Upon reflection, I realized that my previous post might be to some rather boring. After all, nobody reads a blog for some awkward traveler´s painful account of his border experience. People read a blog for pictures, after all, it is the pictures that can strike jealousy into the hearts of all the people back home hard at work in their office chairs making tons of money so that they can do the same thing I am doing now but in the future when they are richer and smarter. Well, with apologies for my run on sentence (Tauchman has volunteered herself as official editor of the Joel post, which, is a full time job),here is my moment of glory.
Hmm, apparently my camera has zero pictures on it. Keep what I have said in mind until I can remedy this situation.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Everybody should thank Ayana for making me feel guilty about my lack of posting
Admittedly, some of my past posts have been rather corny, often concluding with a line like ¨but I will jump at the chance to return to Tulum¨ or the ¨Mexican people are intoxicating.¨ This post will end in no such way (don´t celebrate just yet, I haven´t explained the story!)
I am writing this story from Rio Dulce, a midsize town on Guatemala´s Lago Izabel. A beautiful town located on a gorgeous lake, and most people would declare that I am most lucky to stay here on two seperate occasions. In actuality, this place gets boring rather quickly, especially if you are not some yuppy gringo with leathered skin and an expensive yacht who likes to talk about the ¨perkiness¨of the young Guatemalan senoritas. That is precisely why I decided to leave two days ago for Honduras.
The day started off well. An early start facilitated by two cups of caffeinated water, (aka Nescafe) put me on the road at quarter to eight in the morning. It was raining hard, and within minutes I was already tired from concentrating hard on the road and the creeping semi two feet behind me with archaic air brakes. I got to the border at around 11am, just in time to get terrible exchange rate from Guatemalan Quetzales to Honduran Lempiras by one of the pimply teens waving large stacks of money. Formalities at the border started off nicely, immigration welcomed me to Honduras. Now comes the difficult part, declaring the vehicle and applying for a temporary import permit. At the Aduana (customs) I put on my most pleasant face, knowing full well I was traveling with a car that wasn´t entirely legally mine. The customs officer, another pimply teen, returned my greeting and then informed me that he did not have the authority to grant me an import permit, he only had that ability on Saturdays and Sundays (it was a Monday). Oh, of course, my mistake, would you please tell me where I might be able to find an import permit. Just then a Honduran man with British teeth ambled over to the counter right next to me (privacy doesnt translate to Spanish sometimes), and grabbed my vehicle title and driver´s license. He then informed me that all was not lost, that I could to go to Puerto Cortes (1 hr away) to obtain my permit, accompanied by a custodio, a chaperone to escort me there. This service would only cost me about $30!
His name was Jonathan and he was nineteen years old and no matter how many times I said ¨eh¨or ¨repite¨he continued to slur and mumble. Conversation was pulling teeth, and I succumbed to listening to staticy banda music on the radio. On our way there we were flagged down by the Honduran police. I pulled over and proceeded to stammer and grunt in what I was hoping would be comprehendable Spanish to convey that I in fact did not yet have my papers, but was on my way to get them. Jonathan, being the stellar custodio that he is, looked down at his feet and simultaneously found a more pertinent task inside of his left nostril than helping me with the police. The policeman made me get out of the car, Jonathan got out as well, but still mesmerized by his very interesting shoes. I was able to get across that I was on my way to get my papers, and the police moved on to a new, more important law, the one that states a driver must have adequate precautionary signs in the vehicle at all times, you know the ones people use when they are broken down on the side of the highway. I opened the back trunk and pulled out two signal flairs, and one of those triangles made with reflective tape. Not enough warning equipment, apparently. Meanwhile, while I dug in the back of my car, two pickup trucks sped past the police checkpoint exceeding the speed limit with headlights falling off and bumpers going every which way and while a passenger van came by without tail lights and a ten year old behind the wheel. But of course, they all must have had adequate precautionary signs. The policeman told me they would hold my license until I paid the ¨fine¨, which they said was 600 Lempiras ($30). I did not have any Honduran money left, having paid the custodio for his helpfulness. When I said I had only two hundred Quetzales left, about $26, the officer said that would be sufficient and I could go on my way. He shook my hand and smiled before we left, suggesting that the whole interaction was like one between people in a good relationship.
The drive took about an hour, and we rolled into the port about half past twelve. My talkative friend in the passenger seat got out and collected my documents while I followed behind like a rejected puppy yipping at his heels about how unethical and stupid those policemen were. I followed him into a room with a short, curly haired woman plopped down behind a desk in the center. She looked over my papers with a frown that could have been seen from space and asked me where my registration was. This was a first, I joked, and said I would go to the car to get it, secretly hoping that it was in there. I had a registration card, but of course it had expired in February. Awesome. Sweat began to form little rivers running vertically from head to toe. I brought the registration back upstairs, and with a sigh that could have been heard from space the woman announced that the registration was useless. Luckily, she would do me a favor and infer my car was registered legally because the tags on my license plate were active. I thought I was in the clear, and the world was becoming a more wonderful place by the second. Then the thunderclouds rolled in but in the form of a pimply teenage woman, whose job it was to inspect the vehicle. We walked outside and I opened the door, joking about the dirtiness of the vehicle and trying to lighten the mood. A little background on the vehicle. There are two identification numbers (called VINs) on my vehicle; one is found on the dashboard, and the other is found on the certification label on the inside of the driver´s door. My car is old, and at some point the little plaque located on the dashboard that has one VIN fell off and was lost forever. The pimply woman went straight for that one. Where is it? She inquired. I dont know, I said, but I have another one that says the same damn thing right here on the door. Shen then told me a great little lesson about car engineering, telling me that car doors can be removed and changed, but that little teeny plaques on dashboards held on by mere screws could not be changed. Touche, I said, now what. I was SOL at that point, but had I had some money left in my wallet I would have tried the old greenback salve trick. Alas, I did not, and she sent me on my way after first making me wait another forty minutes in her office while she did absolutely nothing except gossip with her fellow employees. Wonderful. She finally informed me that I would have to return to Guatemala and try again at some other border, and that I would have to pay another $30 for another custodio to escort me back to the border. Luckily, Jonathan came through in a brilliant move, and declared that he had to go back there anyway and that he would go back with me, for free!
My custodio and I drove back in silence, myself because I was out of money and rejected, and Jonathan because he never talked and when he did I had no clue as to what he was saying. I practically shoved him out of my car, turned off the headache-enducing banda music, and drove back to Rio Dulce, my favorite place in the world.
I am sorry if this story was too sarcastic for you, my parents often remind me that ¨sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.¨nevertheless, I felt it was appropriate in describing this day. Moral of the story, don´t enter Honduras with a beater car, insufficient paperwork, and high hopes. However, tomorrow is another day, and I feel that a new border, a fresh tank of gas, and a crisp American twenty will be the difference.
I am writing this story from Rio Dulce, a midsize town on Guatemala´s Lago Izabel. A beautiful town located on a gorgeous lake, and most people would declare that I am most lucky to stay here on two seperate occasions. In actuality, this place gets boring rather quickly, especially if you are not some yuppy gringo with leathered skin and an expensive yacht who likes to talk about the ¨perkiness¨of the young Guatemalan senoritas. That is precisely why I decided to leave two days ago for Honduras.
The day started off well. An early start facilitated by two cups of caffeinated water, (aka Nescafe) put me on the road at quarter to eight in the morning. It was raining hard, and within minutes I was already tired from concentrating hard on the road and the creeping semi two feet behind me with archaic air brakes. I got to the border at around 11am, just in time to get terrible exchange rate from Guatemalan Quetzales to Honduran Lempiras by one of the pimply teens waving large stacks of money. Formalities at the border started off nicely, immigration welcomed me to Honduras. Now comes the difficult part, declaring the vehicle and applying for a temporary import permit. At the Aduana (customs) I put on my most pleasant face, knowing full well I was traveling with a car that wasn´t entirely legally mine. The customs officer, another pimply teen, returned my greeting and then informed me that he did not have the authority to grant me an import permit, he only had that ability on Saturdays and Sundays (it was a Monday). Oh, of course, my mistake, would you please tell me where I might be able to find an import permit. Just then a Honduran man with British teeth ambled over to the counter right next to me (privacy doesnt translate to Spanish sometimes), and grabbed my vehicle title and driver´s license. He then informed me that all was not lost, that I could to go to Puerto Cortes (1 hr away) to obtain my permit, accompanied by a custodio, a chaperone to escort me there. This service would only cost me about $30!
