapping Phil to the board for the 30 minute ride to Pochutla, he begins to wiggle his toes. A great sign! Soon he has feeling in his arms, legs and feet and then his hands. He's lucid and retains a sense of humor. When asked what the day is he inaccurately replies "the 23rd". It's the 24th and someone mutters "Close enough..." and Phil, caught between a smirk and a grimace replies, "Who knows what day it is here?" I'm telling him to only think about breathing while massaging his arms and legs to keep the blood circulating. His girlfriend fetches all the necessities, passports, money and such and they and Ahmet are off to the hospital in Pochutla. We find out later that he has fractured three vertebrae high up between his shoulders, but there seems to be no damage to the spinal column itself. They need to get him into an MRI to check for blood clots and transport him, via ambulance to Oaxaca City. Yesterday we got into their room and packed up all their stuff which we will drop off when we find the Oaxaca City hospital.
This whole thing has kind of knocked me for a loop. I've been exceptionjally careless with my own safety here; exploring caves, swimming in potentially dangerous waters alone, bounding across rock fields on the edge of cliffs. I'm doing it for the excersize and also to face down some of my own fears, but at what point does pushing yourself become the act of a statistic. I don't even think Phil was doing anything out of the ordinary. I think a wave must have tumbled him just the wrong way. Of course it's pointless to speculate the what ifs. I'm relieved by the news that his injuries, while severe, will most likely not be life changing, but the whole thing has shaken me up. I can't begin to imagine what he felt while laying there in the ocean, face down, unable to move, just hoping that someone will pick his head up before he runs out of air. How scary it must be for his girlfriend, Lauren. I think I will look into some CPR/First Aid classes when I get home. I'd like to know that I could be usefull in a crisis situation sometime.
Other than that, we're both fine and will keep you up to date with our next move.
I had a professor in college that really stressed the importance of reading one's own work many, many times before sending it out in the world. Not just for the purpose of proofreading, but to hear the words as a reader, not a writer. I wish I'd taken his words more to heart. Also at this time, I had to hand write everything, on paper, lowly paper, with a pen or pencil. A stylus was still used to play a vinyl record disc. With the USPostal Service one has the time it takes to walk to the mail drop, having paid good money for the stamp, to ponder the contents of that missive in one's hand. You had to want to send that out and there were many opportunities to back out along the way. Now, with the immediacy of the e-mail and the blog, a new arena of human foible has huffed it's way to the fore. Once that "send" button is pushed there isn't anything in our human grasp that can stop it. Now, there is naught to do but pray for an act of God (who, and this just in...doesn't exist) to smite the ISP's main junction matrix at just the precise nanosecond needed to stop the bytes of impending embarassment, sent on their way buy the careless key stroke of one who has forgotten to read a word of what they wrote, from reaching their destination. I was just reading the last post and I was appalled at the crude writing and peurile subject matter. Some scoundrel must have hacked into the blog and is having one over on us all.
Ahorita
Mexico is "Ahorita". I'll explain. In Costa Rica, they say Tranquilo. For me this word is the overall summation of the vibe of the country. "If it's amarillo, be tranquilo." If you live in the jungle and you've got a mote of protection from the elements and your family has, collectively, a full belly, Tranquilo. Take a load off. This pervades the pace of everyday life. Buenas is the ambassador from Guatemala to this international label slap. Used as a prefix for almost anything, Buenasis an endlessly optimistic sprinkling of good cheer on every word. Good morning, Good afternoon, Good eatin', Good to see you. Buenas.
Here in Mexico, and because I say so, we have Ahorita. I have yet to nail down two sources in a row that will give me corroborating information as to the precise nature of this word. Near as I can tell, Ahorita means: A few moments ago, right this minute, in a few moments, (which could also mean by sunset, or within the week). Imagine, if you will, sitting in the bus terminal. Your watch and the clock on the wall are an hour off from each other. But you're pretty sure you've got the right time. But you doubt yourself because this is the bus station. It's a municipal facility that has, as its main purpose, a commitment to operating on a reasonably accurate timetable. And for the most part, it does. So why would the main terminal clock be wrong? Anyway, you have a doubt now and you're straining to understand the soothing female voice fairly shrieking from the overtaxed PA system. (Remember what I said about Mexico and volume knobs?) Between the distortion and the echo of the terminal there isn't a single intelligible word to latch onto. You check your watch and if the clock, the big, red, digital clock on the wall, is correct, your bus should be leaving in one minute. So you grab your bags and head for the attendant taking tickets at the gate. You enquire whether or not the call had been made for the bus you need. You don't speak Spanish well. What you've actually said is, "When bus here Pochutla go?" The attendant rips off a couple of sentences in a lightning fast tongue. He also happens to have a mushy drawl not unlike John Belushi satirizing Marlon Brando's turn as Don Corleone with an orange wedge stuck in his mouth. You don't understand Spanish well. The only words you catch are bus and ahorita. Based on a likelyhood that the attendant understands what you were getting at, you could reasonably infer these three responses.
Response one: "The bus you wished to ride left here ahorita."
Response two: "The bus you wish to ride leaves here ahorita."
Response three: "The bus you wish to ride leaves here ahorita." This one looks the same as two, I know. But this means the bus will be leaving shortly. Or by the end of the week, no need to rush.
Mexico works at a different frame rate than the US. It's HOT here. I can imagine an evolutionary sixth sense that enables a culture to pace life at such a rate as to be non-slacking but restfull. "Yeah, I can do that for you, but it's not gonna get done at a high rate of speed. It's hot out, if you haven't noticed." I can imagine it being just a matter of time before before one who lives here developes a pace by which they balance on a fine line. Walking the tight-rope razor's edge between getting something done and getting killed by the heat. There are lots of unforseen variables in a country like this. Lots of free radicals roaming around. Any one of these could void a contracted time agreement and so, what better way to avoid conflict than to use vaguery as a foundation. The outcome is open to interpretation and wholly contextual. "Ahorita." It turns out the clock on the bus station wall was wrong.
Have I mentioned that there's a goose living here at the beach? Big, white goose. He waddles around the sand, never in the water. Occasionally he'll pick someone out of a group and take a strong dislike, stretching out his neck low to the ground and with a feral hiss, give chase. The dogs don't fuck with the goose.
