MEXICO CITY – This city is too big to know in four days, especially when I’m growing tired of sightseeing.
Yes, those are beautiful old buildings. Yes, the city has a great history. Yes, I would like to stay here longer. No, I can’t.
The pride of my time here was getting to visit Teotihuacan (http://archaeology.asu.edu/teo/), the ancient city of pyramids and temples that was built hundreds of years before even the Aztecs came to dominate the highland basin. The Pyramid of the Sun is the third largest pyramid in the world and climbing the steep 248 steps to the top made my lungs well aware of it. The view was spectacular from up top, with little monarch butterflies fluttering around seeming to comfort visitors by promising they never have to climb those steps again.
I went halfway up the slightly smaller Pyramid of the Moon, as far as visitors can go, and met an older German woman while I sat on the steps looking out over the Avenue of the Dead. She asked me where I am from, and when I said Alabama, this was her response:
Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me
I come from Alabama,
With my banjo on my knee.
So there I was, sitting on the Pyramid of the Moon, getting serenaded to “Oh Susanna” by some German woman. She said she has friends in Montgomery. Bamaragua, friends. Bamaragua.
I made my excursion with four Australians I met at Mexico City Hostel (http://www.mexicocityhostel.com/), a five-story hostel in a fantastic colonial building near the Zocalo, the city’s main plaza. It can hold 100 travelers and the mood there went anywhere from international university co-ed dormitory to an all-out madhouse. My Australian friends were all normal (by my slightly more eccentric definition) and I also made friends with a banker from Vermont, a businessman from London and a jazz singer from Amsterdam.
Then there was the Slovenian kick boxer who slept in my room. He had no cartilage left in his nose so he could push it in flat on his face. His knees and elbows were banged up and red I think not from his past battles but the current ones he was looking for on the street and at our hostel. He was upfront in drunk, broken English saying he was looking forward to the next time he could fight someone. He accused a Japanese guy of stealing his wallet but it was found stuck in the couch in the lobby before anyone got hurt.
As for the Japanese guy, the first time I saw him he was napping on one of the bunk beds in my room in the afternoon. He slept on the top bunk near the doors that led to a small terrace outside and I passed him to step out and check out the view of the city. I opened the door and I as I was closing it turned around to see my dorm mate laying there with eyes wide open, wider than you can open yours, staring fiercely right at me. Underneath his chin a yellow teddy bear he was clutching tightly beneath the covers was peeking out at me. He didn’t say anything.
“What. The. Fuck,” I thought to myself before closing the door.
An older man from New Zealand was also staying in our hostel. I don’t know how long he had been there, but I never once saw him leave. He would either be in the lobby reading or upstairs watching movies with a group of younger travelers. I only spoke to him briefly, but he told my Australians he was just traveling the world to have time to think to himself. Getting out and actually seeing and doing things, he said, is just an afterthought.
I couldn’t get one good shot of the Zocalo because there was some large event recently where they are only now dismantling the huge tents that take up the plaza. My shots are mediocre, and I forgot to bring my camera with me much of the time I was walking around the historic center. At least I have some good shots of Teotihuacan. I also have great shots of my Australians. (That, yes, I will one day get to put up.)
Speaking of which, my Australians are some of the finest cunts I’ve ever traveled with. Did you just gasp? I learned by hanging out with them that in Australia cunt really is a term of endearment, interchangeable with the word friend. Someone tried to tell me this before, but I thought they were joking. It may have changed my life, or just promised me a whole lot of trouble for when I get back to the States.
My next post will come seven hours south of here, in the city of Oaxaca, my Australians in tow.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
My relation to suspected American terrorist Abu Mansour al-Amriki
A Bamaragua exclusive.
MEXICO CITY - Today's entry is not about travel. It's about a 10-second strangle hold that suspected American terrorist Abu Mansour al-Amriki, formerly Omar Hammami, once put on me when we were students at Daphne High School in 2001.
It's not a big deal, but today in retrospect I think it's more interesting and more telling of what was to come than some of the articles that have been posted on al.com, not to mention the fact that current Daphne High School principal Don Blanchard told FOX News that Omar never got into trouble in high school (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,546510,00.html).
It happened I think right before or right after we were supposed to serve as delegates in the Baldwin County Model U.N. of spring 2001. He would always talk about Islam in class in a way that walked a thin line, sometimes even standing up for Osama bin Laden. He was very vocal but could hardly stand it when anyone disagreed with him, often shouting at other people in the class and having to be shouted back down by our teacher to let other people speak.
I was a freshman at the time, and he was a senior. I was also a practicing Buddhist, if you can believe it, and so we had our occasional disagreements over the role religion should play in people's lives. However, our disagreements were never personal, and we actually got along alright. But we weren't actually arguing about anything the day he attacked me.
I was sitting in the back of the room talking with a good friend of mine, the only other freshman in the class, not paying attention to a discussion between Omar and our teacher at the front of the class. Then he started saying something I couldn't understand, but I legitimately wanted to know what it was they were talking about. My way of getting to that was immature, but I didn't realize that a. He was speaking Arabic and b. He was quoting the Koran.
"What's that? Labelelala?" I asked looking across the room at him with a smile.