His name was Jonathan and he was nineteen years old and no matter how many times I said ¨eh¨or ¨repite¨he continued to slur and mumble. Conversation was pulling teeth, and I succumbed to listening to staticy banda music on the radio. On our way there we were flagged down by the Honduran police. I pulled over and proceeded to stammer and grunt in what I was hoping would be comprehendable Spanish to convey that I in fact did not yet have my papers, but was on my way to get them. Jonathan, being the stellar custodio that he is, looked down at his feet and simultaneously found a more pertinent task inside of his left nostril than helping me with the police. The policeman made me get out of the car, Jonathan got out as well, but still mesmerized by his very interesting shoes. I was able to get across that I was on my way to get my papers, and the police moved on to a new, more important law, the one that states a driver must have adequate precautionary signs in the vehicle at all times, you know the ones people use when they are broken down on the side of the highway. I opened the back trunk and pulled out two signal flairs, and one of those triangles made with reflective tape. Not enough warning equipment, apparently. Meanwhile, while I dug in the back of my car, two pickup trucks sped past the police checkpoint exceeding the speed limit with headlights falling off and bumpers going every which way and while a passenger van came by without tail lights and a ten year old behind the wheel. But of course, they all must have had adequate precautionary signs. The policeman told me they would hold my license until I paid the ¨fine¨, which they said was 600 Lempiras ($30). I did not have any Honduran money left, having paid the custodio for his helpfulness. When I said I had only two hundred Quetzales left, about $26, the officer said that would be sufficient and I could go on my way. He shook my hand and smiled before we left, suggesting that the whole interaction was like one between people in a good relationship.
The drive took about an hour, and we rolled into the port about half past twelve. My talkative friend in the passenger seat got out and collected my documents while I followed behind like a rejected puppy yipping at his heels about how unethical and stupid those policemen were. I followed him into a room with a short, curly haired woman plopped down behind a desk in the center. She looked over my papers with a frown that could have been seen from space and asked me where my registration was. This was a first, I joked, and said I would go to the car to get it, secretly hoping that it was in there. I had a registration card, but of course it had expired in February. Awesome. Sweat began to form little rivers running vertically from head to toe. I brought the registration back upstairs, and with a sigh that could have been heard from space the woman announced that the registration was useless. Luckily, she would do me a favor and infer my car was registered legally because the tags on my license plate were active. I thought I was in the clear, and the world was becoming a more wonderful place by the second. Then the thunderclouds rolled in but in the form of a pimply teenage woman, whose job it was to inspect the vehicle. We walked outside and I opened the door, joking about the dirtiness of the vehicle and trying to lighten the mood. A little background on the vehicle. There are two identification numbers (called VINs) on my vehicle; one is found on the dashboard, and the other is found on the certification label on the inside of the driver´s door. My car is old, and at some point the little plaque located on the dashboard that has one VIN fell off and was lost forever. The pimply woman went straight for that one. Where is it? She inquired. I dont know, I said, but I have another one that says the same damn thing right here on the door. Shen then told me a great little lesson about car engineering, telling me that car doors can be removed and changed, but that little teeny plaques on dashboards held on by mere screws could not be changed. Touche, I said, now what. I was SOL at that point, but had I had some money left in my wallet I would have tried the old greenback salve trick. Alas, I did not, and she sent me on my way after first making me wait another forty minutes in her office while she did absolutely nothing except gossip with her fellow employees. Wonderful. She finally informed me that I would have to return to Guatemala and try again at some other border, and that I would have to pay another $30 for another custodio to escort me back to the border. Luckily, Jonathan came through in a brilliant move, and declared that he had to go back there anyway and that he would go back with me, for free!
My custodio and I drove back in silence, myself because I was out of money and rejected, and Jonathan because he never talked and when he did I had no clue as to what he was saying. I practically shoved him out of my car, turned off the headache-enducing banda music, and drove back to Rio Dulce, my favorite place in the world.
I am sorry if this story was too sarcastic for you, my parents often remind me that ¨sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.¨nevertheless, I felt it was appropriate in describing this day. Moral of the story, don´t enter Honduras with a beater car, insufficient paperwork, and high hopes. However, tomorrow is another day, and I feel that a new border, a fresh tank of gas, and a crisp American twenty will be the difference.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Shittin' in High Cotton
Presently I am in Tulum, Mexico, where I have been for the last week ago. It's a beautiful area, with white sand beaches and warm, impossibly blue Carribbean waters. While only two hours south of Cancun, Tulum's proximity to the resort-giantess has surprisingly not had much of an impact. Well, there are no Mcdonalds here anyway. Apparently the place gets very busy later on in the winter, but right now the only tourists walking around are of the sturdier breed who prefer a backpack over a suitcase.
Anyway, just because they are a backpacker doesn't mean they cannot be cute and undeserving of my (often pitiful) efforts to impress. On the first day at the beach I noticed simultaneously two things, first that there were a number of palm trees with great looking coconuts hanging from there fronds merely feet away, and second that a number of the attractive girls sharing the beach with me all wanted to drink coconut milk and eat coconut meat on the beach. I slowly put the two together and realized what I had to do. If I had a superman cape I would have donned it, and maybe announced that I, Joel Hedges, was there to save the day. I, of course, decided to climb. However, after a manly huddle, myself and the other dudes on the beach decided that the best coconuts just so happened to be on the tallest tree, probably ten meters high as the coconut drops. Fueled by more than one cerveza, I began my ascension by being flung onto the tree by Mark, fellow beachgoer and admitted Tennessee redneck. Too many greasy Mexican tacos meant I no longer have the slender figure I one had, and I made it halfway up the tree. Nevertheless, I sensed the watchful eyes of pretty women and could feel adrenaline in my veins, and I climbed up. I made it, looked down, and swore loudly, partly because I wanted to embellish the extremeness and danger of my feat, and partly because I really was pretty damn scared. I managed to twist off a couple of coconuts and began my descent. I slid down (ouch!) about halfway on the sandpaper like bark before jumping the rest of the way into the warm sand, victorious and definitely deserved of everyone's eternal praise. It was a majestic feat.
The adrenaline returning to normal levels, I became suddenly aware of the large scrapes that now covered my arms and the silver-dollar sized chunk of skin now missing from the bottom of my left foot. "Nah, it doesn't hurt," I assured the inquisitors (a big lie) trying one last time to impress. Nobody heard, however, and they were too enveloped in eating their coconuts to notice me hobbling off to the water to wash out my wounds.
There is more to this story, which touches even more on my own foolishness so I think I will become even more brief. I went back to the hostel and cleaned my wounds myself for the next two days with the first aid kit Scotty and I bought at the Army surplus store in Claremont, CA. Unknowingly, I cleaned the wound on my foot multiple times with a chloride wipe and then applied fresh bandages, which in reality cleaned the wound nicely but at the same time gave me a rather serious and painful chemical burn to boot. I am no doctor, but now that I look back at it I probably could have interpreted the directions on the back of the packet just fine, had I bothered to read them. Now, one week later, I am still hobbling around and beginning antibiotics for the cellulitis that is now beginning to spread around the edges.
I will never touch another coconut tree again in my life, but I will jump at the chance to return to Tulum.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
More Photo Stuff
My favorite photos from the trip are all now edited, captioned, and have locations on a map - check it out here.
P.S. Joel you're killin' me, here.
P.S. Joel you're killin' me, here.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tulum and Prior
the beach in Tulum. Its pretty nice.
The large pyramid at Chichen Itza. Jesse and I came here on our way to Tulum as the result of a last second decision. We decided it would be wise not to miss a place that was recently named one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It was large and impressive, but we got caught in the middle of an even larger and more impressive rainstorm towards the end of our visit and had to sprint back to the car. Once we were safely inside the car, the weather immediately cleared up.
Scene from the balcony of our hostel in Campeche. A very quiet town that went to sleep very early, Campeche was as a result peaceful and quiet and a perfect location for Jesse and I to rest up after Palenque and before Chichen Itza.
The Mayan artist must have been thinking of me when he painted this picture, which now hangs in the main plaza in San Cristobal de las Casas.
The mother of all turtles crawled up to the sand right in front of where we were eating dinner at Rio Nexpa. She proceeded to lay her eggs, with took an excruciatingly long time, by the way, and I was relieved for her and for me when she finally flippered off back towards the water. The girls quickly covered up her tracks so that locals wouldnt see them and steal the eggs for food. But thayt probably wasnt enough, the restaurant owner was telling me, because even if in the off chance that the locals dont find them, some dog will likely come by and dig them up.
Mexican transport. I am sure he offered her the helmet, too. Judging by the large number of insects that splatted upon our windshield, I would be willing to bet that had she been facing us, we would see an entire colony of (dead) dragonflies.
At the waterfalls in Tapalpa. Scotty and I met up with a school group from a town outside of Oaxaca by sheer coincidence. It was great because, although they were on a field trip, they invited us to their fiesta, which involved drinking lots of beer...and tequila. Scotty made the mistake of telling them that it was my birthday the preceding week, and they FORCED me to take a ten second pull of tequila. Before I finished my pull, Scotty had a bottle thrown into his face for good measure, while their one and only chaparone cheered us on. It was the craziest school trip I have ever seen. The picture above is one of the partiers. All the girls, undoubtably noticing that Scotty and I are extremely handsome dudes, wanted to take photos with us, and this is one of, I'm not kidding you, like 25 photos that we posed in with various girls.