So the camera's toast, but I've got the pics. However, seeing as there is now a finite supply, I'll have to ration them out to you over the next few weeks.
I think maybe Declan is right. Maybe it's a good thing to get my nose out from behind a camera. I mean, shit, I've had a camera with me almost everywhere for the last five years or so, and have probably taken an average of 10 pictures a day for those years. Maybe there's a benefit for me in just enjoying what I see without looking for the most dramatic angle or best lighting to make a composition. Maybe I will see more. But shit, there is so much amazing stuff here that I want to photograph. The round divots, wind-etched into the sandstone cliffs jutting, prow-like, over the ocean. The colorful fish darting around the coral shallows. The lizards, the musicians, the dancers. The regal and downtrodden. The flowers coated with raodside dust, the children and the old men, you name it. Plus, I think I'm getting the shakes, man. C'mon man, just a taste so I can get well, man. C'mon, you said you were my friend. You know I'm good for it. Don't look at me like that, motherfucker. You're all the same. Fine don't help me. The good news is...at this very moment I seem to be having success with my existing pics using a neat little undelete program called "recuva". It's free and a great tool to have for those "Ooops" moments when you erase something you didn't mean to. You Mac users will have to suffer. This one's strictly PC. So...more pics should be forthcoming. In the meantime, let's talk.We're still in Mazunte. This is the kind of place people get stuck in. We've been here 8 days now and I, for one, can't really see a reason to leave. SWaldron has itchy feet, a little bit, but I just love it here. I feel like I can finally start to relax and get in tune with the rythms of the place.
Mazunte is a tiny little beach, well two beaches, sort of. San Augustinillo is the next beach to the south. We go there for body surfing. Bigger waves than the ones here. You can walk the road if you want, but it's a hot 20 minutes. I was feeling adventurous yesterday after discovering the virus, so I swam solo through the rock field that separates the two beaches. Going there was great.
I had the current and it was an easy ten minute swim. Coming back, however, the tide had come in some and the scape was different. I tried to shortcut through the shallows close to the land and got pushed onto some razor sharp rocks. I could feel my bare legs taking a beating and as I pushed out with my right hand to get back into the narrow channel, I came down with my fingers on a sea urchin. He let me know just how he felt about that, and I had some spines to pull when I reached the shore a few minutes later. So, it was a shorter swim, but I paid a price in flesh. Seriously, though, it's just a bunch of little cuts and scrapes. Nothing to worry about. But, I digress. On the north end of the beach is a giant rock face that forms the other end of the beach crescent.
See that cactus sitting on top? That thing is huge. Close to 25 feet tall with a trunk like an old beech tree.
There are a myriad of trails leading to the top where sun lovers, after partaking of the "special cake" being sold on the beach every afternoon, go to bid goodnight to their god.
Dogs roam freely here. Lots of strays. They get stuck together a lot. They'll be expressing the deepest admiration for eachother. Y'know, in the mammalian way, if you will. Wink wink, nudge nudge. The male will try to pull off a move he saw on the internet yesterday, but he'll forget that he's a fucking dog, and you need apposable thumbs for that kind of thing. So he falls off. But he's stuck. Oh, the shame. The embarrassment. "Ok, fluffy, just try to act natural. They're not looking at us. OK, they're looking at us, but we can get through this with our dignity intact." ...Wait a tick, here. I was talking about the unrivaled beauty of this place and somehow I fell into talking about dogs screwing on the beach. I just can't help myself.
So we got our touristy stuff out of the way right off the bat. We were almost immediately accosted by the local pusher. Not the drug pusher, but the guy whose job it is to recruit Gringos for the sealife sightseeing tour. The three hour tour. They drive a hard sell, so we rose early the next day and headed out. Pelicans, turtles and dolphins, Oh My! I had no idea that Manta rays could fling themselves four or five feet out of the water. I certainly didn't know they wanted to. There were dolphins swimming with the boat and trying to impress the girls with their aerial acrobatics. We were also fortunate enough to see a whale breech a number of times. I'm taking all this in and I barely notice Carlos, one of the guides, putting on his swim fins just next to me. We begin a slow approach on a basking sea turtle (they like to just bob along and soak up some sun). Suddenly Carlos throws himself over the side right on top of the turtle. Ambush! So he's got this turtle held fast by the shell and we all jump in the water to check him out. He's having none of this and looks pretty unhappy to have his reveries disturbed.
Imagine having a nice quiet mushroom trip in your sanctum sanctorum interrupted by the J.W.'s, your drunk neighbor and the IRS all at the door at the same time. We mugged with the turtle a little and then the countdown to release. Carlos knows what's going to happen as soon as he lets go. Turtle dives deep, and I think you can just make out his one finger salute to us in this pic.
There's this big (like 120 feet tall, big) rock a little ways ofshore.
I had seen it from the beach and thought, "How majestic". Our guidesn brought us close by it in the boat for a closer inspection. Turns out it's the night spot for all the local frigate birds. The lovely white that sparkles in the midmorning sun...? Guano. That's right, hundreds of years of birdshit. Maybe even thousands. In the afternoon we headed to the next beach to the north, known as Ventanilla. We took another boat trip, this time into a deep blackwater lagoon to see mangroves,
toucan gris, and the heffe of the swamp, this 4 meter monster gator they call GreenBack. We looked at him, he looked (...and I mean looked) at us. I'm pretty sure he was calculating how much energy he would have to expend to swamp our boat, how many of us he could eat at once and how many he could stash under a log to soften up for later. I guess the math worked in our favor, because he soon became bored with us and moved on. We made it back to the beach just in time to be in on the release of six sea turtle hatchlings...Sarah actually got to set one free and we all cheered them on as they struggled against the shallow waves that would tumble them around on their way down the beach and into the surf.
.
The odds of survival once in the water are not good, but at least the gulls couldn't pick them off the beach like penny candy. By the time all this is finished, the collectivos are done for the day and the only way back to our beach is by taxi. They've got us (eight of us) by the short ones, but one driver affoers to take us all in one shot for ten pesos a person. Sounds great, but this taxi is just, like, a 1986 toyota camry. A five passenger vehicle at best. Elliott and I opt for the trunk ride and we ellicit much mirth from the other drivers and pedestrians as well. Mexico being the land of the speed bump, I fear the driver may have done more damage to his exhaust system than the combined fares were going to pay for.