His calm face turned sour and before I had even noticed it he was on his feet and running around desks toward me. I stayed in my seat just staring at him having no idea what he was about to do. Then he put his hands around my throat, clamped down as tight as he could so that no air was coming in or out and just stared me right in the eyes. I didn't put my hands up. Even though I was a freshman, Omar was actually half my size. I just stared right back at him while everyone else in the class was shouting at him to stop.
He let go after maybe 10 seconds and stormed out of the classroom. The teacher went and found him and the principal was brought in. Omar was suspended for three days and then came right back to class. I remember when he came back to school he came up to me, or was maybe told to come up to me, and apologized. We had this conversation in front of the teacher, and at the end of it as we started to walk away, he turned to me and pretended to come at me again with his arms half-way out. He did it with the same smile on his face that now people across the world are seeing in Abu Mansour al-Amriki's propaganda videos (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87CEciLBRqM&feature=related). I responded with a very awkward laugh, and that was the last we ever said of it.
We avoided any real conversation with each other the rest of the semester, then he graduated and the next fall went on to become president of the Muslim Student Association at the University of South Alabama, just weeks before 9/11. It was that event and his role in the Muslim student community that first got his name on the front page of the Press-Register, and much of what he said at the time being sympathetic towards the victims is now being referenced in almost every article you see.
At the time, I was never sure if my feelings about Omar, or al-Amriki, had more to do with Islam, which I was fairly ignorant of, or if it really was that Omar was in the process of developing a very dangerous personal philosophy based on his own interpretation of the religion. It appears now, as the U.S. government is looking for Omar somewhere in Somalia, that maybe his case really is the latter. I never could have imagined he would take it as far as he allegedly has, but that looks to be exactly what has happened.
MEXICO CITY - Today's entry is not about travel. It's about a 10-second strangle hold that suspected American terrorist Abu Mansour al-Amriki, formerly Omar Hammami, once put on me when we were students at Daphne High School in 2001.
It's not a big deal, but today in retrospect I think it's more interesting and more telling of what was to come than some of the articles that have been posted on al.com, not to mention the fact that current Daphne High School principal Don Blanchard told FOX News that Omar never got into trouble in high school (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,546510,00.html).
It happened I think right before or right after we were supposed to serve as delegates in the Baldwin County Model U.N. of spring 2001. He would always talk about Islam in class in a way that walked a thin line, sometimes even standing up for Osama bin Laden. He was very vocal but could hardly stand it when anyone disagreed with him, often shouting at other people in the class and having to be shouted back down by our teacher to let other people speak.
I was a freshman at the time, and he was a senior. I was also a practicing Buddhist, if you can believe it, and so we had our occasional disagreements over the role religion should play in people's lives. However, our disagreements were never personal, and we actually got along alright. But we weren't actually arguing about anything the day he attacked me.
I was sitting in the back of the room talking with a good friend of mine, the only other freshman in the class, not paying attention to a discussion between Omar and our teacher at the front of the class. Then he started saying something I couldn't understand, but I legitimately wanted to know what it was they were talking about. My way of getting to that was immature, but I didn't realize that a. He was speaking Arabic and b. He was quoting the Koran.
"What's that? Labelelala?" I asked looking across the room at him with a smile.
His calm face turned sour and before I had even noticed it he was on his feet and running around desks toward me. I stayed in my seat just staring at him having no idea what he was about to do. Then he put his hands around my throat, clamped down as tight as he could so that no air was coming in or out and just stared me right in the eyes. I didn't put my hands up. Even though I was a freshman, Omar was actually half my size. I just stared right back at him while everyone else in the class was shouting at him to stop.
He let go after maybe 10 seconds and stormed out of the classroom. The teacher went and found him and the principal was brought in. Omar was suspended for three days and then came right back to class. I remember when he came back to school he came up to me, or was maybe told to come up to me, and apologized. We had this conversation in front of the teacher, and at the end of it as we started to walk away, he turned to me and pretended to come at me again with his arms half-way out. He did it with the same smile on his face that now people across the world are seeing in Abu Mansour al-Amriki's propaganda videos (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87CEciLBRqM&feature=related). I responded with a very awkward laugh, and that was the last we ever said of it.
We avoided any real conversation with each other the rest of the semester, then he graduated and the next fall went on to become president of the Muslim Student Association at the University of South Alabama, just weeks before 9/11. It was that event and his role in the Muslim student community that first got his name on the front page of the Press-Register, and much of what he said at the time being sympathetic towards the victims is now being referenced in almost every article you see.
At the time, I was never sure if my feelings about Omar, or al-Amriki, had more to do with Islam, which I was fairly ignorant of, or if it really was that Omar was in the process of developing a very dangerous personal philosophy based on his own interpretation of the religion. It appears now, as the U.S. government is looking for Omar somewhere in Somalia, that maybe his case really is the latter. I never could have imagined he would take it as far as he allegedly has, but that looks to be exactly what has happened.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Guadalajara y unas cosas
GUADALAJARA, Mexico - Hola a todos. One of my favorite things about this blog is getting to be drunk on the job. Did I say that? Sorry mom. It's past midnight here and I've just returned to Hostel Guadalajara (an excellent, excellent hostel) from a brief night on the town with my new hostel friends Patricia, from California, and Gerome, from France. I'm supposed to board a bus to Mexico City tomorrow, but I'm considering staying here one more night.
