Border Jump

Trip to Belize - Day One




3:40AM is a great time to get robbed. But the four o'clock shuttle is our best bet to get to Livingston before dark. I've gotta hop the border to renew my Guatemalan ninety day tourist visa. So I wait outside in the cold until it arrives. I hide behind a nook in the cathedral entrance on the one-way street, seen only when I want to be seen. My ride is late. I'm last on a list of about twelve people to buy my ticket, so I know I have plenty of time for an early morning spark session. *SHIKSHIK - PHOOM - HHHOOOP - PAHHHH*. 4:30AM and I got out of work three hours ago. Two months' work. No days off... Time to get into the holiday spirit.

The paddy wagon shows up, the driver hoists my bag to the top of the van and I cram in between eleven bobbing heads. I kick off my Chacos, spin sideways and jam my toes into the gap between the seat cushions. I curl into a tiny ball and rock with the sharp turns - forty-five minutes to the capital. We tumble out at the terminal. Taller travelers stretch their cramped up legs. I just smile and walk away. It's good to be travel size.

We jump on the massive coach bus for a lengthy bus ride up to Rio Dulce. I'm impressed at the quality of transit my two hundred Quetzales has purchased (about twenty-five bucks), but even more impressed with the land speed records our driver, Steve McQueen (apparently) seems to be breaking. Slow down, Turbo. One near miss with an oncoming semi was a little too close for comfort.

A few catnaps and short philosophical convos with my travel buddy Omar, and we're waiting for our water taxi. Due to Dale Earnhart's lead foot we're pretty early, so we post up in a cantina overlooking the bay. Nothing like two or three beers at ten thirty en la mañana to thoroughly drop you into "day off" mode. Next stop: Livingston.

We throw our bags in the front of the "lancha" and scramble for the seats nearest to the outboard; those give the smoothest ride. We push away and wind our way through two hours of absolute paradise. But before we do, we pass some of the most expensive real estate in all of Central America. Martha's Vineyard - Guatemala style. Mansions. No. Castles. With palm-thatched roofing, giant windows, guest houses, private marinas and massive shiny unused boats. Just one more reminder to the rest of us that rich people have nice cars. Wealthy people have nice yachts.

Our captain swings us south towards the narrowest opening in the sound. The east shore creeps up from the lake bottom into a proper swamp. Unnavigable. The west - steeply, and in the shape of an ancient fortress. One last bastion guarding freshwater Lake Izbal from real life pirates of the Caribbean. Built in 1644, it seems ridiculous by today's standards, but the stronghold closed a gap of less than 500' and was more or less effective against pirate raids throughout its lifetime.

On to the fun part, we flip a bitch and plunge north back into the jungle. Two curvy lefts and a right and we're very far away from civilization.  The water is smooth. The air is clean. THIS is the Garden of Eden. Everything wreaks of life. Gulls, hawks, and pelicans splash their targets from above. Herons and egrets turn their long necks to watch us go by. Cormorants pop up like prairie dogs. Kingfishers dart between the creeping banyon roots and vines. There is no shoreline, no sign of human footfall, just trees on top of trees on top of trees that grapple out into the water. The calibrated hum of the motor groans on.

We fall through a wormhole. A loophole in space and time. The deeper we go in, the further I feel from everything I've ever known. Yet certain things trickle back in. Blips of two-legged existence start to flicker on the radar screen. We are not alone.

I see a floating Clorox bottle. And then another. And another. And right before I get upset - I realize that this isn't pollution. This is the workplace. The office, if you will. Connect the dots. The scattered bottles trace a circle, and the circle holds a fish net. A slightly different type of cubicle. No perks, no Christmas bonus, but a hell of a nice commute. No road rage. No honking. No smog. The only traffic is the wind.

We come upon a water village of sorts. Every house/store/shed/outhouse is punched up on stilts. One boat buzzes by with a load of long timbers. A red rag flutters off the protruding ends. We stop at a small tienda to stretch our legs, take a leak and refill on beers. You can even buy more mobile phone credit. "Recarga Aqui! TRIPLE SALDO HOY!" Unbelievable. 

There's a small hot spring off to one side of the dock. Tiny fish smile and wag below the steaming pond. No one's in it so I give it a go. MAN! That's hot! But only at the surface. Heat dribbles out where the ripples lap the shore. From there it spills across the quickly deepening water, but never more than two or three inches down. This explains the very much uncooked fish swimming below.

Back in the boat. 

On the way out a young girl brushes her hair, naked and kneeling on the dock; the setting sun glimmers off her chest. I trace the light above. Two herons and six pterodactyls hang in front of cotton candy Monet clouds. I nudge Omar to take a look. He's on Facebook. I guess he bought some Saldo.

Enter: more boats, more nets, and more houses on stilts. I catch eyes with a local woman and her daughter. Being in utter vacationary bliss, I smile and wave trying to be polite. But I immediately realize I've made the wrong move. This is the tension between the inside and the outside worlds. They don't want to be my friend. They want things the way they were. Sometimes I forget. That even though we're pretty far off the beaten path - we're still beating it. We splash on.

Suddenly the river opens up to a parabolic horizon. Warm fresh air collides with cooler salty air. The same happens with water below us. Bienvenido, Atlantic Ocean. 

Livingston is an island off of the Guatemalan coast. We land at the dock greeted by Spanish speaking African descendant with dark black skin and bright blue eyes. “Wherejoo frum? Yoo ess ay – Ooooh Kay.” He takes us up the hill and points out the cheaper hotels and where we need to go to buy our lancha tickets for the next morning. We give him ten Quetzales for the trouble. This is his career.

Omar and I get our passports stamped at Immigration. We pick out a room with two hard beds and a door. Good enough. I grab a very bad sandwich with fake ketchup, watch the creeping darkness drain the twilight, and promptly pass out. Day One. Long. Hard. Awesome.

Long Time Gone

4 February 2014


I haven't looked at this blog in a long time. I'd imagined when I first started this that it would be a tool to help me and others keep track of everything that happened along the way. I think the reason that it stopped was because I did. Ok. Duh. But I mean physically. I stopped moving. Originally, I'd planned to keep track of all the interesting people and places I experienced along the way, and writing about those things stopped making sense when I stayed in Antigua. So I guess, I'll just have to reconsider the original idea for this blog. From here on we'll just consider every day an adventure. Because here, you never know what is going to happen.

I'll bring you up to speed.