And this was all just our first full day here. But don't worry. It gets a lot lazier after this
My picture card has the same fucking virus again, but no pc repair shop here in Mazunte. So I haven't lost them, I just can't access them. Also my camera broke. Not really so waterproof afterall. Sure, I've got a 5 yr replacement warranty, but not with me and where would they send a new one to anyway? Fuck.
Mazunte Well cats and kitties, lillies and germs...we have arrived. This is it. Paradise. The Pacific coast. Amazing crescent shaped beaches hemmed by towering rock formations. Whales, dolphins, mantarays flinging themselves out of the water just because they can. Hot sun, cold beer and a warm ocean. I'm just gonna show you some pics for now.
Here's a view of "our" beach
Stay tuned for more about our adventures...The net is quite slow right now and the beach calls me. More later.
San Cristobal De Las CasasWhen we split with Mary-Ellen, Tamara and Luz in Merida, they continued south to Tulum while we ventured north to Campeche and eventually to Palenque and from there to San Cristobal. At the bus station on departure morning Sarah started talking with this American fellow also headed to SCDLC (you try typing the whole thing every time...). He mentioned meeting some people from Maine while in Tulum. Can you guess which three fabulous travelers he was speaking of? The first guess is free. I assume you all remember the ice storm of '98, right? ...so I was searching around for a sweatshirt to wear in the evenings and I happen into this second hand clothing store and I'm sifting through the piles of clothes on a big table and what do you think I find? Holy shit! In the middle of Mexico's heartland mountains, there it is. One of those hideous "I survived the ice storm" sweatshirts that were so ubiquitous immediately after the power came back on. I didn't buy. Unfortunately, in a lapse of reason, I also didn't photograph it. Oh well.Back to the story, This guy, Elliot, is from Indiana and he just finished a 27 month stint for the Peace Corps, translating for an eye doctor in Nicaragua removing cataracts from the eyes of some of the poorest people in the world. People who had never before seen their grandchildren. Cheers to you, Elliot.He was headed the same direction as us, we talked a while and boarded the bus. Of course, we had to travel the same treacherous route as the previous days adventures to Agua Azul. This time we were in a big bus and it seemed not so harrowing. The landscape slipping past seemed to me at once so sad and romantic. The people are so poor and eke out whatever kind of living they can. Their lives set against a backdrop of lush jungle and rolling hills. These photos don't do it any justice.Zapatista mural on a school buildingWe pulled into SCDLC and we three were immediately rounded up by a shill for a new hostel. He was like a fervent recruiter for some slacker army and the offer was for him to pay our taxi fare if we would just stay at his new hostel. "Planet Hostel" turned out to be a great place and we fell in with a lovely crowd- One of the nights, 10 of us hit up a bar with cheap tequila and a reggae cover band. We arrived in one wave like a virtual U.N....4 Americans, 2 Canadians, a Spaniard, an Argentine, a Belgian and an Israeli. It's funny. I haven't actually hung out with a single Mexican. The language barrier is a big thing, of course, but on top of that, the hostel circuit is a great way to meet people from all over the world except the place you happen to be in.San Cristobal is a rare beauty. With a citizenry comprised primarily of Mayan descent, rambling colonial architecture, narrow cobblestone streets, grand churches perched at the tops of long flights of limestone steps. All this with high speed internet and vintage VW Beetles.The city sits in a basin ringed by mountains at an elevation of nearly 15,000ft. The air is exceptionally crisp and delicious, but not quite enough of it. I would climb the spiral stairs to the rooftop hammocks above the hostel and find myself oddly short of breath, but with it's warm, sunny days and rapidly cooling nights, it was like the best days of early autumn in Maine.
We passed our time reading in hammocks, walking around the open air market and cooking communal meals in the hostel. Good times, happy times.
And there was this Moto and it's rider who you can just see. He had a matching white leather outfit with the same airbrush motif. You can just see him in one of these.
At this point we seemed to have joined a flow of travelers following the same bi-directional current. Everybody seems to be traveling from or to the same destinations and we see familiar faces everywhere. From SCDLC we rode the night bus to Pochutla (the jumping off point for travel among the various Oaxaca beaches) with Elliot from Indiana and we are now in Mazunte (a tropical paradise) where we are finding many of the same people from other hostel and spots along our route. Speaking of small worlds, here at this beach we met a young couple, Phil and Lauren, traveling for 6 months who are from Warren in good ol' Knox county, Maine. What's more...those of you who remember the Slack Factory, you will also remember the slack's caretaker, Yosarian who just happens to be Phil's uncle. Weird.
Arriving in Palenque after a long bus ride, our first move was to secure lodging. We hopped a colectivo, one of the ubiquitous late model white vans that carry passengers to common destinations for cheap fares, to El Panchan. A loose affiliation of restaurants, bars, campsites and cabañas for rent, El Panchan is tucked into the jungle conveniently just before the gated entrance to the national park that contains the Mayan ruins at Palenque. A place called El Mono Blano seemed alright and, being weary from the road, we took the first cabaña we encountered, which was a mistake. Look, I'm ok with rustic. I can rough it and I'm not squeamish about acomodations that fall short of those to which we in the "first world" are accustomed. I spent four seasons in a three season cabin in the woods with Jake, Scott and Cody. So when I say this was a shit-hole, perhaps you'll understand. Our next mistake was not removing the dirty mattress from the bed, burning it and sleeping on the slats underneath. Maybe I need to rescind my previous omment about Mexico's lak of irony. The overhead sign spanning the mud path, wreathed in blinking Christmas lights read "Jungle Palace". The irony still stings. We found a much nicer place within the compound for our next night and enjoyed our first truly hot showers in weeks. In the interim we visited the ruins.
More extensive than those at iguana friendly Uxmal, these ruins are set against a backdrop of rolling jungle hills.
From the top of one of the temples the distant low lands spread out like a green see, hooded in clouds.
Spooky underground passageways beckon those who dare enter to ommune with the ghosts of long ago.