That's because I underestimated Guadalajara. I don't know how, but I was so busy enjoying the last few cities I went to in Mexico that I didn't have time to consider that this historic city of 4 million inhabitants might also have more than I can see in just two days. The problem is now that it's September I have about one month to get to Nicaragua and time is of the essence. I'm roughly halfway through Mexico and I need to budget my time perfectly to get to Granada a tiempo and experience everything I want to see along the way. The other problem is that I have fallen in love with this country and don't want to leave.
How is it that I've traveled to four continents but never once stepped foot in Mexico? That's not entirely true since a year and a half ago I went to the island of Cozumel with my mom, but the mainland is a whole different animal. I feel almost as safe here as I do in the United States. Haven't caught swine flu, haven't met anyone who has swine flu and don't even get me started on the drug war. There is a war going on in this country, no doubt, but aside from the occasional military checkpoint on the highways I haven't seen it. I'm not nearly as vigilant of my luggage in buses as I was in places like Morocco, Peru or Costa Rica. Part of it may be that I haven't been robbed in any of these trips and I'm feeling a little bold, but another part of me really just trusts the people here on the whole. It's incredible to think how many people (who I appreciate for caring) thought I was putting myself in danger by coming here.
The other international travelers I've met here in Guadalajara are of the same opinion. Some have been here for months and are trying to think of ways to stay longer. Every day it becomes more clear to them and to me that this country is just as diverse as the United States, geographically and politically.
I'm now reminded of a certain young man, who we will refer to as Sr. Cabron, I met two years ago through a mutual friend in Tuscaloosa. He swore to a table full of people that if you own a goat here you're considered a regular Mexican Paris Hilton. I told him he was wrong, but I hope he gets to come here one day and see for himself there are no signs hanging outside the banks advertising the current goat/dollar exchange rate.
That's the problem with how we gringos interpret life in Mexico. We live so close, yet in our minds Mexico is worlds away. Americans can say whatever they want about this country and there's not very many around who know better to stand up for the people here. I see it all the time. I hear it from people who genuinely surprise me with their views. One friend recently told me that Spaniards are "classy Mexicans," and I regaled her with the story of a "classy Mexican" who stripped down to his camo underwear in Madrid and chased after some female friends of mine until I went after him. If people thought I took what they said poorly then, just wait till I get back to the States.
But what was I talking about? Guadalajara. Si. I want to stay but I don't think I have a choice. Checkout here is at 10 am, nine hours away, and I don't think I'll be going to sleep anytime soon. I'm not doing anything else tonight, aside from sitting at this table in the lobby with some Mexicans enjoying a late night quesadilla dinner, but being alone and sleeping on a hard bed in a dorm room makes the lonely traveler think all he can think no matter how tired or happy he is. Then his empty mind just sits there on the pillow, and at some point lets go and falls into sleep. The nights are cool here, which makes the process easier. Buenas noches.
That's because I underestimated Guadalajara. I don't know how, but I was so busy enjoying the last few cities I went to in Mexico that I didn't have time to consider that this historic city of 4 million inhabitants might also have more than I can see in just two days. The problem is now that it's September I have about one month to get to Nicaragua and time is of the essence. I'm roughly halfway through Mexico and I need to budget my time perfectly to get to Granada a tiempo and experience everything I want to see along the way. The other problem is that I have fallen in love with this country and don't want to leave.
How is it that I've traveled to four continents but never once stepped foot in Mexico? That's not entirely true since a year and a half ago I went to the island of Cozumel with my mom, but the mainland is a whole different animal. I feel almost as safe here as I do in the United States. Haven't caught swine flu, haven't met anyone who has swine flu and don't even get me started on the drug war. There is a war going on in this country, no doubt, but aside from the occasional military checkpoint on the highways I haven't seen it. I'm not nearly as vigilant of my luggage in buses as I was in places like Morocco, Peru or Costa Rica. Part of it may be that I haven't been robbed in any of these trips and I'm feeling a little bold, but another part of me really just trusts the people here on the whole. It's incredible to think how many people (who I appreciate for caring) thought I was putting myself in danger by coming here.
The other international travelers I've met here in Guadalajara are of the same opinion. Some have been here for months and are trying to think of ways to stay longer. Every day it becomes more clear to them and to me that this country is just as diverse as the United States, geographically and politically.
I'm now reminded of a certain young man, who we will refer to as Sr. Cabron, I met two years ago through a mutual friend in Tuscaloosa. He swore to a table full of people that if you own a goat here you're considered a regular Mexican Paris Hilton. I told him he was wrong, but I hope he gets to come here one day and see for himself there are no signs hanging outside the banks advertising the current goat/dollar exchange rate.
That's the problem with how we gringos interpret life in Mexico. We live so close, yet in our minds Mexico is worlds away. Americans can say whatever they want about this country and there's not very many around who know better to stand up for the people here. I see it all the time. I hear it from people who genuinely surprise me with their views. One friend recently told me that Spaniards are "classy Mexicans," and I regaled her with the story of a "classy Mexican" who stripped down to his camo underwear in Madrid and chased after some female friends of mine until I went after him. If people thought I took what they said poorly then, just wait till I get back to the States.