The Surfing Group at Zapote. From left to right: Garreth and Julia, both from Australia. Tash, also from Australia. Adventure Man Kyle, who could kill you or make you a birthday cake with two sticks and a roll of duct tape. And Glenn, Tash's boyfriend and fellow countryman. That fish on the table was caught by Kyle and was delicious.
View from Scott and Sid's roof at their apartment in Oaxaca. Both teaching English there, poor work environment and uncoordinated work schedules led them to quit their jobs early and do something different, travel around Mexico and Latin America.
El Palenque: Jesse, a guy I met at my San Cristobal hostel, and I made it to the Mayan ruins at El Palenque this morning. They were magnificent, and we spent three hours exploring all the different buildings and palaces, some overgrown by the relentless push of the Chiapan jungle.Saturday, October 18, 2008
Photos from Scott's last week in Mexico
Check out the album with new pictures from my last week (and one of the best ones) in Mexico. They're edited with captions and everything, so I hope you enjoy.
Keep the updates coming, Joel, and put up some pictures when you can.
Keep the updates coming, Joel, and put up some pictures when you can.
Refresher
Just a heads up on what I am up to
Scotty left! Now I truly am blind, deaf, and dumb, and wondering around Mexico to boot! Good luck with the maintenance, Scotty, you are already sorely missed.
Currently in San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas state. Its beautiful, and cold, and everyone is a good foot shorter than me. My hostel has hot water, and yesterday I shaved the three week old growth from my face, and I feel like a new, albeit poor, man.
Stopped off in Oaxaca to see Sid and Scott (a different Scott) which was great, as they are resident experts at the city after teaching English there for the past two months. My car was broken into, and you´ll get the lowdown on that later--though I'll let you know now that it involved your's truly fending off hundred if not thousands of armed and deadly Oaxacan gang bangers.
Keep checking the blog, I'll get something on here soon. This laid back Mexican atmosphere is beginning to rub off on my, despite my (I admit, weak) efforts.
Scotty left! Now I truly am blind, deaf, and dumb, and wondering around Mexico to boot! Good luck with the maintenance, Scotty, you are already sorely missed.
Currently in San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas state. Its beautiful, and cold, and everyone is a good foot shorter than me. My hostel has hot water, and yesterday I shaved the three week old growth from my face, and I feel like a new, albeit poor, man.
Stopped off in Oaxaca to see Sid and Scott (a different Scott) which was great, as they are resident experts at the city after teaching English there for the past two months. My car was broken into, and you´ll get the lowdown on that later--though I'll let you know now that it involved your's truly fending off hundred if not thousands of armed and deadly Oaxacan gang bangers.
Keep checking the blog, I'll get something on here soon. This laid back Mexican atmosphere is beginning to rub off on my, despite my (I admit, weak) efforts.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
SCOTT GOES NORTH
There are some times when the challenge of driving all the way to Panama seems insurmountable, and other times when life on the road could hardly be easier. Even with lodging, food, and gas as cheap as it is in Mexico, my greatest challenge has been to keep on budget. It became clear recently that making it to Panama was going to put me into debt once I made back to the States. The insecurity of whether I would have a decent paying job (especially in such a turbulent economy) upon my return was troubling--enough so that I had to leave Joel with our new travelling buddies and head north. Visions I had of living cheaply down here by finding a job or compensated volunteer opportunities disappeared, and I became too enveloped with the leisure of beach camping. As much as I looked forward to what surprises the road south held, I was equally satisfied with all the unexpected adventures we already had. Some of the experiences I have written about here, some I have yet to write (look forward to that soon), and some you will just have to hear about in person.
So after a ten hours on four buses yesterday, I'm in Puerto Vallarta about to get a lift to the airport. LA is calling me for now, but I'm hoping to be back in Seattle for the holidays.
Unless Joel writes about it first, check in soon for a story about Tapalpa, a so-called "pueblo magico," as well as partying with students on a field trip to a nearby waterfall.
Best of luck on the second leg, Joel
So after a ten hours on four buses yesterday, I'm in Puerto Vallarta about to get a lift to the airport. LA is calling me for now, but I'm hoping to be back in Seattle for the holidays.
Unless Joel writes about it first, check in soon for a story about Tapalpa, a so-called "pueblo magico," as well as partying with students on a field trip to a nearby waterfall.
Best of luck on the second leg, Joel
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Rest Stop (not for the easily disgusted)
One of the inevitabilities associated with road tripping by car is the rest stop. You can avoid it only for so long, but eventually you gotta stop. In Mexico, the poor quality of the rest areas force Scotty and I to do our best to coordinate our "movements" around our driving. However, occasionally the habañero-drenched shrimp tacos, which were so damn pleasant hours before, decide our rythm needs to be skewed somewhat.
After getting off of the horrendous ferry from La Paz at Topolobampo, the fear of drug-related violence and kidnappings convinced Scotty and I to jump in the car and head for higher ground, in this case Mazatlan. Our organs had different plans, and we soon found ourselves at a gas station bathroom combo about two hours north of the resort city. I bought a Red Bull and contemplated whether or not the protests emanating from my bowels could be suppressed or not. Scotty, on the other hand, who had just polished off a carrot-orange juice combo, went straight for the rest room. I eventually decided that I, too, must listen to my body, and followed Scotty into the unknown.
The dirt and mud covered floor would have been a perfect warning sign for someone more observant than I. There were two urinals on the right hand side that smelled so strongly of stale urine that they could be detected through to t-shirts held over the nose. Urinals, aside from the stench, are easy, but my mission was on a much larger scale. There were two stalls as well, the one on the left had found a patron, an I headed for the one in the back. I rounded the corner (there was no door). A Pollock-esque splattering of yellow and brown and black(?), the toilet seemed anyone who came within inches would need to immediately retreat to a hospital for lengthy treatment. There was no toilet seat either. I couldn´t imagine how one might approach this. I called out to Scotty, thinking nothing could be worse than what lay before me, including his current throne, and said "hey, dude, does your toilet have a toilet seat on it?" His labored reply was a negative. I thought long and hard about this, then asked the next question, "What are you sitting on then?" I should of guessed what his response would be ("I´m hovering"). That was enough for me, and I quickly vacated the restroom. Outside, I 180´d after a quick one-two from my intestinal tract, and re-entered the theater. I decided I could live with the result if I merely emptied the fluids. While washing my hands, a middle-aged Mexican man entered the bathroom.
"Esta sucio," he said (This bathroom is dirty).
"Si, esta un poquito sucio, pero yo he visto peor," (Yes, it is, but I have seen worse).
He seemed oblivious of my decent Spanish and apologetic of the dirtiness of his country. "Esta sucio!" he said even more emphatically, pointing to the floor and grinning slightly. "Viva Mexico! Pero, esta sucio!" (long live Mexico, but it is dirty). I left, the bathroom was appalling. While there are some things in Mexico that are dirty, the humor and kindness of of its people create an intoxication that will overcome any dirty bathroom.
After getting off of the horrendous ferry from La Paz at Topolobampo, the fear of drug-related violence and kidnappings convinced Scotty and I to jump in the car and head for higher ground, in this case Mazatlan. Our organs had different plans, and we soon found ourselves at a gas station bathroom combo about two hours north of the resort city. I bought a Red Bull and contemplated whether or not the protests emanating from my bowels could be suppressed or not. Scotty, on the other hand, who had just polished off a carrot-orange juice combo, went straight for the rest room. I eventually decided that I, too, must listen to my body, and followed Scotty into the unknown.
The dirt and mud covered floor would have been a perfect warning sign for someone more observant than I. There were two urinals on the right hand side that smelled so strongly of stale urine that they could be detected through to t-shirts held over the nose. Urinals, aside from the stench, are easy, but my mission was on a much larger scale. There were two stalls as well, the one on the left had found a patron, an I headed for the one in the back. I rounded the corner (there was no door). A Pollock-esque splattering of yellow and brown and black(?), the toilet seemed anyone who came within inches would need to immediately retreat to a hospital for lengthy treatment. There was no toilet seat either. I couldn´t imagine how one might approach this. I called out to Scotty, thinking nothing could be worse than what lay before me, including his current throne, and said "hey, dude, does your toilet have a toilet seat on it?" His labored reply was a negative. I thought long and hard about this, then asked the next question, "What are you sitting on then?" I should of guessed what his response would be ("I´m hovering"). That was enough for me, and I quickly vacated the restroom. Outside, I 180´d after a quick one-two from my intestinal tract, and re-entered the theater. I decided I could live with the result if I merely emptied the fluids. While washing my hands, a middle-aged Mexican man entered the bathroom.
"Esta sucio," he said (This bathroom is dirty).
"Si, esta un poquito sucio, pero yo he visto peor," (Yes, it is, but I have seen worse).