We decided to walk back and along the way met some aged American hippies in the VW camper van they call home. After seventeen years on a live aboard sailboat, they are currently on an overland journey to the tip of South America. Ahhhh, hippies. That night we dined like kings at Don Mucho's, one of the eateries in El Panchan. Turns out you can get really, really good brick oven pizza in Mexico. This delightful repast and the tequila that accompanied it was unfortunately followed by a miserable night in the aforementioned cabaña. Our alarm clock was the propane delivery truck pulling in at 6:00am when the driver made every possible effort to create as much din as three gorillas could make with a truckfull of propane cylinders. We dropped off our key, checked into our new digs and hopped another collectivo that would deliver us to Misol-Ha and Agua Azul, two waterfall attractions of stunning beauty. Here's where things get a little crazy.
Misol-Ha(rny)
Route 109 is a steep and treacherous mountain pass, winding like an undulating serpent struggling to devour its own tail. Narrow laned and lacking the comforting existence of a shoulder or gaurdrail it swithes back and forth for miles, cliff face on one side, yawning chasm on the other. Have I told you about Mexican drivers. They seem to be always in a real hurry. Ours this day was no exception. There is no word in Spanish for "tail-gater". If there were, I think these drivers would wear the label proudly, like a badge of courage. I don't mind telling you that my ass grew teeth and left deep bite marks in my seat.
The "Tourist Shot" "Falling" in love
Behind the Falls at Misol-Ha
Agua Azul, a well known tourist destination, boasts crystalline waters in a series of small falls and cascades tumbling down a long mountainside.
There are deep pools along the way in which locals and foreigners alike enjoy a swim.
A community of Mayans resides in the immediate environs and the path along the water is lined with food stands (5 empanadas for 10 pesos. About six cents apiece), and a combination of beautiful handcrafts (The Chiapan Mayans are famous for intricate weaving), and dime store T-shirts with silly logos or pictures of Zapatistas and their leader, Subcomandante Marcos.
The Zapatistas are prevelent force in this area, reportedly liberating the funds of people passing through and distributing it to the locals who have nothing. Fighting the system like a modern day Robin Hood. Not as much fun as the Duke Boys, though.
So it's an hour's ride from Misol-ha to Agua Azul. Same terrible road. One in five hairpin turns has a sign warning drivers of it's dangerous nature, so I'd clench extra every time I'd see "curvo pelligrosa". It was coming around one of these turns that, just as we reached the apex of the bend and could see the road ahead, there was a woman on the side stretching a chain across the road. There was just enough time for everyone aboard to gasp and make some sort of gurgle or squeak before we were on top of it. The driver slowed not an iota. I envisioned the woman's arm being yanked out it's socket. The woman in the middle seat with the three inch long, rhinestone studded pink nails that had been distracting the driver with her prattle for the whole ride shrieked. Then we were past it. The woman had expertly lowered the chain at the last second. While I tried to swallow my heart back down from my throat, the driver told us that it's a common thing on this road. Had we stopped for the phony barricade, he eplained, men would have materialized from the thick growth on the hillside and robbed everyone in the van, the proceeds going to the Zapatistas. Score one for hiring a guide. Agua Azul I was just about to take a swim when it became apparent that the screaming of some children beyond some trees was not just play. Someone, evidently, had slipped into the rushing current and was tumbling along the rocks while her frantic daughter watched helplessly from the shore.
Being a gallant type, I plunged in and swam for the far bank to see if I could help. By the time I arrived someone else had reached the dazed woman and was helping her to shore. All I could do at that point was shuffle back and forth in my spot and try to help them off the rocks onto the bank. Ineffectual, but I did try. The woman had a gash on her leg and very frightened, but seemed otherwise ok. The rest of our visit passed uneventfully. One of the little girls selling sweetbreads and bananas from a bowl she carried around became instantly enamored with Sarah and insisted on braiding her hair for a little while.
I shot quick video clips and enjoyed the look of wonder on her face as I played them back for her. It may very well have been the first time she'd ever seen herself on film, but I can't say for sure.
The ride back seemed not as long. We had some food and, exhausted from the day, fell gratefully into our comfortable bed.
We're getting on a night bus at 7:15 that will take us to Mazunte on the Oaxaca coast. It's a 12 hour ride which sucks but we're eager to get back to the beach. I can use the time to write down your next update, all about the lovely San Cristobal de Las Casas.
When I write about cities here, I want to make the picture absolutely clear in your minds. I'm not talking about cities with skyscrapers and mirror glass financial districts. I'm talking about a crazy crush of humanity crammed into an area where every building touches or leans on the one next to it. Nothing is more than three stories high. Electrical wires span over streets and across facades in a mad tangle that looks designed to trap pigeons like flies in a web and then electrocute them. The pavement heaves, the sidewalks are narrow and pedestrianism is a contact sport. Villahermosa is just such a city- seething and pungent.
We arrived in the afternoon, navigated the few short blocks from the bus depot to the Hostal Ochinta II (Ochinta is a cute slang term for a girl), met Daniel the Nicest Hostel Manager in the World, then heded back out to the modern three story supermarket for dinner fixin's and beer. Wow. Evidently we arrived at mercado rush hour. This place was like a super Wal-Mart, selling absolutely everything and the crowd clotting the aisles was hell bent on purchasing it all before anyone else could get their hands on any of it. We got our shit and ran, barely escaping with our lives. Next morning, in preparation for a long bus ride to Palenque we searched in vain for a bookstore that was purported to sell english language texts. On the way I became aware of two things. 1: Mexican fashion and popular culture seems to lack any sense of irony. I'm enchanted by this. Here it is still cool to look like you just walked off the set of West Side Story. The constant self reflection and spirit of one-upsmanship that pervades American pop culture hasn't affected Mexico in the same way. Where we have become jaded and snarky in our search for the new definition of cool, Mexico still likes the 1950's greaser cool. Slick hair and machismo might just get the girl and a hot airbrush paintjob of Bart Simpson as Wolverine slicing through the hood of your car (no joke) won't hurt either.
2: We were the only whities around. Only. Whities. Around. This was cause for some stares. We may as well have been green. Not that I need the company of the white man nor do I need to be catered to as a traveler. It just wasn't the place for us.
Hey everyone!! We're still alive and are now in San Cristobal de las Casas. I have much to tell after this brief respite. I'll start with Campeche.
Now as a rule, I'm not a complainer. I make my choices and I deal with the consequences. I never forget how lucky I am to be where I am with all the good things in my life. Having said that, I hope you're all ready for a good, old-fashion bitch fest. Hopefully it'll make you laugh a little.