******


Traveling is something I'd always wanted to do. Moving a lot as a kid not only got me prepared for traveling, it got me addicted. That's because there is no other experience that heightens all of your senses, challenges you, terrifies you, enlightens you, inspires you and humbles you all at once. Traveling - REALLY traveling, living in a different country outside your comfort zone teaches you more about the world, yourself, and your fellow creatures than anything else possibly can. THAT is why I chose to travel. I stopped traveling... because I ran out of money. Money, they say, does not buy happiness, but it does buy a lot of the ingredients. And that is a lesson that I've learned the hard way. Save your money.

So I live in Antigua, Guatemala.

I didn't choose to live here, and to be honest even though it is definitely one of the most beautiful, affordable, interesting, amazing places to be in or travel to... I don't want to live here. Antigua is what I call a "pirate town". More or less, there are five distinct categories of people you will encounter here:

Locals

These are the Guatemalan citizens that live and work here in Antigua. They were born either in Antigua or one of the close by pueblos. I'm 5'7" and I am on the taller side of their average height. Some of them are kind of darker, but bloodlines have definitely mixed. They are what you would call middle class and are generally very nice people.

Indigenous

Women wear colorful traditional clothing. Both adult men and women are usually quite short and very stalky. They're like little bowling balls. Thick torsos and strong as hell. They have gold teeth, tons of kids running around, and generally speaking they are very, very poor - but not always. Spanish is usually not their first language. There are at least twenty-two distinct Maya language groups. Hearing them spoken cracks something open inside of you, and you can't help imagine them dragging around giant stones to build the pyramids. Some of their faces look exactly like a lot of the old carvings. It's very eerie.

City Folk

These guys are assholes. Ok. Not necessarily. But that is the stereotype that they've earned from me and a lot of people who live here. When I meet someone from the city, that's the pretense that they have to work past before I respect them because all of their fellow citizens have fucked it up for them. Here's why.

Just like anywhere else in the world, the taller, the whiter, the fatter you are - the richer you are. (Not a rule, but a rubric). In the United States, we have very rich people as well, but unless you are one of them or you're working for them, you probably don't really understand how much more money they actually have than you. There is a huge separation between the middle class and the ultra wealthy. Here, it is in your face. You'll see $100K cars roll by an 80 year-old woman walking down the street with no shoes begging for a tortilla. So Guatemala is NOT a poor country. It has a HUGE amount of wealth (coffee, produce, textiles, etc). It is the distribution of it that makes the difference.

These rich bloodlines go directly back to the first assholes who stepped off those ships. The difference here as compared with the US is that everybody knows it. It's no secret. So the prevailing attitude is "Don't you know who I am?!" These people push everybody around and you really do have to be careful how you deal with them because they can make you disappear. They and their rich asshole children come to Antigua to fuck around and tell people what to do. You never have to ask them how much of Antigua they own because they'll be sure to tell you. I almost always do not like these people.

Expats

Some of these American/Canadian/Australian/British/etc. aka "gringos" that live here have been here for a long time. A lot of them will tell you they're from here. And while part of that's fair - Okay, you should be able to choose where to identify with - but don't believe them unless they have Guatemalan residency. It's one thing to spend most of your time in a different country, and another to pledge allegiance to it. I know. I'm going back.

Most of these people are cool. REALLY cool, actually. They're well-traveled, knowledgeable, opinionated and NICE. But sometimes they're not nice, and sometimes they're very pretentious. But they're almost ALWAYS more interesting and manageable then a lot of the really dumb people I meet in the states. And oh yeah. Expats like to drink. A LOT.

Tourists

All expats were once tourists. And all tourists might have been dumb Americans at some point. Some haven't quite metamorphosed by the time they make it to my bar. So I'm glad they're on their journey. Most tourists are pretty fun (especially the Australians) and they're almost always very nice. Some are idiots and assholes, as well.

Here in Antigua, we get a large number of Americans. Mostly from the West Coast, Colorado, and New York disproportionately. A lot of Canadians, Australians, Germans, Swedes, Dutch, French, Israelis, and a few from the Far East. But really, everybody comes through here. It's normal to have three or four different languages spoken around me at any time. I think I'm going to miss that more than I realize.

Tourists come here because they're on vacation and want to have a good time. For the older crowd, that means air conditioned bus rides to pyramids, overpriced food and shamelessly staged "cultural interactions", but that's what they want... So... Whatever.

For the younger crowd, they might be searching out adventure options. Ziplining, volcanoes, surfing, all that stuff. And generally speaking, they party hard. Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. During the high tourist season here, the bars just throb with hordes of drugged up Rumspringas.



SO.

All of these things mash together to create quite an interesting culture where pretty much anything goes. Honestly. The other day I was watching a movie with Las Vegas as the set and I realized, "Ah. Las Vegas is just like Antigua. Only a whole lot bigger and with newer buildings."

That's all for now. Maybe now you have a better idea of what Antigua is.

Gone in a Flash

2-6-2013

Antigua, Guatemala

18:48



"GGGGGGGGGGGK GGGGGGGGGGGK."

My phone was buzzing on the nightstand. Even though I'd turned it to silent, I could still hear the vibrations through my earplugs. I pulled one out, rolled over and answered the call. 4:28 in the afternoon. *Umf*. I'd slept for three hours in the middle of the day. Delicious.

"Hello?"

"Hey Lito! What are you doing? I thought you were coming over?!" Ale was super pumped.

"Yeah. *Hhem* You guys are building a bunny cage or something?"

"Yeah. I got two bunnies at the market, they're so cute."

"Alright. I'm getting up. Which camioneta do I take?"

"Take the one going to Ciudad Vieja and get out at the parada, tres cuadras past la iglesia on the left."

"Errright. Let me get my pants on... You want me to bring anything?"

"Yeah. Can you bring some cervezas? And some champiñones?"

"Deal."

I shook the sleep out of my face, donned the trousers, jumped in my Chocos and headed for the door. The Chicken Bus Terminal is a quick three minute hop across the street; just past the colony of glue-huffing street zombies. I snatched up my Canon before ducking out. 'I never take enough pictures...' I thought.

I swung by the Bodegona to check off my grocery list. I grabbed a twleve-pack of Brahvas, (the local poor man's beer), a couple of munchies and the last package of mushrooms they had. I noticed the shrinkwrap was torn - something that would have deterred me at any grocery store in the U.S. But then again, this was the first time I'd bought produce inside a piece of plastic since I'd gotten here. Who needs UPC's when you've got the world's freshest fruits for pennies on the dollar. (God, I love the Guatemalan mercado.) So I shrugged it off; happy to have them at all. 