He seemed oblivious of my decent Spanish and apologetic of the dirtiness of his country. "Esta sucio!" he said even more emphatically, pointing to the floor and grinning slightly. "Viva Mexico! Pero, esta sucio!" (long live Mexico, but it is dirty). I left, the bathroom was appalling. While there are some things in Mexico that are dirty, the humor and kindness of of its people create an intoxication that will overcome any dirty bathroom.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Why It Helps To Know Some Spanish
Just by the sheer amount of people that walk the streets of Guadlajara each day, it is easiest for me to compare it to New York City. Both places seem to be full to the brim with culture, style, and stories. In NYC it can be hard to get the real interesting stuff out of people, whereas here all you have to do is speak a sentence or two of Spanish to somebody and they suddenly become intrigued by your foreigness want to know more. What really makes staying here worthwhile is using the language for more than getting directions or ordering off a menu. In order to truly immerse yourself, you´ve got to use the words you know more like flippers than water wings, so you can dive down deeper and find out what people really want to see and hear. Here´s three stories to illustrate how various levels of Spanish can facilitate interesting and interactive traveling.
¨SURPRISE ON YOUR BIRTHDAY¨
Looking at a menu is one of the most common challenges for a non-spanish speaker. It helps to know your tacos from your enchiladas, but with so much good food to eat I like to give all the options a thorough review. Doing just that at a restaurant/bar called ¨La Epoca de Oro,¨ an old-west themed place, I saw the words ¨Sorpresa en tu Cumpleaños.¨ Having insufficiently celebrated Joel´s birthday on the miserable ferry ride, I figured a surprise was in store. A simple gesture and a couple words to the waitress was all that was necessary to set the following series of events into motion:
A waiter clad in mariachi attire arrives near our table with the waitress at his side. The waitress throws a tray to the ground with a ¨WHAP,¨ and the waiter puts a referee whistle into his mouth, screeching away and catching Joel´s attention. Before he has a chance to figure out what is going on, the waitress has a green cloth napkin wrapped around his head, blindfolding him. The man stands behind him, holding a small glass half full of pink liquid. As the waitress holds Joel´s head back, the waiter puts his hand around Joel´s throat and pours the concoction into his mouth. After it goes down, the man gives Joel´s head a vigorous shake and then, grabbing the back of his chair, swiftly tilts him backwards onto the ground. As the man takes the napkin off Joel´s head and helps lift him up from the floor, I could see that I was significantly more entertained by these events than Joel was. From just a few words came one of the funniest and surprising spectacles I have seen on the trip thus far. At Sean´s suggestion of posting more videos, I am considering returning to the restaurant for my birthday, so Joel can catch the birthday surprise with his camera. We´ll see...
Clowning It Up
On my way back to the hotel room after running an errand and shooting some photos, I run into a plaza full of people gathered around in a wide circle, taking up almost the entire plaza. As I approach, I notice a clown in the center, and, seeing an opening to catch him entrancing the bystanders with his foolishness, I pull out my camera for a picture. Putting a fountain between the clown and myself, I took a moment to look around and take the camera out of my bag. I snatched the following photo right as the clown was alerted to my presence by a man next to me who whistled and subtly pointed in my direction.
It wasn´t as much the blonde hair or green eyes, but my boldly obvious Chivas jersey that allowed him to suck me into his act. He had been wearing the blue and yellow flag of Club America, the rival of Chivas, and he had been trying to rile up the more abundant Chivas fans. Raising his voice, he asked me if I like Chivas, to which I responded with a whole-hearted ¨Si! Chivas arriba!¨ With this simple terminology, I instantly gained the approval of the crowd, which erupted with people throwing their hands into the air and shouting ¨Chivas!¨ This gave me a little boost of confidence, but I was still a little shaky and taken aback when the clown yelled back in english, ¨What is your name?¨ As I responded, an older man who seemed to be drunk or confused wandered up to me and put a cowboy hat on my head. Taking it in stride, the clown then asked me where I came from, to which I replied (in Spanish), ¨from the United States,¨ and, seeing an opportunity to clown it up, I put my arm around the man, continuing, ¨with my dad!¨ Seeing I got some laughs, the clown then invited me into the circle with him, where I managed to play along with his act for what seemed like an hour but was probably more like 15-20 minutes.
I must give this clown credit for the amount of trickery he had up his sleeves, how he managed to put me in so many humiliating situations, and how he managed to keep me (and the audience) engaged in his act. For example, after answering ¨yes¨ to whether I liked Mexican women, he then tricked me into fake making out with a very large woman, kissing an older woman on the cheek, and then struggling to make a heart out of a long balloon, which I was then instructed to give to the most beautiful girl I could find in the crowd. A little later he called over a nearby trumpet player, and I danced a little jig while people clapped along to the beat.
Then the Spanish really started to come in handy. Another clown popped onto the scene, and, acting as if the other clown had taken some change from his hat on the ground, the original clown told me to translate his English as we interrogated the newcomer. I never thought I would have to use phrases like ¨put your hands in the air!¨, ¨spread your legs, man!¨, or ¨where´s my money, clown!?!¨, but I was spitting that stuff out like rapid fire right in this clown´s red nose. After the original clown gave me a little lesson, I then proceeded to beat the crap out of the new clown using half a fun noodle, with the crowd going crazier the more I went after him.
I was really starting to enjoy the rush of being in front of so many people when the clown went into a brief monologue about how its important to be nice to tourists. Seeing my exit, the clown gave me a sincere thank you before I got in one last yell of ¨CHIVAS!¨as I broke through the circle of cheering onlookers.
Manu Chao Might Start A Revolution
So last night we made it to Manu Chao´s first return to Guadalajara in two years. A middle-aged, reggae-rocking Frenchman who sings in five languages (but mostly Spanish), this man´s appeal spans many cultures. To be able to see him in one of the largest cultural centers of the Americas was worth far more than the $25 ticket price. Upon arrival it seemed that, more than anything else, people came for the love of music, as was obvious from the crowd of people dancing away to a percussion band outside before the show. Once Manu came on though, I started to wonder whether it was the vocals underlying the instrumentals that carried so much of his artistic integrity. By American standards, hes a bit of a radical, but down here he got the crowd psyched by hating on George W, chanting ¨Cuba!¨, and waving around a Mexican flag with Che Guevara´s face on the front. I couldn´t tell half the things he was singing, and I kept on wondering about all the things the people packed in the sold out arena were trying to relate to in his words. From the lyrics I do know, the message is often times very political and very strong. It might be what keeps him out of the mainstream in the U.S., but it gets him on the front page of the paper down here.
Ms. Bergman introduced our Spanish class to Manu Chao back in junior year at GHS with an exercise listening to the lyrics of ¨Clandestino¨ and trying to decipher the words. Having memorized the words in countless listens since then, I just about went hoarse singing along to the song. Without a doubt, it was probably the best direct benefit from a Spanish class ever. What made the concert so spectacular though was that I could tell he was putting his heart into it. This was rather obviously and entirely figurative as he ended his first set tapping the mic to his heart, creating a ¨Thud Thud¨ to the rhythm of a heart beat. What intrigued me the most though, is that this crowd, which I had thought would be quite demographically dissimilar to the Chivas crowd, managed to get him back on stage twice with the classic soccer chant, ¨OLE!!! OLE, OLE, OLE! OOOOLE, OOOOOLE!¨ That Spanish class taught me a bit about what Manu Chao had to say, but the concert allowed me to hear it in a whole different way.
Just to see if anybody is reading this far, here´s a little contest. The first person to correctly respond to the following question wins a prize, to be delivered upon our return. ¨What artists´ murals are on the walls at the Palacio de Gobierno in Guadalajara?¨
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Check the album
Just a heads up to an album of more photos, with a bunch from the past couple days here in Guadalajara. I´ll get some captions in there soon, too. Enjoy, and look out for a post after the Manu Chao concert tonight.
People Watching in GDL
Also abundant in Guadalajara are the book stores and libraries, symbolizing the intellectual climate in which these Tapatios live. This is a (slightly askew--sorry!) picture of the Biblioteca Libroamerica. Beautiful. 
Scotty breakfasting at our favorite breakfast spot. Two full full breakfast plates with bottomless coffee and orange juice runs us about $5.50. As you can see, the great deal lets us really enjoy the food.
More breakfast.