Campeche Campeche seemed like a good idea at the time. A city surrounding a city, modern Campeche sprawls around the ancient walled colonial center. Begun as a Spanish port it was repeatedly menaced by pirates until the crown finally ordered a wall built for protection. Limestone, twenty feet high with four main land gates and one actually outside the harbor for ships to enter. It took 50 years to build and was completed in 1687. Narrow cobblestone streets, brightly painted buildings, a huge wall we could supposedly walk on to watch the sun set into the hills, the waters of the Guld gently slapping the shore. Sounds lovely, right? Bunk! What a boring place. The aforementioned sprawl?...Burger King, KFC, monolithic supermecados, a fucking Sam's Club!!? The Gulf waters? Brown. Gently slapping, yes, but also not so gently stinking. No beach. And you can't walk on the damn wall. The colonial center feels as though it has been sanitized for the consumption of fragile old women. Ok. When I'm in a city there are two things I expect to find in ready supply: Beer and cigarettes. That's right. I want my vices. Well, sorry pal. I had to walk all over the damn place just to find one store that would sell me a six-pack, and that was in a pretty remote part of town. Same thing with smokes. What they do have iun great abundance are shoe stores and clothing shops. Lots of clothing shops selling skinny fashions everywhere. And how do you suppose they fit into these skinny fashions? No fucking food! Granted, we arrived on some national holiday so the first day most places were closed. Ok, no problem, it's a holiday. That's our bad timing. We'll eat bland tourist food at this over-priced restaurant a block down from our hostel. The rest of the eateries will open tomorrow, right? Wrong! They didn't open because they don't fucking exist. We consult the guidebook: "Author's choice" it says. "Walk 3km along the ocean to a series of palapas for the best in fresh seafood." OK, so we walk. And walk, and walk. Unfortunately the other side of the paved Malecon is the paved highway. Gulf stink on one side, exhaust and maniac drivers on the other. Finally we find the row of cookie cutter seaside restaurants. This food better be worth it. I could write a book on all the ways this food sucked but I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that although it didn't make us sick, we wished it would so we could be rid of it without waiting for it to pass through the natural channels. There were three cool things about Campeche: 1. I got a nice haircut there. I had clandestinely photographed a gentleman in the park in Merida whose hair I liked and presented the barber with the photo on my camera. "Como este", I said. Great, well done. muy guapo. 2. A fountain near the central plaza that played a colorful nightly display of light and dancing plumes set to some of the greats of classical music.
3. The view of the stunning cathedral from the roof of our hostel at night.
The hostel was ok. Our room had a small balcony from which I enjoyed watching traffic pass by below. This is an afluent city and like in all of Mexico, if the stereo goes to eleven, it gets set on eleven, whether the speakers can handle it or not. Distortion is nothing to Mexicans. If the speakers in the car can handle it, great. The bass booms. We had a good laugh as one tuned little car with a really heavy sound system cruised the street setting off car alarms as it passed. We laughed the second time it passed. We stopped laughing after the third, fourth and fifth visits. In the morning we left. Thanks for letting me vent. Next up: Villahermosa. Tune in soon. We love you.
Before we get started, (and this time it´s we...The lovely Sarah Waldron will be co-authoring (moderating)this entry), I just want to post this pic that Mary Ellen emailed me of the gang on our last morning together in Puerto Morelos.
Yesterday we said goodbye to the lesbians and headed south of Merida to some Mayan ruins called Uxmal.
I found it very difficult to imagine what all this looked like in it´s day...for example, a vista like this...
Might very well have looked like this...
Being that we are the ignorant gringos, we hired a tour guide to show us around. He was a likable fellow but shy and barely said a word. He had a lovely smile...
He and Sarah hit it off immediately and I admit, I was a little jealous of the rapport they seemed to instantly share.
To keep me occupied, he arranged for the cops to strip search me while he and Sarah explored the quiet recesses of the temple alone. I barely managed to escape but not before shooting their pictures for evidence of my mistreatment...
The ruins were a majestic sight. Many darkened portals lead to dim rooms carpeted with bat guano where the silence was pierced by the clicking and squeeking of what I can only guess were thousands of them waiting to swarm out, Temple of Doom style into the night air.
I´ll tell you what, the hot sun wears my ass out. After several hours of walking around the site of the ruins, then waiting with a dozen other folks for two hours for a bus that didn´t come (we eventually hiked out to the highway and flagged down a "collectivo"), I was happy to sink into the comfort of the shoeshiner's chair in the plaza for my first Mexican shine.
Upon awakening this morning, we discovered that Sunday is the day the Meridans go fucking batshit in the Plaza Grande. It´s like the county fair in the center of the city. Booths festooned with local handcrafts, balloon toys for the niños and hawkers cooking up fresh panuchos, salbutes, serving helado and cold drinks. Most locals prefer the papas fritas (french fries) which are served, inexplicably, with deep fried hotdog florets as garnish. ...and Sarah found another friend. "Outclassed again", I thought to myself...
In addition to all this, There were performances by clowns with political agendas, acrobats singers and a troupe performing dances from Mexico´s rich history.
I don´t know where these guys are from, but they wouldn´t have pulled this sissy stuff at my school.
Just kidding. It was really great to see this spectacle, especially when I found out that this happens every Sunday. It´s still going on as I write this.
Here´s the EmCee. This guy exemplifies everything that is cool about Mexican cultural fashion.
And to top it all off, I understand there is to be a beauty contest later. Last years winner was present in the audience. Looking at her, I don´t know why I even bother getting dressed in the morning, or out of bed for that matter, she´s so far out of my league. Still, I feel I need to get even with Waldron for her Mayan tryst, so I´m asking this handsome woman out on a date. Her friend can come too.
Thanks for reading, y'all. Stay warm. Tomorrow...Campeche.
A four hour bus ride and here we are. Pulled into Merida last afternoon and checked into Hostal Zocala which faces the Plaza Grande (that´s the "Big Plaza" for you non Española-phones). Our room has a tiny balcony hanging over the street looking out onto the plaza.