A couple of hot, cramped and bumpy minutes later I deuced out of the metal rattle wagon and met Ale at her front door. She cracked it open and walked me into her beautiful indoor/outdoor Antiguan home. The kind where bedrooms open up to a roofless courtyard instead of carpeted hallways or a teched-out living room. I will have this in my house someday. I started taking mental notes.

I'd missed most of the action. I'd slept entirely too long. Diego was already hard at work, scratching his head conceptualizing the bamboo cage's finishing touch. Billowing yoga pants draped around his bottom half. With one hand picking his scalp and the other wielding a bamboo scrap he and Ale went back and forth as to how to spread the chicken wire.

"Debemos poner la puerta alla."

"Si, pero then we won't be able to open it from the front."

"Ah tal vez we could make a frame for it so the door would last longer?"

"Si MON! Good idea."

"Where're the bunnies?" I chimed in.

"Over there." He pointed to the grass.

"OH MY GOD! You are so CUTE!" It was like a fuzzy grey softball. A squishy puff with ears.

"Wait. Wasn't there another one? Didn't you say bunnIES? Plural?"

"Yeah! But DEY killed the other one!" She pointed at Diego.

"Gwuat?!" Diego retorted.

"You told me dat dey were okay to stay outside at night, and one of dem fell into the baril of water and drowned!"

"Oh, gwow. Come on! It jumped into that barrel. That bunny was stupid."

"Yeah, this one doesn't look too bright, either," I said. "This guy hasn't moved for like twenty minutes."

"Oh, yeah... He might still be high. He ate like a gram of weed the other day."

"Uhhhh... What?"

"And some chocolate."

"Are you seriou--"

"And some cream cheese."

"You guys are the worst pet owners of all time. How did he get into a tub of cream cheese?"

"I donnow mang. He's a hungry bunny. Hehe."

"He doesn't look so good. He's skinny as hell. What's his name?"

"He's got like three names right now."

"Not anymore. I dub thee, Budz Bunny. What's up, Doc?"

I petted the bunny and they went back to their bilingual bartering. He'd point with his wand, and with each accentuated *TAP*, I expected the whole thing to burst into a bitty bunny paradise. It was the pants. He looked like Ali Babba. Mejor, a genie.

This went on for as long as the light would allow. Them pointing - not building. Me, holding the skinny, stoned bunny, coaxing it to sober up. I looked around for something to feed it. "Ah! Here you go, little guy!" I plucked a fresh citrus blossom from the lemon tree. "Mmmmm, smells good, Budz. Want a nibble?" Budz sent it to the shredder and ate another half before returning to his thousand yard stare. "Buen provecho."

The sun dropped fast behind the volcano. It gets dark quick in the valle. Ale and Diego tried to soldier on through the twilight, but it was a losing battle. I offered them my headlamp for support. I checked the usual dedicated pocket. "Damn." It wasn't there. I'd lost it somewhere between the chemicals and card games in Semuc Champey. Instead, we decided to spark our own fire and pass it around, hoping that might shine a light on the best logical solution.

We sat around in a circle, slowly spinning into the smoke. Budz took up center stage, still not showing much motivation to move. Damn, man. Easy on the herb next time. A few minutes passed and Ale placed the furr ball into her front hoodie pocket. "Holy hell, that's cute. I'm taking a picture. So glad I brought my camera. I made sure the flash was on and let one off.

I'm not sure how long it was. It was a minute. It was ten minutes. I can't remember. I was high. But all of a sudden, Ale started freaking out.

"What are you doing?! Oh no no no no nooooooo!" She reached for her pocket and pulled the little guy out.

I couldn't tell what the hell was going on. Budz was freaking out. His head jerked back in a violent arch. His feet thumped uncontrollably. He looked possessed... Like he was... Oh shit. He was having a seizure. We tried to calm him down, but it wasn't working. Ale and Diego bolted out the door to find the neighborhood doctor. I wasn't sure what kind of bunny CPR they teach in Guatemalan medical school, but Ale looked pretty distraught. So I wished them the best of luck.


Left to my own devices I started to replay the evening in my head. There was no doubt that this rodent was doomed eventually (his brother was dumb enough to jump up into a barrel of water to drown. Budz was dumb enough to eat a whole nug of dope. Chances were, these genes weren't going to be stretching to far into the future. Nonetheless, somewhere in the cracks of my brain was a voice telling me citrus blossoms might be poisonous to animals. Whatever was happening, this animal was in bad shape. 

I flashed back to ten years old. I'm standing in front of the fossilized remains of a chicken-sized dinosaur at The Museum of Natural History in Albuquerque, NM. The sideview of the skeleton shows the final "resting" position of the bite-sized reptile. It's long neck is cocked back in an inverted question mark. The head is parallel with the tail and the interpretive plaque below the specimen reads, "This whatever-a-saur lived during the something-acious period. Palentologists know the cause of death of this creature as this extreme body position is congruent even to this day with the ingestion of a toxic substance." Shit.

I started to feel worse and worse the more the dots started to line up. However, not wanting to accept full responsibility without consulting the interweb, I took Ale's absence as an opportunity to jump on the computer to investigate my lurking suspicion.

A couple of quick searches delivered the following information:

Lemons:

Scientific Name: Citrus limonia
Family: Rutaceae

Toxic to:

Dogs
Cats
Horses

(No mention of rabbits. But they're all mammals and I know for a fact that horses are fairly closely related to rodentia.)

I checked on other citrus fruits.

Limes: Exact same information
Oranges: Ditto
Grapefruit: Ditto

Let's see... I didn't notice any vomit... Depression? Mehhhh... I think just stoned. Photosensitivity? You've gotta to be kidding me. Does that mean that after all of the horrible things this bunny wabbit ate that the one nice treat I tried to give it ended up being poisonous? Unbelievable.

I hear the door creak open as I'm stringing the dots together. Diego sneaks through the dark entrance and Ale trails close behind. I close the computer and tell them what's been going through my head, summarizing but getting the point across.

"...So basically, I think Budz was already pretty sick. He was skinny as hell and he couldn't have been healthy from eating all that human food and weed and stuff - he didn't look good. In addition, I did some research and it looks like the flower I fed him might have been slightly toxic. Some of the symptoms being depression and photo sensitivity. Now, I'm not sure about this but I think that with all those things in place that the blossom might have just been the icing on the cake. And... I think the flash from my camera might have been the candle topping it all off. In short, I think taking a picture of your bunny threw him into an epileptic seizure..."

"Well, we've got some bad news. Budz is dead." She extended the limp body out in her arms.