But what was I talking about? Guadalajara. Si. I want to stay but I don't think I have a choice. Checkout here is at 10 am, nine hours away, and I don't think I'll be going to sleep anytime soon. I'm not doing anything else tonight, aside from sitting at this table in the lobby with some Mexicans enjoying a late night quesadilla dinner, but being alone and sleeping on a hard bed in a dorm room makes the lonely traveler think all he can think no matter how tired or happy he is. Then his empty mind just sits there on the pillow, and at some point lets go and falls into sleep. The nights are cool here, which makes the process easier. Buenas noches.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Vallarta, pt 2: A Farewell to Roby and other puns
I drank too much Sol yesterday and didn't get around to part two. I just got to Guadalajara, but wrote this on the bus ride down. Down? Over? Over. Here's a map of Mexico if you want to connect the dots: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/maps/north-america/mexico/
PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico - The actress Roby Packer dug into her deep Hollywood pockets and paid for us to get a room at the Hotel Suites Nadia (http://www.hotelsuitesnadia.com/) for five nights. She was tired of my insistence on staying at hostels, and I can't blame her. This is her vacation, she has a job to go back to, she deserves what she can afford, and I'm the moocher who helped her live it up. It's a different story for me, I seem to remember now that I quit my job two months ago, and that's why the comfiest living I'll have on this whole adventure was in this city.
And that went a long way in my enjoyment of this place, but I also found something to like in the streets, in the restaurants and out on the water in the Liza, the private 20-foot boat we rented Saturday. I think it was roughly $90 US to take it out for four hours. We went south along the rim of the Bahia de Banderas to Los Arcos (http://www.vivanatura.org/BanderasBayPhotosPh1.html), some beautiful rock formations/islands with natural arcs under them. They make for great snorkeling, and the bread our captain Ramone was throwing out to the fish would bring nearly a hundred angel fish up to the surface at a time. They would look me right in the face, appear to cock their heads in confusion, then go about snatching up bread crumbs. Small, slender fish with red, gold and black stripes swam in place near the rock walls all shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello!" in their fish language.
After that we hung out at Las Animas, a beach that's far kinder than Playa Camarones, near our hotel, where rough last-second waves come at visitors and pound them out of nowhere when they walk into the surf. I almost died on my first day in Vallarta, not even knee-deep in the water, but that doesn't matter. "We survived!" I once shouted at Moze, a fellow writer, when we were running back into the Gulf of Mexico like mad one night moments after running out of the sea because sharks bit us. I would like to think it was our optimism that instantaneously healed those tooth marks we never saw in the light.
We headed even further out almost to the mouth of the bay where it meets the Pacific and snorkeled some more in a rocky little spot with no one else around. This was maybe 15 or 20 feet deep, and I put the snorkel aside and just dove down again and again with my mask on looking at the bottom feeders scurrying in between the rocks. Roby said I looked like a little boy out there having fun. I wanted to pluck a stone from the bottom to bring back with me but none of them really stuck out. The last thing I saw underwater was looking back at a school of angelfish trailing my toes. I got back in the boat, and thunder rolled over the mountains.
It rained the whole boat ride back, but it really didn't matter. Our excursion beat out the one had by the two-story boats that meandered by us kicking out smoke, the 200 or so passengers all waiting in line for another water taxi to take them to shore. This is the benefit of having the courage to walk up to a line of seemingly shady water taxistas, haggle over prices and come to a good deal on your own boat.
The only friends we made in Vallarta were the hotel staff and the crazed gringos who bought some of the condo rooms there. One was crazed in a good way, a woman in her 50s from Las Vegas who was married back in the States, had a gay best friend in Vallarta and loved to socialize and thought everyone should do what makes them happy. The other was, well, he whistled at all the hotel staffers (who were very nice and considerate and personable with us) and laughed incessantly with the kind of cackle I could only imitate with a mouthful of beer and fried shrimp. "It's Mexico. It's OK to whistle. Ramone? Can I get a drink dude? Ramone, this pool is cold. Ramone, turn the heat up buddy. Ramone?!?!" Fuck you buddy.
The eats were hit or miss, but at least the service was good everywhere we went. I would recommend Las Palomas on the boardwalk if you're down there. Melted cheese with chorizo and steamed flour tortillas, where have you been all my worthless life?
I thought this entry would be a little more poignant, but oh well. A little more than two weeks ago Roby flew from Dallas to Houston to meet me and take a 15-hour Greyhound bus ride to Monterrey. We then rode nine hours to Zacatecas, and another 13 from there to Mazatlan, and another nine from Mazatlan to Vallarta. Roby's flight from Vallarta to Dallas today lasted three and a half hours.
And I keep on getting farther away. Now I'm on my own, with no familiar face to greet me until Granada, where my roommate, hopefully, will be waiting.
PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico - The actress Roby Packer dug into her deep Hollywood pockets and paid for us to get a room at the Hotel Suites Nadia (http://www.hotelsuitesnadia.com/) for five nights. She was tired of my insistence on staying at hostels, and I can't blame her. This is her vacation, she has a job to go back to, she deserves what she can afford, and I'm the moocher who helped her live it up. It's a different story for me, I seem to remember now that I quit my job two months ago, and that's why the comfiest living I'll have on this whole adventure was in this city.
And that went a long way in my enjoyment of this place, but I also found something to like in the streets, in the restaurants and out on the water in the Liza, the private 20-foot boat we rented Saturday. I think it was roughly $90 US to take it out for four hours. We went south along the rim of the Bahia de Banderas to Los Arcos (http://www.vivanatura.org/BanderasBayPhotosPh1.html), some beautiful rock formations/islands with natural arcs under them. They make for great snorkeling, and the bread our captain Ramone was throwing out to the fish would bring nearly a hundred angel fish up to the surface at a time. They would look me right in the face, appear to cock their heads in confusion, then go about snatching up bread crumbs. Small, slender fish with red, gold and black stripes swam in place near the rock walls all shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello!" in their fish language.
After that we hung out at Las Animas, a beach that's far kinder than Playa Camarones, near our hotel, where rough last-second waves come at visitors and pound them out of nowhere when they walk into the surf. I almost died on my first day in Vallarta, not even knee-deep in the water, but that doesn't matter. "We survived!" I once shouted at Moze, a fellow writer, when we were running back into the Gulf of Mexico like mad one night moments after running out of the sea because sharks bit us. I would like to think it was our optimism that instantaneously healed those tooth marks we never saw in the light.
We headed even further out almost to the mouth of the bay where it meets the Pacific and snorkeled some more in a rocky little spot with no one else around. This was maybe 15 or 20 feet deep, and I put the snorkel aside and just dove down again and again with my mask on looking at the bottom feeders scurrying in between the rocks. Roby said I looked like a little boy out there having fun. I wanted to pluck a stone from the bottom to bring back with me but none of them really stuck out. The last thing I saw underwater was looking back at a school of angelfish trailing my toes. I got back in the boat, and thunder rolled over the mountains.
It rained the whole boat ride back, but it really didn't matter. Our excursion beat out the one had by the two-story boats that meandered by us kicking out smoke, the 200 or so passengers all waiting in line for another water taxi to take them to shore. This is the benefit of having the courage to walk up to a line of seemingly shady water taxistas, haggle over prices and come to a good deal on your own boat.
The only friends we made in Vallarta were the hotel staff and the crazed gringos who bought some of the condo rooms there. One was crazed in a good way, a woman in her 50s from Las Vegas who was married back in the States, had a gay best friend in Vallarta and loved to socialize and thought everyone should do what makes them happy. The other was, well, he whistled at all the hotel staffers (who were very nice and considerate and personable with us) and laughed incessantly with the kind of cackle I could only imitate with a mouthful of beer and fried shrimp. "It's Mexico. It's OK to whistle. Ramone? Can I get a drink dude? Ramone, this pool is cold. Ramone, turn the heat up buddy. Ramone?!?!" Fuck you buddy.
The eats were hit or miss, but at least the service was good everywhere we went. I would recommend Las Palomas on the boardwalk if you're down there. Melted cheese with chorizo and steamed flour tortillas, where have you been all my worthless life?
I thought this entry would be a little more poignant, but oh well. A little more than two weeks ago Roby flew from Dallas to Houston to meet me and take a 15-hour Greyhound bus ride to Monterrey. We then rode nine hours to Zacatecas, and another 13 from there to Mazatlan, and another nine from Mazatlan to Vallarta. Roby's flight from Vallarta to Dallas today lasted three and a half hours.
And I keep on getting farther away. Now I'm on my own, with no familiar face to greet me until Granada, where my roommate, hopefully, will be waiting.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Vallarta, part 1: Lost in the Supermarket
PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico – I was hesitant about coming here, because towns with reputations that precede them as being incredibly touristy really turn me off. One touristy beach town is hardly different from the other, especially in Latin America. I only added Vallarta to the itinerary because this is where Roby could get the cheapest flight home. The city has proven itself much more versatile than I was expecting, I've actually had a great time, but part of the culture here has still fallen victim to the power of the tourism industry.
The goals of businesses in most touristy towns I’ve been to in Latin America all stress homogenization, whether they realize it or not. Each restaurant owner, hotelier, water taxi captain and artisan is greedy for as much business he or she can get, and whichever has the most success gets imitated to the fullest extent. It’s been four-ish days since we got to Puerto Vallarta, and Roby now knows what I’m talking about.
The culture of the small merchants here is strikingly different from what we encountered in Monterrey, Zacatecas and Mazatlan, and no place is a better example of it than the Mercado de Artesanias here. It has 300 stores and 100 items, with everyone jumping on you as soon as you walk past their section in the merchandise maze. A college-aged, drunk, shirtless Mexican greeted us as we got out of the cab and gargled something about his large T-shirt selection. Business was bad that day. He could cut us a deal. A lot of the shirts were in English, with such endearing statements as “It ain’t a beer gut, it’s an engine fer a sex MACHINE!” and “FBI: Fuckin Boobie Intelligence,” or something like that. The last guy who bought that shirt was probably right up the street that moment getting a pair of breasts tattooed on his calf to show his diligence to the cause, all smiles while his buddy bought an 80-dollar skull and dragon bong up front for “almost free.”