From the balcony
I understand that when new, this building was a grand hotel. I can see that in what remains, a sweeping circular marble staircase leads up from the small street level reception area. The ceilings are no lower than 12 feet and all the doors, windows and shutters are huge and ornatley carved. Most of which in is a state of somewhat "crumblesome" (if I may invent the term) repair, but remains majestic, nevertheless. It just happens that this week is the fiesta de Maya, a celebration of the Yucatan´s Mayan heritage. Last night the plaza was full of musicians, drummers, street performers and artists plying their trades.
Some street images
For me, coming from the idillyc tranquility of the beach towns we´ve been inhabiting for the last weeks, this was abit of a culture shock. It´s not so acceptable to walk around in shorts and sandals, encrusted with salt from the ocean, drinking beer anywhere I want. I´d become accustomed to relaxing in grand style at a well appointed casa, and suddenly, here in the bustle of an actual city, I feel the need to "do stuff" when really I want to sip a margarita, read my trashy spy novel and take a quick swim before doing it all again. Even though the styles on the street here are several months, if not a year behind our times, I feel hopelessly un-fashionable. However, yesterday as I was re-packing my bag, I lamented the space and weight of the pair of leather soled Cole-Haan street shoes that I had brought on a whim. Were I less of a sentimentalist I would have left them behind. Now I feel they are my saving grace. Nothing like a classic pair of shoes to make one feel a little more at home in a cosmopolitan environment. And I guess that´s what Merida is, although I´m having a hard time reconciling it as such. I know it´s a city. There are students and professionals, nurses and sanitation workers, butchers and cobblers, all that a city needs in order to work. But this is also Mexico and, more specifically, the Yucatan. These are supposed to be impoverished folksy tribal people, pounding tortillas out of raw maize, weaving baskets, not talking on cell phones in Ferragamos. I guess I need to restucture my preconceptions. Oh, the ignorance of the white devil. I don´t know what I was expecting. All my former notions were further shattered today at the contemporary art museum. First we went to a Picasso exhibit at the Cultural Center. These were mostly studies, pencil, charcoal, a few lithographs, from the 1940´s and 50´s, many of the works were variations on the same scene. I like Picasso and can appreciate his mastery of suggestion through economy of line, but I was a little ho-hum. Then we visited the museum of contemporary art. Now they had me at Hola. Again, I´m not sure what I was expecting. The ancient artifacts and examples of Mayan handicraft I had seen in books was never my thing, but I was hoping for the best and I was not disappointed. I feel like an ass, actually. I went to art school, I live with and work with artists every day. I like to think of myself as one. So why was I surprised to find here the same themes with which all artist seem to wrestle. Society, family, religion, technology, sexuality, sense of self or un-self. And all executed in...you guessed it...a "contemporary" manner. Some of it was really fucking great and some of it just was, but it was all recognizable to me in a way that the old artifacts are not. I´m not interested how a feathered god presenting the ancient ones with the secrets of maize, but I am interested in lurid photos suggesting the impact of technology on sexuality, the repetition of the self portrait in various media to convey the multiplicity that exists in us all, a fascination with chairs hanging on nails attached to sedans by thin wires, and yes, eventually, the cultural importance of the hammock and the woman making tortillas. A dark alley lit by a solitary sunbeam is the same here as anywhere. An image of a boy tossing crumbs to a gathering of gulls does not require a translation. It would seem that regardless of geographic, climatic and cultural differences, it is the artist that is entrusted with opening the Pandora´s box buried in us all and showing us that all is the same within.
At the museum´s central garden...Is it art or is it life?
Aaahh! Puerto Morelos. I´m anxious for our next destination, Merida which is about 200 miles to the North East near the Gulf coast, but I am a little sad about leaving tiny Puerto Morelos. The house has been great with so many friends and so many delicious home cooked meals. Having a kitchen to use is a luxury I often take for granted and after a couple weeks of not having one it was truly a pleasure to be able to whip up our own yankee renditions of local specialities. I believe some more fish is on the menu tonight. Fish that was swimming this morning. Speaking of swimming fish, check this guy out...
We had our magical Christmas snorkeling tumor...er, tour this morning. Holy Schitzu!! O.k., those of you who´ve been diving and snorkeling before, pardon me while I gush for a moment. I knew it would be cool, but I really wasn´t expecting the way it made me feel watching these creatures so alien to us. I´m used to seeing fish two places: At the aquarium (I love the aquarium), and on my sushi tray. I was impressed with how unconcerned they were by our presence. Ten people thrashing about just overhead, spying on and photographing their little fishy lives. Maybe they secretly comprehend that, while I´ve consumed many of their brethren on a bed of rice, I was the one out of my element and that there was really no way for me to harm them. I just can´t swim that fast. Or else I would. I´d have eaten that little blue bastard in a heartbeat. I like the silence too. The roar of the waves over the nearby break is reduced to a faint tinkle as the spray rains on the surface, there´s the sound of my own breathing and that´s about it. I want to go again right now.
Our guide, Paz...(dreamy, huh? C´mon girls, Island fever, anyone?))
We set out at 8 or so this morning and motored the 1/4 mile out to the second largest reef in the world, running up the coastlines of Honduras, Guatemala, Belize and Mexico. We were outfitted with Fins, bouyancy gear and masks and snorkels on the way. We tied up to a bouy and over we went.
Into a new realm...
Now this stuff, Brain coral is said to grow one millimeter a year...This ball of the stuff was about three feet in diameter, maybe four. Let´s do the math shall we?...
That´s cool, but show me something cooler...how about close-up
And all the while, watching from the nearby haze, the barracudas...This guy was probably 3feet long. They would just hover there, exactly halfway between the floor and the surface...watching with the crazy eye...
So...snorkeling. Lots of fun...we faught some stiff currents and we were all exhausted by the time we reached the beach. Later I took a long walk with max and Sara into the town Colonia, across the highway...no tourists there really. But it was hot and I was tired so I decided to buy a car... A Cadillac...
Nice ride, Huh? What?...What, It´s not cool?
I´ve got to go pack for movement, for tomorrow we bus. looks like it´ll be myself and The Biz, plus M.E., Luz and Tamara rippin up the rails in Merida. It´s a fairly good sized city, so I´m sure I´ll be present here in the "blog-o-sphere" in no time. Until then, from all of us here, Thumbs up and keep yer snorkel in the air!!