"Oh man... I'm really sorry, Ale..."

"I guess I wasn't meant to have bunnies after all." I couldn't entirely argue with her. OH for TWO is a pretty bad track record for three days of pet parenthood. I looked over to the ramshackle pile of bamboo sticks. 'Looks like we won't be needing that anymore...' I thought. 

The night passed on. We made delicious coconut curry and tried to keep Ale's mind off the fact that we'd murderized her precious bunny rabbits. Once or twice, I whipped out my camera and flipped to the picture of Budz, his black eyes sticking out of the sweater pocket. Big ol' nocturnal eyes - dilated from the drugs and perfectly evolved to soak up every bit of evening light. It was the perfect storm.

They say it's better to go out with a bang. Maybe that's how this crazy domino universe started in the first place. But this little guy's world went out in a flash.

*POOF*

Just like that.

No crash. No boom. No bang. Just one beep; the autofocus sound right before sending Budz headfirst into the bright beyond.

I'd like to say it was a great photo. That it honored the life of a cute furry little creature. But it was actually pretty crappy. There was nothing cute about it. Just a tiny head with two bright blotches of reflective retinas. I'd post the picture here, but I got too drunk on my birthday and left my camera on the bar. (My reverse present to the world, I guess.) So somewhere floating around the gutters of Antigua (or the happy new home of some Guatemalan locals) squeezed in between aerial shots of local fare, beautiful landscapes and my drunken face is a picture of one sick and literally dying bunny rabbit. Sorry, Budz. Enjoy the big carrot in the sky.

Cafe No Se - Promotional Travel Writing

So I have been doing lots of writing, but not a lot of posting. This little bit was originally me just describing this really cool bar called Cafe No Se (Cafe I Don't Know) in Antigua. The funny thing is that the owner of the bar runs a local magazine as well and asked me to transform it into a promotional piece for the bar. It's a pretty chemical induced spray of words. Most of the writing was done between swigs of the burning and the bubbles. Therefore, it's pretty good. Hope you enjoy.

You Don't Se?

Well you certainly should.

Cafe No Se. It's the first Antiguan bar you could hope to stumble into and the last one you'll want to stagger out of. Tuck yourself into this hole in the wall, fill up on some free popcorn and soak in the live music jammin' every single night.

Pushing this creaky door aside sinks you straight into what I like to call “The Real Deal.” You took the red pill, hombre. If what you're looking for is the back alley cultural melting pot, then this is it. No Se is the real deal; like the bastard child of a Wild West saloon and an old pirate hideout. It's dark. It's dingy. And it's exactly where I want to be.

Simmer down, saddle up and step on in. You won't have to search for the blasphemy here. It'll bite you in the face. It's the kind of stuff you couldn't buy in Vegas and can't burn off once you've gone. It's hanging on the walls, it's etched on the tables, and it's served hot on a plate: Grilled Cheesus sandwiches. Only Q15... Or your eternal soul. Either way, it's pocket change.

Bow under the halfling door and you're on sacred soil, now. Welcome to The Mezcal Bar. Time to pay the piper. But only the penitent man will pass. So drop your elbows to the bar and PRAY, brother! Grab an Oferta for Q44 and Randy will swing you a Vicky and a shot of the Joven. A quick glance at the sign: “Two Shot Minimum” and you reevaluate. Better make it two.

Mezcal. Some call it the Mexican Scotch. I call it delicious. “Illegal” brand Mezcal is served from what appear to be funny looking shot glasses. But a second nip, a double take down the barrel and the joke is out. There's a cross on the bottom. On all of them. They're sacramental candle holders. Add this to the photos of lusty nudes humping crucifixes and it's the kind of sacrilegious irony I could only dream of in Catholic school. Will this be the bite-sized evil that keeps me out of Heaven... Or am I already there? I still have half a shot left. So I take another swig to find out. Waste not. And oh yeah - Amen.

Take a look around. There are some real characters here. It's is the kind of place you'd hope to see Tom Waits growl or Kerouac scribbling away. Sometimes I scan the flame-lit faces, just to check. If you get the chance, buy one of the regulars a drink. I chose Pete. He's a part-time wordsmith, full-time Mezcal worshiper. Fill his glass and he'll fill your head. Stories, sonnets, shamanic songs; he knows them all. Make sure to check out his latest literary work, available in the sober hours at the adjoining bookstore.

But he's not alone. Drinking here are intense personalities from all over the world. The cream of the grime. And they're not all pretty. Most of them are dreamers, and a few of them are real assholes. This isn't Applebee's. And no, we don't all have to get along. This is the black sheep herd, and they're chewing up the moonlight.

But there's no reason to get your panties in a bunch. There's no need to wear panties at all. No Se is a place for everyone. Where anyone can show up, drink, and say exactly what they feel. Even the walls speak their mind. Ask them and they'll dish out their favorite one-line philosophy. There's plenty of fading Sharpie to write the book, but one quote says it all. And it's enough to throw you tits first into their boiling brains.

"Today is not for thinking."

I can drink to that.

In this bar, your sins are never forgiven, they're only forgotten. Until the next nearest moment of clarity, that is. Old dreams wither and new ones are drunk away. It's Cafe No Se. It's the bottom of the barrel. It's the end of the road. It all drops off from here. But that's all right. It's okay. Because every good dive needs a town.

Choco Is A Punk

This is Choco.

He is a punk.

That's right. Choco is a total punk. He just puked up ground beef and chicken foot all over the couch. He could have gone outside in the grass, or maybe on the nice hard tile floor. That would have been a lot easier to clean up. But no. This is Choco. He is a punk and he does what he wants.

Until now.

...

Choco doesn't leave the house much. In fact, he doesn't really do a lot of anything. Mostly, he lingers around the house, he suns outside and then plops back onto the cold tile floor inside. It's a big trip for him, those ten feet. And I can see how all that laying around must just take it out of him. Occasionally he'll muster up the huevos to yap at a passing dog before returning to his lair. I don't speak Spanish Dog, but I imagine the conversation translates to something like, "HEY!.... HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY!" He's a real charmer. I love it when his voice cracks.

...

By far, Choco's least favorite part of the day is the application of his little doggie sweater. Because this symbolizes the end of his daily reign of NOTHING. Once the sweater is in place there will be no more impromptu treats, belly scratches or irritating of the Human Clan until dawn. Or so I thought.

Soon after arriving, Shayla informed me that one of the things that was really impacting her health was Choco interrupting her sleep. He'd leap from his bed on the ground to her bed above, tunnel under the covers, wiggle around for a few hours and then scratch on the door to be let out. Not exactly the proper REM cycle, is it? 