One of the many sculptors that can be found in the largest plaza, Plaza Hidalgo. The city is very bohemian, with mimes, painters, sculptors, Brazilian drummers, and breakdancers among others. Hello all,
Here we are in Guadalajara, capital of the Jalisco province and Mexico's second biggest city. It is a fantastic city, with much to do. So far we have spent most of our time in the historical center of the city, which seems to be where most of the action is during the day. This part of the city seems almost designed for foot traffic: centered around four large plazas, both locals and tourists alike can walk, talk, gaze at the amazing facades of some classic buildings, or eat all the while staying in the middle of all of the action. Sunday was superb, and everybody seemed to be out and about. We, too, spent most of the day walking along the avenues, eating, and watching the street performers. While all of the walking can be pretty exhausting, Scotty and I have been able to muster up the energy to go out and experience the nightlife each night (though, admittedly, last night we were rather unlucky, first stopping at the Cuba Libre bar where a crowd of about 5 percent maximum capacity was listening to cheezy Mexican love songs at full volume, and then moving on to the nearby Club YeYe, which turned out to be a prominent lesbian bar). Tonight, however, we will be attending the Manu Chau concert, which should be a blast and even another opportunity for me to look at the pretty girls of Guadalajara but not muster up the courage to talk to them.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Chivas v. Atlas (Guadalajara, Jalisco)
Last night we went to the Chivas versus Atlas game at the Estadio, Guadalajara. The game was sold out--all 80,000 seats were filled. This was kind of a last second thing on our part (we didn´t find out about the game until we were halfway to Guadalajara), so we had to snag some tickets of a scalper. With some Mexican friends acting as intermediaries, we got a fair deal at about $30 a ticket. Our tickets happened to be in the Chivas-fan section, probably the craziest part of the entire stadium. During the entire game the fans in our section were singing and chanting songs at the top of their lungs, only stopping to shout vulgar insults at the refs and opposing players. People threw toilet paper, smoke bombs, and signal flares at the field, trying to hit the opposing team´s goalie, at times almost succeeding. Stadium rule prohibits the sale of alcohol to people of our section (and they do check your ticket), but that didn´t slow down these fans one bit. Those on the upper deck were jumping up and down in such unison at one point that I could see the huge concrete tier and girders tremor with them. The thirteen year olds in front of us weren´t to be shown up, either, and they wasted no time in lighting up a cigarette or yelling things that might make an Irish dockworker wince. All in all, a very pleasurable experience.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
AUTUMN IN THE TROPICS
In the photo above, the sun is setting directly above a large white rock sitting off the coast of the small town of San Blas, here in the state of Nayarit. It is said that the rock is sacred to the natives, for whom it is a landmark on their pilgrimage. While the region is known for the mysticism and spirituality of its ancient Huichol people, I am captivated as well by the deliciousness of the Huichol brand hot sauce that comes from here. In recent news, the heat and bugs were oppressive last night. I was willing to give so much just for a light breeze, some rain maybe, but it only got worse. We eventually gave in, leaving the circle of people sitting around the coconut which was smoking away in a bucket, and driving into town in search of a more hospitable place to socialize. Tonight should not be as bad because a thunderstorm has rolled through (and we´ve been told a hurricane is coming up through Acapulco). We managed to get some surfing in while it was raining this afternoon, but I am only around 90% after a rough night of sweating, itching, and coughing. I have been fighting a bit of a flu bug, and it got the best of me between about 4 and 7 am, when I mainly tried to read more of Don Quixote while the sun slowly came up.
A night even worse than last night ended with this sunrise, as we got off the ferry from La Paz began our drive south to Mazatlan. Deprived access to our vehicle and unwilling to spend an additional 75 bucks on a private room, the tile floor and bright flourescent lights of the ¨Muster Station,¨ or meeting area, turned into the only place to lie down. On top of the distressing news I had heard earlier about my friend, we also had to deal with the sounds of the movie Hostel 2 playing nearby. Thankfully in the corner I found a pile of old broken seats, and was able to detach a cushion to use as a headrest. In the morning, we were managed to remain undetected by a man whom I had talked to extensively while waiting to board the ferry. He was coming back to his farm on the mainland after working construction jobs in Baja during the off season. Tough work, he said, but a better alternative to his occupation-- a drug trafficker. With five children and a wife he loved and had been married to for half his life (since he was seventeen), he had made enough money to buy the land, but only before being sent to jail for some 26 months. His philosophy on life is one of equality for all people now, and he can´t even fathom being in the drug trade now, which is involved in the murder of so many innocent people. As the conversation turned from this to the complexities of maintaining a farm, he became interested enough in me to offer a shrimp breakfast with his brother, a fisherman from the city where we would be landing in the morning. Rodrigo, as he went by, was friendly and willing to talk about all kinds of interesting things, but the combination of sketchy past and haggard feeling in the morning was enough to want to get on the road. I uploaded the picture above because I was captivated by the large banner on the left: ¨LAS DROGAS NOS DESTRUYEN¨, or ¨THE DRUGS DESTROY US¨
Driving straight through the northern section of Sinaloa, we ended up in Mazatlan in time to get some tacos, hit up a little internet, sleep a little, and get back out to walk the malecon, or coastal road for the sunset. Hundreds of people had the same plan, and we got a great intro to the biggest city we had visited thus far.
The following day we managed to climb the hill where the lighthouse rests (the highest altitude for any lighthouse in the world, apparently) and caught this great view. Closer in to the right is the old town, with its bustling streets, plaza, and cathedral, while further up the beach is the Zona Dorada, AKA Golden Zone, AKA tourist heaven. 
This little piece of street art outside or hotel in the old town was not quite as tourist friendly. The artist´s choice to switch the stars on the American flag for swastikas was particularly curious. The quote from Martin Luther King is a shortened down version of this one: ¨He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it. ¨ This could be a sign that our journey on the mainland could lead us to somewhat more confrontation than our peaceful passage through Baja. Stay tuned to find out.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
R.I.P. Bryan Frost
You might think that travelling down here in Mexico you really detach yourself from whats going on in the states, but thats really not the case. When you have to confront something as tragic as the murder of a friend, it can turn your entire perspective on travelling and the world in general upside down. It still doesn´t seem possible, but I found out just last night that a friend named Bryan Frost was stabbed to death while walking through LA this past Thursday. I didn´t know him that well, but after staying at his place a couple days over the summer, I could tell he was quite kind, generous, and very easy to get along with. The violence of it is most disturbing, and serves as an important message to those of you back home: you´ve got to keep all your wits about you, or you could easily find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Brian´s death was the second of two bad omens that have hit close to home recently. Thursday and Friday we were chilling out on the pacific coast of southern baja, camping at a little spot called Pescadero Surf Camp. Walking the board we rented out to the waves on Thursday afternoon, I was surprised to see a boy come running up to me as I reached the water. In a panic, he told me that a man was stuck out in the water, and turned pointing to the rocky area down the beach. I followed him, running at his pace until we arrived down the beach, where there were five or six people all yelling things at me, waving their arms, and pointing out to sea. For a brief moment, I saw the man stuggling to keep his head above water before a wave came crashing ontop of him, sending him even closer to the rocks. He was further out than I had dared to go with the surfboard all day, and seemed to have been sucked out by the riptide that was separating us. I wasn´t sure whether it was the pressure of the panicking people on the rocks bearing down on me, or a burst of courage, but I ran out into the water and started paddling through the waves. As the waves got larger and the water got deeper, whatever courage I had ran dry as I lost sight of the man and struggled to hold on to the surfboard in the crashing and choas of the whitewater. In all the confusion, I saw a man on the rocks just 30 or so feet away, sitting and vigorously putting on what looked like a pair of shoes or flippers. I yelled to him, asking if he could see the man, and telling him to take the board. He jumped into the water towards me, and soon he had the board and was off, leaving me struggling to fight the current. Thankfully I was only about shoulder deep at that point, and was able to swim and walk off to the side in order to get out of the riptide. I was met onshore by Joel and the Aussies with whom we were surfing and hanging out (more on them later), and after seeing that the two others had made it out of the riptide, comments abounded about my Hasselhoff-esque assist in saving this man´s life. Both this story and Brians go to show that no matter where you are you can find yourself in a life and death situation, and you cant put too much faith into your being able to make it out unscathed.
Brian´s death was the second of two bad omens that have hit close to home recently. Thursday and Friday we were chilling out on the pacific coast of southern baja, camping at a little spot called Pescadero Surf Camp. Walking the board we rented out to the waves on Thursday afternoon, I was surprised to see a boy come running up to me as I reached the water. In a panic, he told me that a man was stuck out in the water, and turned pointing to the rocky area down the beach. I followed him, running at his pace until we arrived down the beach, where there were five or six people all yelling things at me, waving their arms, and pointing out to sea. For a brief moment, I saw the man stuggling to keep his head above water before a wave came crashing ontop of him, sending him even closer to the rocks. He was further out than I had dared to go with the surfboard all day, and seemed to have been sucked out by the riptide that was separating us. I wasn´t sure whether it was the pressure of the panicking people on the rocks bearing down on me, or a burst of courage, but I ran out into the water and started paddling through the waves. As the waves got larger and the water got deeper, whatever courage I had ran dry as I lost sight of the man and struggled to hold on to the surfboard in the crashing and choas of the whitewater. In all the confusion, I saw a man on the rocks just 30 or so feet away, sitting and vigorously putting on what looked like a pair of shoes or flippers. I yelled to him, asking if he could see the man, and telling him to take the board. He jumped into the water towards me, and soon he had the board and was off, leaving me struggling to fight the current. Thankfully I was only about shoulder deep at that point, and was able to swim and walk off to the side in order to get out of the riptide. I was met onshore by Joel and the Aussies with whom we were surfing and hanging out (more on them later), and after seeing that the two others had made it out of the riptide, comments abounded about my Hasselhoff-esque assist in saving this man´s life. Both this story and Brians go to show that no matter where you are you can find yourself in a life and death situation, and you cant put too much faith into your being able to make it out unscathed.