So as some of you amy or may not know, today is my birthday. That´s right, I´m 36 today in the warm of the Yucatecan sun. The seven of us were scheduled to go on a snorkeling tour this morning, but the weather was not right. At the appointed hour, our guide, Paz askeed if we would mind holding off for another hour, but by then, the harbor master had shut down the port due to wind, so we will shoot for tomorrow now that Luz and Tamara have arrived. I got up this morning early intending to watch the sun rise, but could only watch it illuminate the backside of the enormous thunderheads that cut our coast line off from the far horizon...It was still worth the effort. Considering the weather updates we´ve been receiving, I have to say I´m triply glad to be celebrating my birthday right here. I spent the entire day lounging, puffing a little and sipping beers on our deck, my nose buried in a Clive Cussler novel which has the effect of filming a cheezy B grade action movie in my head. Perfect. We just finished a b-day dinner out at a little place called El Tio, (The Uncle). My belly is stuffed with salbuches, Tostadas de Pescado and soppa de Pollo...
Here´s the town official in his usual spot...
I could come up with something new, but the two finger salute is always a classic..
Senor Max feels the same way...
The Supper...
Well, there you have it...It´s my birthday, I´ve down at the club, got a bottle full of bubs, gonna party, drink Bacardi and... Oh right!! I almost forgot....So Mary Ellen and I are walking into town tonight before dinner and she takes a picture of me standing under a street light and then she says something about me in my cargo pants, "pockets stuffed with cocaine", which I have none of, but I agreed, yes cocaine and two dollar bills. Two great things that go great together, right? Sure. but then...not twenty feet more do we walk when what should I find on the street?...A Two Dollar Bill. Right!? Spooky, I know. That´s what I said.
So I come down to the internet place and I check my mail...(Thanks for the kind cheer and news of home) and then I have a few minutes to kill and I say "Why not look at the days headlines on the news page that Yahoo shows me when Im just trying to get to my mail", and here is one of the headlines, appearing just after a piece on economic idiocy speculating that California´s 14$Billion $$ deficit might just be like Thanksgiving dinner if you´re in the investment market. (And I quote...) "Study suggests obesity may be 'caught,' like common cold". Uhhh...whatthefuck?. "Caught...?" Really, that´s the best they can do? I guess they´re sending mushroom spores instead of anthrax, because somebody is tripping. Balls."Oh, sorry buddy, my fat roll just sneezed on you, now you´ll wake up with a headache, sore throat and a stuffy, snotty nose and stumble to the bathroom for kleen..., "OH MY FUCKING GOD, I´M OBESE!! Or does it come on slow, like a little tickle in the throat just after lunch that turns into a few sniffles and by the evening you´ve got a spare tire, not too bad, but you know that when you make up you be super fucking fat. May as well call in sick right now. Just this morning I was running on the beach, feeling a little ashamed of my extra roll, y´know, here I am in shirtless beach territory and, because of an injury and some laziness, I lost the good muscle tone I had achieved just seven or so months ago. Not really fat, mind you. No, I´ve got one of those fake spare tires that you find in the trunk of your ´97 accord, not one of those real spare tires you see in the back of someone´s pick-up, but annoying never the less. Now, however, any time I feel bad about it, I´ll just think of all those that have it so much worse than me The poor shmoe that just happened to ride the bus standing next to one of the "infected" and now suffers from full blown Obesity. We truly are a culture of avoidance. We´ll believe anything we´re told as long it absolves us responsibility for any aspect of our circumstance we find distasteful. Blah, blah, blah. Whew, ...Hay, how are you guys...didn´t see you there. Let´s see...Mary Ellen arrived, we eat the most delicious homemade taco dinners every night, We´re going on an actual snorkeling tour tomorrow...We saw these guys just hanging around the other day.
Hola Amigos! Greetings from sunny Puerto Morelos. Here we are, about 30 clicks south of Cancun in what feels for the first time like a little of the "real" Mexico. Ashley, John, Max and Sarah V. all made it here and we are enjoying having some homeys around. Our last couple of nights on Isla Mujeres were perhaps our best. The hostel PocNa suddenly filled up with young Israeli travelers, and I mean filled. It was actually a little bit redic. Two guys we met, Ori and Shuki got me really, really stoned and at the end of the night I found myself sitting at a table in the main area surrounded by five tables filled with chattering Israelis, cajoling and lamenting in Hebrew. I sat with what must have a bit of a stupid grin on my face just drinking in the cacophony. Some cultural differences outstanding were, for instance, at each table there would be one individual holding court, extolling the virtues of his (always his) wisdom and or adventures, while the rest sat seemingly rapt. Also, any time one Traveling Israeli meets another for the first time it´s as though they´d known each other since birth. Sarah and I spent close to 5 hours playing pool with Ori and Shuki, trading stories, swilling cervezas and cracking jokes. How delighted they were to discover that I was the token Waldo County Jew. They´ve been in San Francisco working for a while now and I made them promise to come East and visit us in Belfast if they can. Here we are with Shuki, Oreanit, Ela, Tama and Florencia enjoying Buen comida at La Negrita. (Best Tacos de Pescado on Isla)
So we enjoyed our Last Island sunset and packed up to leave in the morning for Puerto Morelos.
Although Morelos retains its fishing village roots, it has been hit a little bit by development. There are no big resorts or anything like that, but it definitely has it´s share of pinkies, both residents and turisticas. There is a beach town feel and right now I can here the strains of live music being played in the town´s tiny Plaza al Centro. The sand here is fine as flour and the beach even has it´s own Mayan temple. Under a palm tree. Really.
Upon arrival we met the local Government official, a shy fellow whose name I didn´t catch. You see him here entrenched in important bureaucratic business- We´ve done a little snorkeling, but haven´t seen much...I did catch a glimpse of a small Stingray and some fish maybe a foot long, but wasn´t able to photograph them. The only thing I´ve been able to do underwater with the new camera is create abstract impressionist images like this one... Tonight we made a meal fit for Ixtlan...Fish Tacos, Spicy Rice, frijoles refridos, guac and Salsa cruda...then stumbled out, bellies distended for an evening walk. The best part of the day for me was in the fish market when, after selecting the fillets i wanted, the fish monger handed them to me...just the fillets, no wrap, no nada...I stood there stunned for an instant, the fresh fish in my right hand, wondering how in the hell I was going to get my money out of my right pocket. When I requested a bag or something, anything, he grinned, emptied the rest of his fillets into the sink and handed me the bag they had been in. I´m pretty sure it was the only bag in the place. I´m also pretty sure this fish had been grubbing for food off the reef an hour before it made its way into said bag. Hard to beat. It seems as though this net cafe is about to close, so I will bid you fond farewell for now. I understand it´s really, really cold at home, like loco cold. My sympathies. Also...we´d love to hear from any of you...my inbox only ever greets me with spam. Until next time, from myself and all here, Hasta luego.