“Almost free.” Once we got away from the first guy, those would be the last two words we heard from anyone chasing us down the aisles as we tried getting away from the merchant cabal. “You want to buy something amigo? How many you like? This one have beads. We have the turtle. Almost free!” I could not stand still and just look in peace, like I am accustomed to doing in Mexico. It’s like the merchants in other cities had treated me almost like family compared to the pack of hyenas they had running wild in this market. And I’ll go ahead and say that calling them hyenas is harsh, because they’re just trying to make a living.
And I appreciate that in Mexico people understand they have to work if they want to make money. Unfortunately for the salesmen in this market, I met a lot of good salesmen on my way here who knew that having Zen-like patience and never letting their want for money get the best of their human side are the best ways to do business. I only call those here hyenas because I felt like injured prey trying to find my way out of that market.
The artisans and merchants aren’t the only ones. Every taxi honks at you; every restaurant has someone in the street to drag you in; you can’t talk to a water taxista without three others trying to distract you; and on some isolated beaches here you will think you’ve found peace, lay your head back and close your eyes, only to hear someone in the darkness say, “Senor, bracelet, almost free!" then "Take a picture with iguana almost free?"
But there’s a reason this is a two-part post about Vallarta. I’m getting the bad things out of the way, because this is easy, because few things inspire me to write as prolifically as my occasionally poor attitude, and because it’s bad form to not end on a good note when you’ve had a genuinely good experience somewhere. I’m going to drink another cerveza (Sol, to be exact), go for a dip and get on later to tell you about how Vallarta won me over.
The goals of businesses in most touristy towns I’ve been to in Latin America all stress homogenization, whether they realize it or not. Each restaurant owner, hotelier, water taxi captain and artisan is greedy for as much business he or she can get, and whichever has the most success gets imitated to the fullest extent. It’s been four-ish days since we got to Puerto Vallarta, and Roby now knows what I’m talking about.
The culture of the small merchants here is strikingly different from what we encountered in Monterrey, Zacatecas and Mazatlan, and no place is a better example of it than the Mercado de Artesanias here. It has 300 stores and 100 items, with everyone jumping on you as soon as you walk past their section in the merchandise maze. A college-aged, drunk, shirtless Mexican greeted us as we got out of the cab and gargled something about his large T-shirt selection. Business was bad that day. He could cut us a deal. A lot of the shirts were in English, with such endearing statements as “It ain’t a beer gut, it’s an engine fer a sex MACHINE!” and “FBI: Fuckin Boobie Intelligence,” or something like that. The last guy who bought that shirt was probably right up the street that moment getting a pair of breasts tattooed on his calf to show his diligence to the cause, all smiles while his buddy bought an 80-dollar skull and dragon bong up front for “almost free.”
“Almost free.” Once we got away from the first guy, those would be the last two words we heard from anyone chasing us down the aisles as we tried getting away from the merchant cabal. “You want to buy something amigo? How many you like? This one have beads. We have the turtle. Almost free!” I could not stand still and just look in peace, like I am accustomed to doing in Mexico. It’s like the merchants in other cities had treated me almost like family compared to the pack of hyenas they had running wild in this market. And I’ll go ahead and say that calling them hyenas is harsh, because they’re just trying to make a living.
And I appreciate that in Mexico people understand they have to work if they want to make money. Unfortunately for the salesmen in this market, I met a lot of good salesmen on my way here who knew that having Zen-like patience and never letting their want for money get the best of their human side are the best ways to do business. I only call those here hyenas because I felt like injured prey trying to find my way out of that market.
The artisans and merchants aren’t the only ones. Every taxi honks at you; every restaurant has someone in the street to drag you in; you can’t talk to a water taxista without three others trying to distract you; and on some isolated beaches here you will think you’ve found peace, lay your head back and close your eyes, only to hear someone in the darkness say, “Senor, bracelet, almost free!" then "Take a picture with iguana almost free?"
But there’s a reason this is a two-part post about Vallarta. I’m getting the bad things out of the way, because this is easy, because few things inspire me to write as prolifically as my occasionally poor attitude, and because it’s bad form to not end on a good note when you’ve had a genuinely good experience somewhere. I’m going to drink another cerveza (Sol, to be exact), go for a dip and get on later to tell you about how Vallarta won me over.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
John Wayne was here, but they didn't name the airport after him
MAZATLAN, Mexico – No sooner did things seem to be going perfectly than Roby and myself both came down with Montezuma’s revenge. We have spent about as much time in the bathroom here as we have swimming in the ocean, but today I think we’re both healthy enough for the bus ride to Puerto Vallarta.
At least Pierre had fun in the city, though he was almost murdered by a Mexican boogie board gang on Monday.