Candid shot of Scotty at El Marron Fishing Camp. On our way back to camp we stopped and chatted it up with a local fisherman Pancho Maclish. Pancho was 72 years old, but they were as hard a 72 years as you will come across. A lifetime of fishing and smoking cigarrettes had left his face dark and leathered, and a stomach condition that made ingestion very painful had turned his legs and arms to twigs. He lived by himself in a small house for weeks at a time with only his TV digest magazines to entertain him in the evening, even though his house had no electricity. On his right hand was a noticeable scar, a leftover from a stingray incident. Though we didnt him ask him about it, someone from neighboring Santa Rosalillita told us that Pancho was involved in an ongoing legal dispute with his brothers over the rights to his father's inheritance. His faint smile appeared throughout our conversation, and he laughed like a kid when we told him about the neighbor's dog marking its territory all over Scotty's tent.
Day shot from our campsite near the Bufadora. We thought long and hard about checking our beer consumption for the evening considering our proximity to such a precipitous ledge. We decided against it.
The Meling Ranch in San Pedro sat on very old property, with the house in the background being over one hundred years old. The pool looked so inviting that Scotty and I, moderately dirty from not showering for several days despite numerous hiking adventures, spent half of an hour trying to convince the employees who worked there. I must also admit that our best efforts to charm the two young women working there into letting us use the pool were not in vain, because after falling short with them we moved onto the father and owner of the ranch who finally permitted us a dip.
Scotty opining in front of the birch tree forest 4000 meters above sea level in San Pedro de Martir national park.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
BAJA SUR
Here we are, Loreto, founded in 1697 and considered ¨Capital of the Californias¨ until it was destroyed by a hurricane in 1828. A very historic day to be in a place with such history, the picture above was taken on Mexico´s Independence Day, September the 16th. We arrived to clouds overhead, and only 15 minutes after checking into a cheap hotel, a deluge quickly flooded the streets. Soon after, we braved to muddy waters of the streets in search of cheap seafood, Loreto being a coastal city. In the picture, you can see just how treacherous these streets can be not only for drivers (the SUV on the right is getting doused by the passing truck), but for pedestrians, who can get drenched by cars going by. The old mission in the background is adjacent to the plaza area, which was decorated with the colors of red, white, and green from the fiesta the night before. There is still a great feeling of isolation, even in this somewhat developed city (it has only the third stoplight we have seen in Baja). Indeed, while the conquitador Cortez had taken control of all of central and southern Mexico within three years of his arrival in 1519, it was another century and a half before Loreto would be established. Today, we are continuing south with the hopes of making it to La Paz or even Todos Santos further south, but we may inevitably settle for another night on the beach more closeby. Check back soon for another post before we hop the ferry from La Paz to the mainland.
Parque Nacional Sierra San Pedro Martir
After an hour or so hiking up a really rough road, Joel and I found some spare energy to scramble up the rocks to reach this peak at around 10,000 feet. Here we see Joel doing a little light reading atop a massive cliff, looking out over Cañon del Diablo, a dry lake bed, and the north end of the Sea of Cortez far off in the distance. It was in this unexpected forest wilderness that we would later receive unexpectedly awful directions on how to arrive at a lake. Misleading signs, unpassable road, suspicious forks, and unrewarded miles of hiking in the heat gave us great grief with the park ranger who suggested such the excursion. Nonetheless, the memory of this gorgeous vista was a highlight that could not easily be sullied.Dune Jumping
The large dunes of San Antonio del Mar gave Joel and me a chance to let free some of the energy that can get built during long car. I chose to go for the Kung Fu kick, and as you can see my technique is nearing perfection. Joel, on the other hand, went for maximum amplitude, and could glide down to near the bottom of this dune, landing in the deep and forgiving sand. In other aerial news, we reached a pool with a diving board, and Joel attempted to teach me a gainer, or running back flip. The first tries I succeeded in between a quarter and a half rotation, landing in a tucked position with my knees and head hitting the water at the same time. The second to last attempt I layed out nearly horizontal, landing with a smack on the small of my back. If back flops could hurt more than that, I did not want to know. On the next, and final attempt, however, I found out that they could, in fact, hurt significantly more, smacking the entirety of my back on the surface of the water with a ¨SLAP!¨ that would have woken many people sleeping nearby.
El Coyote
Scott in the midst of Cervantess Don Quixote at Requeson. Maybe, in the great scheme of things, we are on our own romantic journey and Panama is our windmill. We have got our fingers crossed that this giant will be slain, however.
Our camp spot at Playa Requeson, just south of El Coyote. Not bad for $3 bucks a day.
The road into El Coyote was precarious to say the least...But hey, on the bright side, it sorted out all the nancies and kept the beach solely for the dedicated. Scott maneuvered the Land Cruiser like a seasoned pro, however, and we were soon relaxing on the beach under the shade of a palapa.Playa El Coyote is a real jewel. Located on the Cortez side of the Baja Peninsula south of the 28thparallel, its white-sand beaches, warm waters, and abundance of outdoor activities make it a legendary destination for Mexicans and foreigners. We sought it out because the Seattle-ite owner of our hotel in San Quintin tipped us off to it. I said "how much time should we spend there? Two or three days?" He leaned back into is reclining chair and gave his large belly a little breathing room, blew out a deep breath through pursed, flimsy lips spraying flecks of his bologna sandwich over the desk in front of him and responded, "Oh, two or three WEEKS." We were sold. Our camp was set up on the southern tip of the beach, somewhat distanced from the locals and their cars, which all seem to be equipped with a nice little feature that allows them to play Ranchero music at impressively high decibel levels. Fleeing the pesky flies in the morning, we stumbled across Berthas Restaurant, just up the road at Playa El Burro. A couple of ice-cold Dos Equis Lagers later (in Mexico, ice cold beer always sounds tasty, even at nine in the morning--something I’m accrediting to physiological and mental acclimation, a process that I am in no big rush to explain scientifically) and we had a snorkel set to play. While we were enjoying our beers, there was a little commotion outside. Just in front of the restaurant were a biracial team of overweight, old gringo expats and some younger, fitter Mexican dudes trying to un-beach an embayed sailboat. An English expat, our neighbor in the bar, was shirtless and looked as though he had a strong allergic reaction to dental offices, but he was also adept at telling us the story behind the sailboat. Apparently the boat, which didn’t look very seaworthy, had been bought by one of the expats now on the beach. It was purchased exactly in the position it was in when we first laid eyes on it, stranded on the beach. Despite its theoretical ownership, locals tired of the eyesore encouraged the local dive-master Mick, also from England, to take it out and sink it. Once it was at the bottom of the sea, it would create a man made reef in which to explore while diving. The Mexicans were now taking order from the gringos and began to try and push the sailboat of the beach while the gringos themselves plopped down on their rears in a motorboat and tried to tow the bow off simultaneously. I leaned over to Scott sitting next to me as the motorboat began waving back and forth at about 6000 rpms, "This is a futile effort if there ever was one." But just as I had finished my sentence, lo and behold a miracle occurred, and the beached sailboat began to drift out to sea. I had no hat on my head at the time, which was lucky because I was not very hungry.
We rented some kayaks just down the beach for five bucks an hour and set off to an island located maybe half a mile out into the bay. On the other side it was said there was a beautiful, vacant white sand beach. We paddled out there and chanced upon a French-Mexican tourist with the same game plan. He was an engineer in France for an aeronautical firm, but had grown up in Mexico but attended French style schools in Mexico City. Politics and culture were easy subjects to talk about for him, and he struck me as an optimist and had a positive outlook on US and Mexican politics, unusual, I thought, considering his French heritage. Some local expats rolled in on their inflatable dinghy, and told us that this island was called Isla Perros Muertos, or Dead Dog Island, because locals brought their dead dogs out here to bury them.
That night we brought some tequila over to our neighbors at Playa El Coyote. They were not too excited about cracking open our bottle of very budget liquor, but they were quite keen to talk to some Americans, especially ones so close to them in age. From Tijuana, there was Raul, 28, and his girlfriend Lucia, a very pretty girl also from northern Baja. Then there was Hussein, Mexican but of Jordanian descent. Marcos was a local from Santa Rosalia but had studied in Vancouver B.C., and by the time we showed up had already drank a sufficient amount of booze to perform a little dance in front of the fire for us. His style lie somewhere between the robot and swing dance, but it was pure entertainment. Raul grilled up some delicious fresh shrimp tacos for us, and told us about his time studying in Montana. White noise included a soothing mix of reggae, German techno, and Radiohead, and the scene by the fire soon put me in a very relaxed state. They told us about the night before, during which they had dropped LSD, which explained the blasting techno music that continued until 4 a.m. While we sat there listing to these young Mexicans, I began to smile. Travel is really all about the people, I thought. Lucia kissed me on the cheek like we were friends before I headed off to bed and told me it was nice to meet me. On a side note, this was the most contact I had had with a female in ages. Sorry Scotty, but there are some things in which even you can’t cut the mustard. The tequila had done its job, and I made it about half of a page into my book before I fell into a deep sleep.