So. Being the martyr that I sometimes am, I offered to let him sleep in my room for a while - thinking, "It's a queen-sized mattress and he's six pounds. I sleep with earplugs in most of the time. How is he possibly going to disturb me?" Turns out - like six different ways. One for each pound. Because it doesn't matter how comfy his little doggie bed is or how much I fluff it, his favorite place to sleep is right in between my legs - rendering them useless for midnight bouts of dreamy soccer matches. - OR - right on my pillow with his little cheesey dog fart butt aimed directly at my face. 

One time, I'd convinced myself I had him trained. I opened the door for us to hit the hay and he sprung up on the bed. BOING! (...God, you're tiny.) He walked straight towards my pillow. So I gave him a little, "EY!" He stopped, front foot poised. He hesitated for a second and then turned to lay on the doggie bed I'd positioned on top of my bed.

"GOOD BOY, CHOCO!"

I was so proud of him! He finally understood he had his own damn bed. And that I was nice enough to share it with him. I went over to give him a congratulatory pet on the head and that little bastard GRUMBLED at me!

"Grrrrrr, fuck you."

You little bitch.

Oh well. At least he got it. FINALLY. Until around four in the morning, when I did one of those half asleep elbow prop - side swap rolls to change it up a notch. And in the time it took me to put my head back down - guess who I found swooping low to buzz the tower? That's right: A two and a half mega-gram poop factory.

"I don't think so, Scooter."

*FOOM*  

"You're outta here, Bucko."

I gave him about 1.3 seconds of air time to find another place to sleep. Determining the first floor a much less likely path to orbit, he headed towards the door. 

Exit: Choco -> Stage Right. 

And he bumbled down the stairs.

SHUMP 
   SHUMP
      SHUMP

Grumbling all the way.

Errrm.
   Errrm.
      Errrm.

One for each step.

I shut the door, (Peace, dude!) resumed by defensive post in the Semi-Finals of the Dream League Soccer World Cup, and that was the last time Choco ever slept in my room.

...

So, in addition to various other chores, Choco became my responsibility. I fed him, walked him, and medicated him as necessary. Apparently Choco, like his owner, had some health issues to work through. Sometimes I wondered if his condition was related to his owners. Pets have been known to acquire sympathetic complications when their owners are suffering. Interesting, isn't it?

In the past, Choco has had full rule of the house. And the neighborhood. And the marketplace. He ate when he wanted, he slept when he wanted and he didn't wear a leash. Walking him wasn't so much exercise for him as it was for me. In fact, it wasn't really a walk at all. It was more like Choco darting from curb to curb and me jogging up behind him to block the cars that didn't see his skinny ass. This isn't a dog. It's a traffic violation. And this has got to stop. One of us is going to get hit. And it's not going to be me.

I quickly realized that Choco was not like other dogs. Something was way off. He wouldn't get excited. He didn't enjoy praise. He wouldn't make eye contact. And he only ate treats when he deemed appropriate. This dog needed some training. But I couldn't figure out a way into his head. We're dealing with a serious motivational problem here, people. How am I going to get this dog to do what I want? 

...

So, I'm not Cesar Milan or anything, but I do know a thing or two about dogs. The sensitivity I can feel regarding human energies around me is almost the same with dogs. It's a little harder to tune in to, but if you pay attention you'll realize that dogs really ARE man and woman's best friend. Not because they fetch for us but because they speak the same emotional language that we do. 

The next time you're around a dog, pay attention to it and watch for emotional cues. Part of it is in the tail as you may know. But watch out because there are a few misnomers in there. Dogs sometimes wag their tail and bark at the same time. Sometimes it's an excited "Pay attention to me!" bark/wag, and sometimes it's a "Come over here and see what happens" bark. In order to know the difference you need to look at all cues in combination. It's like the base coaches in baseball. You always see them do that weird hat brim sign language to tell a batter something. But each individual sign doesn't necessarily indicate a word. The whole thing together just means one thing. Make sure you have the right one. Look at the tail, eyes, body position and movement and even their mouth. Dogs do smile and frown, just like us. It's just a little more subtle. 

In addition to that intuitive understanding I also spent almost six months living on a glacier in Alaska with 240 sled dogs. Bred for strength, endurance, these dogs are a mix of many lines but their strongest trait is their undeniable resemblance to and sometimes direct recent ancestry of a real-live wolf. Humans took the nicest wolves and bred them out into herders, fetchers and hunting dogs. And the funny thing is that putting them all back together gave us something similar to what we started with. Seeing this in person reminded me of an interesting concept I'd learned in physics way back in high school. Particle motion can, within specifically regulated parameters, be reversed. It's called Laminar Flow. Check it out:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p08_KlTKP50

It's not perfect. But it's pretty farking amazing.

...

So Choco needed some work. He didn't know "come","sit", "stay" and generally didn't care what you were doing as long as you were close by to feed him whenever he decided was appropriate. In addition to being lethargic he seemed fairly depressed. I know what this dog needs! Discipline!

...

The first step I took in training Choco was to make him sit before giving him his food. This may seem simple but it is a great way to get your dog to pay attention to you and for them to realize that it doesn't just materialize. YOU are the one providing the food. YOU are the master and THEY need to show respect for receiving this food. Sounds a little domineering, but guess what? Dogs are social creatures. They function much better inside a structured hierarchy. They need to know where they fit into the pack, and it's your job to make sure they understand where that is. Dogs are kind of like teenagers. They think they want freedom but what they really need is the illusion of freedom encapsulated in an invisible framework. Otherwise they don't understand their boundaries and they can't function well.

So... "SIT! Here you go, Choco! Good boy!"

He sits. He eats. But he doesn't really look happy about it. He even thinks about it for a second after you say it. 

"SIT!"

..."you're serious?.. Ugh. Okay."

What a little bastard. You will learn, young grasshopper. You will learn.

It was always a battle with this dog. You couldn't coax him. He could not be bought. You HAD to force him. He literally didn't get it any other way. Like I said, masochist. But it wasn't all bad. And I totally loved him, too. I just wanted him to be safe and not get squirshed.

So every once in a while, I'd plop down next to him on the kitchen floor as he was walking by. I'd begin to pet him on his cheek and slowly draw him in with a tempting little ear scratch. Very soon I had him in a double barrel ear scratch/cheek massage doggie paralyzer hold. And before he knew it I had him collapsed in a full-on impromptu doggie rub down. I wanted him to know that even though I was being tough with him and not allowing him to do the things that he wanted to do that it was actually for his own good and he would have more freedom if he would demonstrate that he wasn't going to hari kari himself under the under inflated wheel of the next passing V-dub.