It is beautiful here, however dated the H.R. Puffinstuff-inspired art on the Olas Altas promenade may seem. In Old Mazatlan where we’re staying (haven’t even bothered to check out the more modern-looking part of town), it’s a dirty beach town that passed its heyday, but it’s clearly gone through a revitalization in the last 10 years and is on the upswing. Maybe five blocks away from the beach is the Plazuela Machado, which comes alive at night with Christmas lights decorating the park in the center and live acoustic music pouring out of fancy restaurants. We walked down one side of the little park before dinner and smiled at a peanut vendor in his 50s, sleeping sitting up on a bench. After dinner, my last meal before Montezuma snuck up on me, we walked the other side of the park, and saw the same peanut vendor sleeping on the bench opposite from his first spot.
The people here are just as nice as those we’ve met anywhere else in Mexico, and the retired gringos who pop up at outdoor cafes along the beach are also eager to get to know you. But the friendliness of the people in Latin America is something I am already familiar with, and one of the reasons I keep coming back.
I was reluctant to shower at all here in my weakened state, and when I have showered it’s taken only about an hour to sweat myself back into a hot mess. All of my clothes are dirty, and I haven’t shaved in weeks at this point, and the hair on my head is standing like a rooster’s. I am the towering spectacle of that which is rude, dirty and presumably rich gringo. I decided the other night though that when I put my glasses on I go from beach bum to beach scientist and have been wearing them around ever since.
We head for the bus station in less than two hours, and I have to put everything up in my bag again. For those who don’t know, I am making this 4-, 5-, 6-month trip with one 70-liter hiking pack (thanks to former REI employee Adi Nevo for picking it out) and then a regular Jansport school backpack. It holds just what I need to get by with room to spare, so long as each time I re-pack I do so just as meticulously as when I was loading it up back home in Spanish Fort.
I’ve taken a lot of pictures and I know this blog would be more interesting with some art, but my camera won’t work with a MacBook. I will make some picture posts as soon as I get the motivation to find a PC, I promise.
Hasta la vista.
At least Pierre had fun in the city, though he was almost murdered by a Mexican boogie board gang on Monday.
It is beautiful here, however dated the H.R. Puffinstuff-inspired art on the Olas Altas promenade may seem. In Old Mazatlan where we’re staying (haven’t even bothered to check out the more modern-looking part of town), it’s a dirty beach town that passed its heyday, but it’s clearly gone through a revitalization in the last 10 years and is on the upswing. Maybe five blocks away from the beach is the Plazuela Machado, which comes alive at night with Christmas lights decorating the park in the center and live acoustic music pouring out of fancy restaurants. We walked down one side of the little park before dinner and smiled at a peanut vendor in his 50s, sleeping sitting up on a bench. After dinner, my last meal before Montezuma snuck up on me, we walked the other side of the park, and saw the same peanut vendor sleeping on the bench opposite from his first spot.
The people here are just as nice as those we’ve met anywhere else in Mexico, and the retired gringos who pop up at outdoor cafes along the beach are also eager to get to know you. But the friendliness of the people in Latin America is something I am already familiar with, and one of the reasons I keep coming back.
I was reluctant to shower at all here in my weakened state, and when I have showered it’s taken only about an hour to sweat myself back into a hot mess. All of my clothes are dirty, and I haven’t shaved in weeks at this point, and the hair on my head is standing like a rooster’s. I am the towering spectacle of that which is rude, dirty and presumably rich gringo. I decided the other night though that when I put my glasses on I go from beach bum to beach scientist and have been wearing them around ever since.
We head for the bus station in less than two hours, and I have to put everything up in my bag again. For those who don’t know, I am making this 4-, 5-, 6-month trip with one 70-liter hiking pack (thanks to former REI employee Adi Nevo for picking it out) and then a regular Jansport school backpack. It holds just what I need to get by with room to spare, so long as each time I re-pack I do so just as meticulously as when I was loading it up back home in Spanish Fort.
I’ve taken a lot of pictures and I know this blog would be more interesting with some art, but my camera won’t work with a MacBook. I will make some picture posts as soon as I get the motivation to find a PC, I promise.
Hasta la vista.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Beer in the nose is a Mexican trick
MAZATLAN, Mexico = Today, one week after leaving Mobile, I swam in the "olas altas" of the Pacific Ocean here on Mexico's central coast. I now have sand in every region, sun in my skin and a cold bottle of water on the nightstand at Hotel La Siesta in Old Mazatlan, where Jack Kerouac would roost on his stays here in the 1950s.
I didn't even know that about this hotel until today when me and Roby walked past a sign commemorating him outside. We got in around 3 am after a 13- or 14-hour bus ride from Zacatecas in the country's interior, where we spent Wednesday through Friday. Roby learned that little sleep and no stops along a dark bumpy route can make me a little hostile and schizophrenic a la The Shining. I slept in late today and we made it a point to take it easy and not do anything too tiring today, until we let the beach kick the crap out of us this afternoon.
And I have plenty of time to talk about Mazatlan. We'll be splitting the last week of Roby's part of the journey between here and Puerto Vallarta, where she will fly back to the States and things will inevitably get weirder for me as I continue south on my own towards Mexico City and beyond. So let's talk Zacatecas.