Communication Frustration
Travelling in Mexico thus far, one of the main challenges we have faced is in communications with those back in the U.S. I wrote the following story yesterday to help elucidate how this can be a problem, and, sure enough, was delayed in posting it until today because of computer difficulties. It´s long for a blog posting, but I thought the details of the event were crucial in getting the message across. As a disclaimer, I have to warn you that it may be migraine inducing even to the reader.
It´s the 16th of September, Mexico´s Independence Day, and this seems to be the only internet cafe open here in the 300 year old city of Loreto. It is on the main drag, which is packed with small stores--all kinds of boutiques, bakeries, taquerias, farmacias--but has by far the smallest proportion of internet cafes out of any even modestly populated area. The internet is slow, but most things take considerably longer down here (with the most obvious exception being food service). A spontaneous desire to use the telephone seemed easy enough, given there was a public phone visible across the street, and I had seen a small grocery store next door that in most cases sell the cards necessary to call long distance on the phones. The first hurdle came early on, as the store was out of phone cards. Thankfully, the store owner was as helpful as most people are in Baja, and she didn´t take much nudging to get a potential other vendor out of her. The Pescador, a supermarket just a couple blocks down the street, would certainly sell me a card, she said. After a few block walk, during which it had begun to rain lightly, I found refuge in The Pescador somewhat reluctantly purchased a 100 peso ($10) card, which, though it would provide 20 solid minutes of phone time, seems like a lot when compared to Skype (which can be difficult to find). On the way back up the street to the phone across from the internet cafe, I found a different phone. Before I even took the card out of its plastic wrap, I noticed the ¨telephone unavailable¨ notice on the screen. Shrugging it off, I was mainly considering the various tales I would soon describe to my friends and family back in the states, back at the phone across from the internet cafe. I get there, and that phone simply does not have any words on the screen, an obvious sign of disfunction. Looking down the street in both directions, I don´t see another phone in sight, but I take off back in the direction of the Pescador and the central plaza area, certain I will find one rather soon. After passing the Pescador, I see the familiar yellow and red pattern of the phone enclosure box just a little further down the block. Upon approach, however, I see there is not actually a phone at all, and just the box, on its stand. At this point the rain picks up a little more, enough for me to stretch my bright green Mexico soccer jersey over my camera bag, hanging at my hip. A warm afternoon drizzle, nothing compared to the deluge that Joel and I were surprised by earlier in the day. As I reach a phone that works two blocks further down, I´m happy to stand in the rain and chat it up until my card runs out of time. Spirits are high, reinforced by the continuous yells of ¨Viva Mexico!¨ in my direction--Independence Day is a good time to be wearing a Mexico soccery jersey. As the screen shows five seconds of talk time left, I tell my parents that I will call them right back. As sure as I was that I would find a grocery store closer than El Pescador, I was wrong, and so the cashier happily sold me another $10 card. Thinking I could find another public phone back in the direction of the internet cafe, I ended up walking well past it, a total of 6 or 7 blocks, before I found not one, but two phones, directly across the street from one another. This could be my big break, I thought, as the rain gave way completely and I could feel the sun easing up, despite the increased humidity of the afternoon rain. The phone on my side of the street, upon entering the card, gave me the word ¨falla,¨ which I dont know, but I presumed to mean fault, because the card didn´t work. The phone across the street was also disfunctional, but gave me a ¨tarjeta rechazada,¨ which I know means ¨card something.¨ On my way back to return the card to El Pescador, I saw another phone down a side-street, and, sure enough, I got another message that I had to return my card. Upon arriving at El Pescador, I simply told the cashier that the card was not working, that it was worth nothing, that I had walked at least a kilometer and found three phones to confirm this, and that I wanted another card. He tested the card on what seemed to be a smaller, more discreet version of the phones outside, which was just five steps to my right. I wasn´t sure whether it would have been worse or better whether it was going to work, but I was mainly just trying to make the man feel bad when he saw that the card didn´t work. Unfortunately, he was willing to give me another card, but was out of $10 cards, and could only offer me a $20 card if I gave him another 100 pesos. I outright refused to pay for a $20 card, tried in vain to get him to give it to me instead of the $10, and got him to tell me another possible store before storming out the door, ignoring his ¨adios¨ in order to show my frustration. Walking more vigorously and with a healthy glisten from the moisture and sweat, I arrived at his suggested locale, which turned out to be the store right next to the Internet cafe I had tried at first. Pleading for help, they suggested I try a pharmacy, which at only a block and a half away, was closer than El Pescador. Sure enough, I was able to buy a $5 card from the clerk at the pharmacy, and then off I went to the phones up the street, clustered together a few blocks on the other side of my starting location, the internet cafe.At the first phone I reached, I inserted the card, and voila! Magic, it seemed, that a dial tone would be the sound coming out of the receiver. With a bit of heavy breathing, I call home, hear my mother say hello, and begin to tell a somewhat shorter and more exhausted version of what I have written here. Upon finishing, I am just as exhausted as when I began talking, and wait to hear my mother´s response. Nothing. Looking first to the receiver, then to the phone base, I see the word Falla once more. This time, with utter disdain for this horrible place where I could be so unlucky, so pitiful. With what little hope I had left I tried the two phones nearby, but was shot down twice more. It had taken me what seemed like the better part of the afternoon to walk back and forth, but with as much energy as ever, I paced back to the pharmacy, looking to get another card and explain the situation to my parents, who the whole time I could picture waiting and wondering what had become of me. Having tested my disfunctional phone card vocabulary on the cashier at El Pescador, the pharmacy clerk seemed to be surprised by the vigor and articulation with which I explained the uselessness of the card he had sold me. All he had to say was ¨no retornable, no garantia¨ for me to go into a tirade. Trying to speak another language and come up with new phrases to describe my degree of anger and his degree of injustice was difficult, but I managed to presevere, given this was the third time in my spanish speaking career I have gone off on somebody else for heinous acts of the like (the second time was with a park ranger -- look out for that in an upcoming blogging). The possibility of buying another card was gone by this point, particularly from this man. I felt betrayed and deceived, and although this man told me he could do nothing to help, I was so upset I even found him difficult to look at. Looking around the store, my eye caught the bright pink of a Pepto Bismo bottle. For well over a minute I stood there, looking around the store, both waiting to see if he would give in and considering whether to grab the Pepto and run like hell. It would surely come in handy in the coming weeks, and would have given me some justice and revenge. The man would have had no chance catching me, even given the fact I was wearing slightly slippery flip flops. But the chance he could use his own phone and call the police was greater, and the chance the police could find a gringo in a bright green Mexico soccer jersey, turquois aviators, and a bright pink bottle of Pepto seemed to great for me to commit even this, the most just of crimes. And with my head to the ground, tired and having surrendered completely from defeat after defeat, I returned to the internet cafe, to take out my frustration via blog. These difficulties have a tendency to get me down, particularly because such an amount of misfortune and difficulty in accomplishing so simple a task seems so rare in the states. By the time I had reached the internet cafe, I had begun to completely ignore the shouts of ¨Viva Mexico!¨, instead the resentment inside me forced thoughts of whether I even wanted this Mexico to ¨viva¨ at all.