...

After the "sit for your food" phase, the next step was that when we went on walks he was on a leash from before we left the house until after we'd returned. If I couldn't trust him to stay by my side and out of traffic then I would trust the three feet of nylon that I had strapped to his neck! Haha! Whoops, this collar is WAY too loose! That's not going to work. There. That's better. Hehehehe... Sorry Choco, this ain't your bling. This is Phase 2 in Operation: Do What I Want.

And he totally knew it, too. I'd ask him, 

"Hey, Buddy. Wanna go on a walk?" 

And he'd get all excited; prancing over, his long nails tapping on the tile floor. 

"All right. Here we go!" 

I'd reach for the leash, his tail would drop down and he'd start to slink away. 

"Oh heeeeeeeeeeell no. We're going." *CLICK* 

Leash: ON. 

Shoes: ON

It's go time, baby.

Out the door and onto the ragged streets of Coatepec. At first we just went around the block. Enough to get him out of the house to check the PeeMail. But eventually I started taking him all the way to the town center about a mile away. The problem we kept running into was that we would reach a point at which Choco would determine he no longer fancied the direction in which we were ambling. It was like there was some invisible wall that he could see and I could not. I think on the wall that he saw were words scrawled in doggie letters, "Go back now! The cushion is still warm! You can still make it!" Um, *YANK* - NOPE! Sorry dude. MUSH!

Fucking... HEEL!

The strange thing was though, once I jerked him past that one foot distance he ALWAYS got more excited about the walk. I think this dog is a masochist or something. I did ask nicely the first time, dude.

When we got home I'd make him sit and wait patiently by the door while I unlocked it. Once unlocked, I made sure he stayed until I give him the go ahead. This part was where we really got to have it out with each other. Most of the time he would try to squeak through the tiny crack in the door and I'd have to stop him with my foot. Eventually he learned to wait just a few extra seconds until I gave him the okay. In this way he also got to understand that living in a nice house was ALSO a privilege. 

At first he couldn't wait at all and I'd have to pull him back and flip him on his back. "NO!" But one second at a time we'd increase how long he could wait. I'd hold out until right when I knew he couldn't wait any longer. Then I'd signal him and he'd dart inside; so proud of himself. So after a while he got the idea, more or less. Until one day.

...


We were coming back from a walk with the same old routine I'd been establishing earlier. He takes a seat, I remove the leash. I open the door, he waits obediently for my comma--- CHOCO, NO!! He bolted inside. God, dammit, Choco! You were doing so good!

I ran in after him and picked him up by the scruff, dragging him from whence he came. Back at the crime scene he squealed bloody murder and I flipped him on his back. "NO, Choco! NO NO NO NO NO!"

Ok.

I calmed down and got him to sit again. We took it from the top.

"Stay! YOU STAY. NooooOOO... STAY!"

I had to physically push his but back down. Come on, man. Don't make me do this the hard way. I opened the door again, he bolted and I went for the scruff again.

* Now. At this point, I felt as if the two of us had made some significant progress. I felt like I had him more or less under my control with just the slightest bit of resentment left on his part. I knew that this was his breaking point and it was time to put it all out on the table. He needed to know without any hint of a doubt that I was the Big Kahuna. And remember, I  did try to ask nicely. *

So I dove for the grab. He bit me, so I bit his ear. He bit me again, so I locked him in the back of the house. Solitary.

You see how things just got outta hand fast? This was the come to Jesus moment for him. And I intended to make full use of it. I'd known this was going to happen from the start. But you can't just show up to someone's house and start throwing their dog around. That's a little, um... Unhinged. But this was the proper moment and Shayla knew that I wasn't abusing her dog. In fact, she was right there with me, telling me how she knew he needed what I was providing. 

Good. Cause this might not be pretty.

I let him stew in there for about an hour and a half, went to check on him and he bit me again. So I flipped him on his back once more, yelled at him, and bit his ear AND his muzzle, and threw him in the tiny bathroom to think about it a little longer. 

In case you're wondering, biting a dog on their ear or muzzle is the ultimate way to tell them, "Me Alpha, you not Alpha." It's something they do in their own doggie culture to communicate to others this exact intention. So, you know... When in Rome. And it works pretty damn well. Although, I'd reserve it for when you really want to make a point. You don't want to be a dick, and it also looks very strange in public. So pick your battles.

When I opened the door to check on him again about forty-five minutes later he cowered away from me, trying desperately to find a secret passage behind the toilet.

"Come here, Choco."

He wouldn't.

He was too scared and still hoping that wall was going to open up any second.

"Come here, Choco."

He slinked over.

"Good boy."

...

This wasn't necessarily the way I wanted to do things. I literally tried every other method to train this dog. But he FINALLY got it. He FINALLY respected me as El Jefe. The Boss. And from this moment forward he did EXACTLY as I said. Exactly.

The next morning we went out for a walk. I'd decided to give the no leash thing a try. But I'd forgotten to put his collar on. "Shit." I can't have him running around without that. He was on his way out to the middle of the street.

"EY!"

He dropped immediately onto the ground. I didn't even say it that loud.

"Good boy, Choco."

And he was happier. From that one instance on, Choco was SO much happier. He ran around the house. He pranced around the yard. He jumped up onto my lap where he wouldn't have necessarily cuddled before. And he stayed the hell out of my room. 

He wanted someone to be in control. He NEEDED someone else to be in control. And I guess it was me he was waiting for. The interesting thing is that training that dog made me look internally at myself and what kinds of things I needed to be happy. And I think the moral is that I, too, need some more structure in my life. Except instead of an external master, I would only have the same one Choco had. Me.

...

It's tough. I feel myself drawn to so many things. I'm interested in so many things. And I'm actually ok, not amazing, but ok at lots of things; which makes it very difficult to choose a... "Career Path" or lifestyle or whatever. For a long time I wished I was... Not less capable, but really good at one thing so it would stand out among all the rest and I'd have a definite waypoint to follow. 

I've spun around trying lots of things out trying to figure out which path to choose, and I've finally decided that I will pick a few of the things I really, REALLY like and go for those. These are the ones I'll put my energies into. And I'm making a list of side hobbies to conquer when there's time in between just to mix it up. 