Zacatecas is a historical city of more than 100,000 that seems to be off most people's radar. Really, the whole interior of Mexico aside from Mexico City or Guadalajara seen to be off the grid. Its historical element gives it everything I love about old colonial cities that tourists bypass: beauty, intrigue and pride. We stayed at a sad little hostel one block up the hill from the most highly recommended one in town, which was sold out, but it met our basic needs. Weather was much cooler there, I guess because it's in a valley between some small mountains, and it only got hot around midday. It's a very steep city though, and the old roads and steps get pretty slick in the rain. It rained on and off while we were there, and the hostel owner David had to sweep the water off the roof every time to keep it from leaking over the toilet.
We rode a European-made (ooh la la Europe wonderful Europe) cable car from one mountain to another, with a bird's eye view of every cathedral, plaza and aqueduct along the way. We got lost in the alleys and bought some fresh pastries after being drawn to a bakery around one street corner by the smell of cinnamon in the air. There was a week-long music festival going on in one plaza in support of gay rights as well, with everything from mariachi to marching bands to blues singers. We applauded, partly for the music and mostly for the cause.
Our favorite place for a drink was Las Quince Letras (count 'em up). Founded in 1906, it's the city's oldest surviving bar and too small for it's popularity. It gets to be standing room only pretty quickly in there, but the bartenders aren't pretentious and don't even ask for your name or a credit card to start a tab. They have a red paper mache devil that rises up from behind the juke box with the tug of a plastic wire stretching across the ceiling from behind the bar. One old man who had been at the bar longer than we were was fumbling with his change at the juke box when the devil rose up to face him. He took a step back, grimaced and then flipped off the devil. We made some friends there, Daniel and Irwin, both university students in town studying English and economics, respectively, who showed us some of the other bars. You can tell two guys are close when they can call each other "cabron" back and forth, the Spanish equivalent of such classic hits like "bastard" and "motherfucker." If a stranger calls you that you're either doing something wrong or they're too drunk for tener razon.
"Watch," Irwin said as he tapped the bottom of an empty beer bottle on the top of his own Corona and made it foam to the top. He lifted the bottle to his nose and snorted the foam as it poured out everywhere, with Daniel laughing hysterically, his John Stamos locks bouncing. "Beer up the nose is a Mexican trick!"
I've probably left out some other good stories, but there'll be more to come from Mazatlan.
I didn't even know that about this hotel until today when me and Roby walked past a sign commemorating him outside. We got in around 3 am after a 13- or 14-hour bus ride from Zacatecas in the country's interior, where we spent Wednesday through Friday. Roby learned that little sleep and no stops along a dark bumpy route can make me a little hostile and schizophrenic a la The Shining. I slept in late today and we made it a point to take it easy and not do anything too tiring today, until we let the beach kick the crap out of us this afternoon.
And I have plenty of time to talk about Mazatlan. We'll be splitting the last week of Roby's part of the journey between here and Puerto Vallarta, where she will fly back to the States and things will inevitably get weirder for me as I continue south on my own towards Mexico City and beyond. So let's talk Zacatecas.
Zacatecas is a historical city of more than 100,000 that seems to be off most people's radar. Really, the whole interior of Mexico aside from Mexico City or Guadalajara seen to be off the grid. Its historical element gives it everything I love about old colonial cities that tourists bypass: beauty, intrigue and pride. We stayed at a sad little hostel one block up the hill from the most highly recommended one in town, which was sold out, but it met our basic needs. Weather was much cooler there, I guess because it's in a valley between some small mountains, and it only got hot around midday. It's a very steep city though, and the old roads and steps get pretty slick in the rain. It rained on and off while we were there, and the hostel owner David had to sweep the water off the roof every time to keep it from leaking over the toilet.
We rode a European-made (ooh la la Europe wonderful Europe) cable car from one mountain to another, with a bird's eye view of every cathedral, plaza and aqueduct along the way. We got lost in the alleys and bought some fresh pastries after being drawn to a bakery around one street corner by the smell of cinnamon in the air. There was a week-long music festival going on in one plaza in support of gay rights as well, with everything from mariachi to marching bands to blues singers. We applauded, partly for the music and mostly for the cause.
Our favorite place for a drink was Las Quince Letras (count 'em up). Founded in 1906, it's the city's oldest surviving bar and too small for it's popularity. It gets to be standing room only pretty quickly in there, but the bartenders aren't pretentious and don't even ask for your name or a credit card to start a tab. They have a red paper mache devil that rises up from behind the juke box with the tug of a plastic wire stretching across the ceiling from behind the bar. One old man who had been at the bar longer than we were was fumbling with his change at the juke box when the devil rose up to face him. He took a step back, grimaced and then flipped off the devil. We made some friends there, Daniel and Irwin, both university students in town studying English and economics, respectively, who showed us some of the other bars. You can tell two guys are close when they can call each other "cabron" back and forth, the Spanish equivalent of such classic hits like "bastard" and "motherfucker." If a stranger calls you that you're either doing something wrong or they're too drunk for tener razon.
"Watch," Irwin said as he tapped the bottom of an empty beer bottle on the top of his own Corona and made it foam to the top. He lifted the bottle to his nose and snorted the foam as it poured out everywhere, with Daniel laughing hysterically, his John Stamos locks bouncing. "Beer up the nose is a Mexican trick!"
I've probably left out some other good stories, but there'll be more to come from Mazatlan.
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