It´s the 16th of September, Mexico´s Independence Day, and this seems to be the only internet cafe open here in the 300 year old city of Loreto. It is on the main drag, which is packed with small stores--all kinds of boutiques, bakeries, taquerias, farmacias--but has by far the smallest proportion of internet cafes out of any even modestly populated area. The internet is slow, but most things take considerably longer down here (with the most obvious exception being food service). A spontaneous desire to use the telephone seemed easy enough, given there was a public phone visible across the street, and I had seen a small grocery store next door that in most cases sell the cards necessary to call long distance on the phones. The first hurdle came early on, as the store was out of phone cards. Thankfully, the store owner was as helpful as most people are in Baja, and she didn´t take much nudging to get a potential other vendor out of her. The Pescador, a supermarket just a couple blocks down the street, would certainly sell me a card, she said. After a few block walk, during which it had begun to rain lightly, I found refuge in The Pescador somewhat reluctantly purchased a 100 peso ($10) card, which, though it would provide 20 solid minutes of phone time, seems like a lot when compared to Skype (which can be difficult to find). On the way back up the street to the phone across from the internet cafe, I found a different phone. Before I even took the card out of its plastic wrap, I noticed the ¨telephone unavailable¨ notice on the screen. Shrugging it off, I was mainly considering the various tales I would soon describe to my friends and family back in the states, back at the phone across from the internet cafe. I get there, and that phone simply does not have any words on the screen, an obvious sign of disfunction. Looking down the street in both directions, I don´t see another phone in sight, but I take off back in the direction of the Pescador and the central plaza area, certain I will find one rather soon. After passing the Pescador, I see the familiar yellow and red pattern of the phone enclosure box just a little further down the block. Upon approach, however, I see there is not actually a phone at all, and just the box, on its stand. At this point the rain picks up a little more, enough for me to stretch my bright green Mexico soccer jersey over my camera bag, hanging at my hip. A warm afternoon drizzle, nothing compared to the deluge that Joel and I were surprised by earlier in the day. As I reach a phone that works two blocks further down, I´m happy to stand in the rain and chat it up until my card runs out of time. Spirits are high, reinforced by the continuous yells of ¨Viva Mexico!¨ in my direction--Independence Day is a good time to be wearing a Mexico soccery jersey. As the screen shows five seconds of talk time left, I tell my parents that I will call them right back. As sure as I was that I would find a grocery store closer than El Pescador, I was wrong, and so the cashier happily sold me another $10 card. Thinking I could find another public phone back in the direction of the internet cafe, I ended up walking well past it, a total of 6 or 7 blocks, before I found not one, but two phones, directly across the street from one another. This could be my big break, I thought, as the rain gave way completely and I could feel the sun easing up, despite the increased humidity of the afternoon rain. The phone on my side of the street, upon entering the card, gave me the word ¨falla,¨ which I dont know, but I presumed to mean fault, because the card didn´t work. The phone across the street was also disfunctional, but gave me a ¨tarjeta rechazada,¨ which I know means ¨card something.¨ On my way back to return the card to El Pescador, I saw another phone down a side-street, and, sure enough, I got another message that I had to return my card. Upon arriving at El Pescador, I simply told the cashier that the card was not working, that it was worth nothing, that I had walked at least a kilometer and found three phones to confirm this, and that I wanted another card. He tested the card on what seemed to be a smaller, more discreet version of the phones outside, which was just five steps to my right. I wasn´t sure whether it would have been worse or better whether it was going to work, but I was mainly just trying to make the man feel bad when he saw that the card didn´t work. Unfortunately, he was willing to give me another card, but was out of $10 cards, and could only offer me a $20 card if I gave him another 100 pesos. I outright refused to pay for a $20 card, tried in vain to get him to give it to me instead of the $10, and got him to tell me another possible store before storming out the door, ignoring his ¨adios¨ in order to show my frustration. Walking more vigorously and with a healthy glisten from the moisture and sweat, I arrived at his suggested locale, which turned out to be the store right next to the Internet cafe I had tried at first. Pleading for help, they suggested I try a pharmacy, which at only a block and a half away, was closer than El Pescador. Sure enough, I was able to buy a $5 card from the clerk at the pharmacy, and then off I went to the phones up the street, clustered together a few blocks on the other side of my starting location, the internet cafe.At the first phone I reached, I inserted the card, and voila! Magic, it seemed, that a dial tone would be the sound coming out of the receiver. With a bit of heavy breathing, I call home, hear my mother say hello, and begin to tell a somewhat shorter and more exhausted version of what I have written here. Upon finishing, I am just as exhausted as when I began talking, and wait to hear my mother´s response. Nothing. Looking first to the receiver, then to the phone base, I see the word Falla once more. This time, with utter disdain for this horrible place where I could be so unlucky, so pitiful. With what little hope I had left I tried the two phones nearby, but was shot down twice more. It had taken me what seemed like the better part of the afternoon to walk back and forth, but with as much energy as ever, I paced back to the pharmacy, looking to get another card and explain the situation to my parents, who the whole time I could picture waiting and wondering what had become of me. Having tested my disfunctional phone card vocabulary on the cashier at El Pescador, the pharmacy clerk seemed to be surprised by the vigor and articulation with which I explained the uselessness of the card he had sold me. All he had to say was ¨no retornable, no garantia¨ for me to go into a tirade. Trying to speak another language and come up with new phrases to describe my degree of anger and his degree of injustice was difficult, but I managed to presevere, given this was the third time in my spanish speaking career I have gone off on somebody else for heinous acts of the like (the second time was with a park ranger -- look out for that in an upcoming blogging). The possibility of buying another card was gone by this point, particularly from this man. I felt betrayed and deceived, and although this man told me he could do nothing to help, I was so upset I even found him difficult to look at. Looking around the store, my eye caught the bright pink of a Pepto Bismo bottle. For well over a minute I stood there, looking around the store, both waiting to see if he would give in and considering whether to grab the Pepto and run like hell. It would surely come in handy in the coming weeks, and would have given me some justice and revenge. The man would have had no chance catching me, even given the fact I was wearing slightly slippery flip flops. But the chance he could use his own phone and call the police was greater, and the chance the police could find a gringo in a bright green Mexico soccer jersey, turquois aviators, and a bright pink bottle of Pepto seemed to great for me to commit even this, the most just of crimes. And with my head to the ground, tired and having surrendered completely from defeat after defeat, I returned to the internet cafe, to take out my frustration via blog. These difficulties have a tendency to get me down, particularly because such an amount of misfortune and difficulty in accomplishing so simple a task seems so rare in the states. By the time I had reached the internet cafe, I had begun to completely ignore the shouts of ¨Viva Mexico!¨, instead the resentment inside me forced thoughts of whether I even wanted this Mexico to ¨viva¨ at all.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
THE VIEWS: Our second day in Mexico, Joel and I found a prime piece of real estate on a bluff hundreds of feet about the crashing waves and coves of the Pacific. After paying a mere three dollars per person to the security guard, we arrived just in time see this sunset before setting up camp. Despite our being told of prohibitively high winds at this particular location, Poseidon granted us a calm night's sleep. The cliffs made it difficult to reach the shoreline the following morning, but soon we were on the road again, in search of a less lofty spot to set up a beach camp.Coming soon: Stylish aerial maneuvers atop the dunes, the Sea of Cortez from 10,000 ft up, as well as observations on pelicans, gastronomic difficulties, and interesting characters we've met thus far.
THE LAND CRUISER: Behold, in all its glory, our means to so many worthy ends. In its adolescence at a mere 15 years old, the "Bruiser" may have wracked up 193,000 miles in its short life, but still offers responsive handling, excellent scaling ability, and only moderate jiggling on dirt roads. This photo hides an impressive amount of mud collected while rampaging through the puddles of mountain meadows in Parque Nacional Sierra de San Pedro Martir. A leaky water container undoubtedly contributed to a musty, mildewy smell emanating from the rear, but the Royal Pine air freshener up front sufficiently equalized this odor. Here we see the Bruiser resting on the soft sands of El Marron after having speedily delivered its passengers through many kilometers of rocky desert terrain.
Unfortunately the World's Largest Tequila Bottle of Enseñada was emptied just before this photo was taken, by a couple of thirsty gringo dudes.
Behold the power of Scott. The Bufadora, just south of Enseñada, is a spot with the right combination of wind, tidal force, and rock formation. the three elements converge right here behind Scotty, shooting water as high as 30 meters into the air.
The tarantulas of Anza Borrego. Lightning quick and bloodthirsty, these little guys bombarded our camp late at night, possibly even influencing this author's decision on whether or not to bring out the tent. This one also happened to dart right under my left foot as it connected with the ground during a routine step.
Scott enjoying some of the finer things in life: Anza Borrego State Park, chairs with armrests, and 24 oz. bottles of Red Stripe Lager.
Welcome to Big Tejunga, aka Monkey Canyon and Scotty and I's first excursion. This place, however, is not found in the deep, dark jungles of Panama, but just off the 210 interstate in Pasadena. Note the fine frescoes on the surrounding rock walls designed to induce a sense of isolation and tranquility. Diego Rivera? Nope, a collection of talented local artists. Mexico next, I promise.Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Poorly Placed Items: This photo is the first of a series intended to highlight various things scattered across the landscape which don't seem to be where they should. Here we have the back end of a graffiti'd-up fuel container for a semi truck that managed to end up atop a large hill previously though accessible only by switchbacks. Also notable: the partially-rotted piece of wood attached to the flagpole. Being our resting location the first night in Mexico, I took the post to be a reassuring omen, as it seemed to be pointing south.Let the blogging begin...
Okay everybody,
Based on the overwhelming success and expansive notoriety of my good buddy Mike´s Middle East blog (visit it if you haven´t already...http://www.michaelbdiaz.blogspot.com/), I too have decided to create my own blog...though don't anticipate the same level of dedication. I will, however, try to keep you all posted and throw as many pictures into the blog as these laggard Mexican computers permit.
So check it every so often! At least regular postings should ease thoughts and worries of abduction, robbery, or worse...
(Some people may not find my sense of humor comforting, and I shall try to tone it down in the future.)
Based on the overwhelming success and expansive notoriety of my good buddy Mike´s Middle East blog (visit it if you haven´t already...http://www.michaelbdiaz.blogspot.com/), I too have decided to create my own blog...though don't anticipate the same level of dedication. I will, however, try to keep you all posted and throw as many pictures into the blog as these laggard Mexican computers permit.
So check it every so often! At least regular postings should ease thoughts and worries of abduction, robbery, or worse...
(Some people may not find my sense of humor comforting, and I shall try to tone it down in the future.)
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