That´s right lillies and germs, los Supergringos here in May-Heeko. We´ve checked into a hostel, Poc-Ña (No idea what that means) and we rub shoulders with the perpetual traveler types. Last night, more damnable escorpione tequila...this time I ate the big one, along with a few new friends, including Gabe and Mamie from San Fran. The latter has a tattoo on her ankle of the christian fish with a cross bisecting the tail. When Sarah enquired as to its significance it was all I could do not to yell ¨Extra Jesus! Extra Jesus!¨ Nice folks. Also Pat the punk singer from santa cruz and my favorite, Mike from Toronto, Eh? He´s all aboot mexico, eh? Today we walked around the island some. The contrast that exists once away from the tourist zone where new chichi construction abuts crumbling cement homes of relative squalor is pretty eye opening. I cursed the deficiencies of my new point and shoot camera and it´s inability to help me capture the images I wanted. It´s fun in the water though. I was talking with Sarah over a delicious Italian meal this evening about my tourist´s angst and how I´m sure that even though I´m as nice and respectful as I can possibly be, and make the most sincere effort to stumble through using my limited Spanish, the people that I interact with (primarily those in the service industry) must hate my fucking guts. Maybe it´s just that I apologize too much that breeds contempt. Any time I travel I am painfully reminded of exactly why we Americans are so often reviled around the world. What a brutish lot. Oh, white man´s burden. Such a luxury. I see that my 10 pesos time on the PC is almost up, so I will bid you all adieu for another day or so. Tomorrow we rise early for a walk to the opposite end of the island (3 miles or so) to check out a turtle sanctuary. I leave you with these images.
That´s right beehotches! Here in Ol´Meheeko we eat th´damn things, soaked in Tequila (th´Good Sheet)for five days or so. Shoot the juice, chew the pinchy Spider. Not much flavor really, but a delightful crunch. Headed for the beach to get a wicked sunburn...just wanted to let you all know who has Cojones mas Grandes!! Sarah wants me to also say that she ate the bigger scorpion. Like it´s a contest. Sheesh.
So we made it without any troubles!!! Here we are. A perfect flight, no lost baggage, no explosive dysentery so far. I did get the red light at Mexican customs, but the guy who was going to search my bag seemed really distracted by someone´s low cut blouse and really didn´t try very hard. We had a fun ride to the ferry terminal chatting it up with Alberto the driver about how much he loves turtle soup and his accidental child, then a windy ride across the bay through such remarkably blue waters on what Sarah referred to as "the most ghetto ferry ever". Checked into the Hotel D´Gamor and headed out to explore. And drink beer. Not to make anyone jealous, but I´m naked in the sun right now. Ok, that´s not true, but I could be if I wanted to get thrown in jail. This is a bustling little beach community full of scooters, busted down golf carts and sidewalk taco stands. Oh, and some tourists, but it´s nothing like the Zona Hotelera in Cancun. Holy Shitzu! What have they done? I don´t want to make judgements, so I will just say that when armageddon hits, (We´re talking Book of Revelations here)I´m pretty sure it will start in Cancun, not Megiddo.
I am definitely going to learn to surf while I´m here, but not on the south side of Mujeres. Razor sharp reef jutting out of the crystalline waters, pummeled forever by ten foot foamy tubers that would really just love to wreck a man, or a woman. Also I´m told the riptide will suck you out to Cuba just in time for shark dinner. It sure looks beautiful though-
In other news...Someone please tell Raymelle happy birthday for us. Had a devil of a time figuring out who drunk dialed me at 2o´clock this last morning. So Happy B-Day, Fucker! I haven´t been able to figure out the international texting thing yet, So if you need to reach us, send an email...bigredvalve@yahoo.com...or try texting me...I have no idea if I can receive.
That´s about all the time I have right now...WallBall and I are about to see if we can light a fire in our gullets with some crazy taquitos or fiery green mole´. Much love to you all, stay warm and in touch!!
That's right. Leesburg, VA. Cold. Mid 30's and blustery. Oh well. On the uplifting side, we did not die yesterday. There was a fatal accident involving a wayward van that flipped the median on 295 just south of Portland and took out 3 other vehicles. Fortunately we were a quarter mile back from the action and suffered only by sitting in stalled traffic for 90 minutes. Big deal. Someone else went home in a bag. I don't have a messiah complex, but if I hadn't taken so long that morning to get my hair-do JUST RIGHT, we'd all be dead. Now, Mary, anoint my feet with some of those fragrant oils.
Thanks to Kate for her hospitality. And watching RC walk in his new booties.
So, the lovely Sarah and I will relax here in Leesburg for a few days before flying out. Here she is Portland with the sexysexy RichieC.
One thing that I was thinking about on yesterday's drive as I looked out the window, was how grateful I am to live in a place where you can still go to a restaurant, bar, store, etc. that isn't part of some corporate chain. It seems (and I'm sure this is NOT news to those of you who actually get out of Belfast on a regular basis)that this country is littered with non-towns loosely "clung" (yep, I'm usin' it) around a proliferation of conjoined parking lots and soulless chain stores. The worst are the eateries. Never had a good meal in one of those places. Speaking of not good meals... In a move that was part desperation, part experiential quest, we ate at a Sheetz on route 30 last night. We don't have these in the north. It's fucking Mecca to "bad" cholesterol. The ordering is like playing a video game and the eating is about as gratifying. The voiding, however, was spectacular.
Hey, look at that. My own "Blog". I'm one of you. Embrace me. So we leave for Mexico via Virginia tomorrow. I have too much to do to be writing this right now. Gotta go.
_________________"Silly customer, you cannot hurt a Twinkie." The above photo has nothing to do with anything, I just think it's funny. Now playing: The Clash - Rudie Can't Failvia FoxyTunes