Until now, I've defined my life through intangible items: where I've been, how I've felt, ideas I've come across and how I will someday compile those into a reckonable force. But I've always been waiting for that next thing. Just one more... Thing, or idea or whatever to complete the picture. But the truth is, I'm never going to build an empire if I don't start some day. It's been a long weekend. But I think someday is coming soon.

For a long time now, I've felt this decision-making paralysis. "If I choose this activity, then I'll miss out on all these other opportunities." Or, "If I do this and I'm terrible at it then I'm a failure and I have no idea what to do with my life." Sounds sensible. But in reality, what ends up happening is that I don't do anything at all, or I wait for someone else to do something and I attach myself to that idea. That's not fair to me, or anybody else.

The nice thing is that I've gotten to this point the only way I know how. By a little something I like to call: The Hard Way. Instead of cautiously determining which things I really do like or drifting towards those things I might be interested in, I've systematically eliminated several of the things I absolutely don't like by diving in head first, and characteristically unprepared; figuring it out on the way. In this manner, I've managed to whittle my dreams down a core of aspirations by shucking off the layers of excess crap around me. 

What this gives me is the certainty to know what it is that I really want. Not just those things that I might think I want. And that, my furry little friends, is totally priceless. 

There are a lot of external influences in our society. Many of them are extremely convincing. I'm glad to say that by removing myself from a great many of those things that I've been able to see the world through my own lens. The one I made from my very own experiences; both good and bad.


I've had a quote on my facebook for some time now. I don't even know who the person is, but I came across it once and really liked it:

"Absolute certainty is the privilege of uneducated minds and fanatics." - C.J. Kaiser


Following this logic I can determine that I am, in fact, educated. Which leaves us the remainder: I am a fanatic.

:-)

I kind of like the sound of that.

...

So maybe Choco was a punk. 

...But maybe I was one, too.

I Love The Smell Of Ozone In the Morning

Today is one of the last days I'll spend at Shayla's house. I'll be leaving a little sooner than previously planned. That's okay with me. I've learned a lot here about cooking, I've gotten some good yoga in, and I've gotten to meet some pretty cool people. All while saving a lot of money and having a pretty good time. 

I thought I would've posted more blog entries while I was here but a decent amount of it was routine and so I haven't had a lot of "adventures" so to speak. But I figured I'd talk about a few of the things that I've done here for all six of my readers. Actually, there are a lot of you. THANKS!

I usually wake up around 8AM. Sometimes I sleep through my watch alarm because I sleep with earplugs in. I've learned that I either wear them or I get woken up sixty times a night by the sound of the street dogs arguing below. And when they're not barking, it's usually because someone is busy lighting off fireworks at six in the morning. This usually happens whenever there's a holiday. And there are a lot of holidays. And when that doesn't do it I usually hear Shayla scoot her walker across the floor in a lout BRRRRRAP! So... 8AM. Here we go.

I wake up, drag myself to the end of the bed and stumble out into bathroom to see what the pillow did to my face for eight hours. As soon as I crack my bedroom door the sharp smell of electricity zaps my nose. The smell is ozone gas (O3) and it's produced by a machine that converts the tank of oxygen gas downstairs into this substance that supposedly kills infectious invaders. Shayla and Maeve have a morning routine where they drink water purified by it's bubbles and blast giant plastic syringe-fulls of it into all available openings. Even Choco gets a treatment. The poor dog sits impatiently while humans spray hot air into his ears. I did some of these things for a while. But I'm not that convinced of the practicality of it and it's pretty awful stuff. Tastes terrible. So actually the title is a witty lie. I actually don't prefer the odor, to be honest. But it's kinda cool.

Next up is Choco. I take him for a lap around the block where, until I insisted on the leash, he would dart in front of taxis for ten minutes while I - the short and sandal wearing American chased him around. The purpose of this morning hike is to get him to leave a little something behind. But he rarely does. There's a lot I want to say about Choco. But don't worry, I'll have a whole chapter on him. Standby.

By this time I'm usually pretty hungry and it's time to boost the glucose levels. I think a giant breakfast smoothie is in order? Yes. Two bananas, one frozen, almond or cashew milk, fresh squeezed orange juice, a possible frozen berry cameo, chia seeds, cacao/honey/or some other healthy thing and BWIIIIIIIING! Turn that five hundred dollar blender on. Now that's a smoothie.

Any other day but Saturday I'm usually free to work on my Spanish skills, travel plans or play around on the computer as I wish. When I'm lucky, another human in the house gets motivated to do some yoga and I join in like a good little grasshopper. If it's sunny someone might get naked and soak up some rays in the courtyard. Hippies.

Lunch is also a smoothie. At first I really liked this. It was easy to make, good to eat and predictable. Now, towards the end, I kind of miss chewing things so much. But one thing's for sure - you don't have to poop as much. And that means that's probably one less time that you have to wipe your butt and throw your TP in a trashcan. Because they don't flush it around here. Not enough water pressure. That TP just sits in the trashcan staring at you as you try not to think about how disgusting that is. So anyway, I was talking about food. Mmmmm.

Shayla is a certified "foodie" and a good amount of time takes place in her kitchen. She's got great ingredients and spices from all over and prizes them like they were the last ones made. Friends and family visiting from the US generally sacrifice their checked baggage to smuggle all sorts of rarities found in the mythical aisles of the Whole Foods Temple. AHHHH! So if I don't have any other project to attend to - Or if I'm not aimlessly staring at the ants on the compost pile (a strange habit I've found myself doing) - I help out in the kitchen by prepping food. I cut things or wash things or move them from one container to another. It's not always exciting, but I am learning some healthy and delicious tricks.

While Saturday is the big Organic Farmer's Market day, trips to the regular market come up about once every two days and I get the opportunity to practice my Spanish searching for the right vegetables or chicken feet for Choco. I like the market. It's bustling. It's a hub. And it's totally old school. People just sit outside with all of their stuff, maybe a scale and they yell out their wares in a flat but sing songy worn out voice, "Papas y friJOles! Dos por VIENteeeeeee..." Over and over again. They don't pay attention to you until you have their stuff on their scale. And the produce is dirt cheap. Everything is dirt cheap here. I can't get over it.

Afternoon time is dinner prep time. More cutting and washing and dancing around Shayla's wheelie wheels of little piggy death. You gotta watch it. Dinner starts with a salad at six and the rest of the meal follows. Sometimes it's a stir fry and it's kind of cool to cook in between the actual eating. I kind of like that. 

For dessert I generally fire up the vape and pop in some stand up comedy or a movie I rented from PirateBay.se. Smile if you know it. After Shayla hits the sack (usually pretty early), I beat the shit out of some green pigs on Angry Birds or Maeve and I take a walk to the Zocalo. Last night she forced me to dance so I embarrassed the hell out of her by acting like a complete goofball in the middle of the Halloween parade. I don't think she'll be doing that again. Man, I can swing those hips. That's right, ladies, that's how we do it in America.

If I can't sleep, I jump back on the computer and do my best to wring out my experiences or chattering brain cells onto the keyboard. Some of it makes it onto this blog. The rest remains for one more day; swaying and sloshing about until the next opportunity to make a break for it.

The Ten Dollar Day

10-21-2012

20:29

Coatepec, Mexico



We threw a party for Shayla's birthday on Friday, but today was her real birthday - so Maeve and I vacated the house to let her Skype with all her family and friends throughout the world. We decided to go to Xico (HEE-ko), a nearby town and check out the waterfalls there. It definitely turned out to be a good day.

The first thing we needed to do was get some moneda (coin money). Bus drivers are real grumbly when you hand them a two hundred peso bill for a ten peso ride. All right, Grumpy Grumperson, I'll get some change. And dude, what the fuck is the deal with getting change in Mexico?! You go to pay for something and people just straight up have no change sometimes. Twice now, I've gone to pay for something and the vendor didn't have change so they just gave it to me for free. "Pay me later," they say. Dang man. I always did. But what is the dealio! I think the problem is that the government flat out just didn't cut enough metal money. People hoard it like it's going out of style.

(Bus fare roundtrip: $20)

So here's what I had to buy to make some change:

(Churros: $10)

It was some street food from the Zocalo (town square). Deep fried churros with chocolate sauce, some white shit and sprinkles. MMMMMM mmmmmm. Delicious. The first real junk food I've had in about ten days. It was good. 

The next order of business was to find Maeve a baño. She was suffering a little discomfort due to her and Shayla's morning watermelon eating contest. I'd say the real winner there was me. Cause I didn't almost pee my pants on a city bus.

We tried the church, but that was busy with its usual Sunday reality protest rally so we figured she could just tough it out on the bus. Next thing we know we get approached by a Mexican guy about my age who stopped us somewhat awkwardly,

"Ey, uh, amigos? Do you speak English?"

"Yeah man. What's up?"

His name was Miguel and his English was pretty good. He'd worked in the US for some time and was waiting on his visa to clear so he could hop back over the fence (legally) and come back with some scrilla. At first I thought he was giving us this big schpeil to ask for money but it turned out that what he really wanted was to practice his English with us. PERFECT! We'll work on our Spanish with you, too! By the way, do you know where the nearest pisser is?

Miguel showed us to his friend's autobody shop just around the corner and Maeve seemed much happier. He left us his number and if I can find it from my bottomless bag of tricks we should be meeting up to swap operating systems.

Maeve and I managed to find the bus stop. It was a little tough since there is neither a terminal nor any sort of sign denoting the usual stopping location for a bus. We used our super powers of asking in broken Spanish and followed the groups of people who seemed to be patiently waiting for something to carry them away.

The ride to Xico was pretty short. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes and the distinction between the two towns wasn't really ever made. If I had to guess, I would say the border was somewhere straddling several of the banana plantations that surrounded both villages.

Once at Xico, we promptly got ourselves lost on a dead end street trying to find a pretty looking church that didn't end up being that spectacular. We wandered back to the town center and ate a little bit of the packed lunch that we'd brought. Somewhat unmotivated and lackadaisical from all the work we'd been doing at the house we wondered if we should ask someone for directions to the cascadas (waterfalls). Turns out we picked the right guy.

Two white peeps in the middle of Smalltown, Mexico will always attract attention. But one guy wasn't staring at us at all. I figured it was probably because he'd done a fair amount of traveling himself and wasn't really that surprised to see some gringos in his town. He had long dreads and was sitting on a bench tying friendship bracelets. I went up to him and asked him if he knew the fastest way to the waterfalls.

"Las cascadas?"

"Si."

"Sígueme! Estan cerca de me casa!" (Follow me! It's right next to my house!"

And so we followed.

Sweet! Personal hippie tour guide for the day. I bought one of his bracelets to seal the deal and we were off!

(Bracelet: $50)


I was right, Victor had done some traveling. He spoke only a few words of English so despite my broken attempts to communicate with him he responded quickly and verbosely in his native tongue. It was good to get back into listening to and speaking real Spanish again, however, I definitely didn't understand everything that he was saying.

Victor took us through a couple of neighborhoods, up a gravel road where the concrete houses stopped, over a bridge and down to his jungle bungalow. Literally just a couple of wooden shacks pinned up above the riverbed. It was AWESOME. I bought a couple jars of pulque (a fermented, milky drink) and we visited on the porch. It tastes kind of like a mix between keifer and kambucha. I'm not sure if I liked it. It made me thirstier the more I drank it.

(Pulque: $30)

We spent the next couple of hours soaking in sweet sunlight and listening to the river roar around us. Myself, alone with the hot boulders, Maeve and Victor in the throws of a traveler's romance. Nowhere to be. No one to please. Doing nothing never felt so good.

Before we left the bungalow entirely, Victor showed us his shack. Yep. A shack. Inside he had just enough room for a small mattress, the jewelry he made and sold, an alter for Hari Krishna or whatever and seven hippie bunny rabbits that had dreads just like him. He loved those things and made sure to get them the nicest green pickings from the riverbank. They showed their gratitude by dutifully munching it all down.

Victor made it clear that he would really like us to buy some of his jewelry. As his only source of income I felt somewhat obligated to do so. But then again, I'd also bought his slightly overpriced bracelet as well. So I had to say no. I will say, however, that the man is very good at what he does. His wire jewelry, in particular, was extremely intricate and incredibly well thought out. I wish I could have. But I have no need for it. Thanks anyway man!

On the bus we went and back to Coatepec. Back to the house. But NOT without some chocolate first. We stopped by a local chocolate shop and split a few truffles between the two of us. Oh. My. God. So good and so cheap. 

(Total split cost: $20)

It really was a great day. The one that you can't plan and the kind of adventure that leaves you feeling a little terrified about what might happen - yet, it always ends up amazing. There really was nothing to worry about.

So. All in all, I spent $130 MXN which just so happens to be almost exactly $10 US. A whole day of fun for ten bucks. Not bad. Not bad.

Somehow I managed to screw up the picture formatting and I'm too lazy to go back and fix it so below are the photos from the day. Have fun figuring out what they are!