La Linea - Mexico/California

Crosswalking the Line

I spent a few more days in Creel determined not to leave Mexico on a bad note. It paid off. I checked into a different hostel, one where they didn't try to steel from their guests and had another go at the town. It wasn't as bad as I had thought. The people seemed warmer, nicer, and happier. But, then again, even a mortuary might seem more joyful in comparison to the people I encountered in Batopilas.

I took a horseback riding tour of the outlying mesas, sampled some of the local culinary specialties, and hiked up to a mirador at sunset with spectacular views of distant canyons and horizons of jagged mountain peaks. Everything seemed so new, so vivid, like I was seeing them all for the first time. I might have felt this way because I knew it was all coming to an end, and, after almost 8 months, these were going to be my last memories of this trip and of Central America.

Well, they wouldn't be the very last. I still had to actually get to the border, almost 475 miles away, and then, once across, home, another 500 miles. That would be a memory in itself, one I'd rather forget as it took me over 32 hours to get from Creel to the border. Of that, 23 straight hours on one bus. Needless to say, I was exhausted when I finally made it to the line, but felt a renewed sense of energy and excitement as I walked through the pedestrian causeway of immigration and reemerged on the other side standing, for the first time in 233 days, on American soil.

I met up with my good friend Mike Dewan, who lived in Pacific Beach and had a great evening enjoying all things American: Pizza slices, basketball, and Blockbuster Video. Not to mention a hot shower and a clean bed!

The next day I took a train up to Newport Beach, a seaside play ground for the rich and famous just south of Los Angles. If there was ever a town in California that stood in stark contrast to Northern Mexico, Newport was it. The polarized juxtaposition was a bit of a culture shock. Where as before I had been walking down small broken stone streets made up of clay, nondescript buildings, now I strolled down four-lane avenues lined with palm trees and wood shingled beach houses. There were other thing that I noticed, other things strictly Americana, that were a jolt to my senses. Four story beach mansions, million dollars yachts bobbing in the bay, $75,000 sports cars sparkling in supermarket parking lots. And everything was so clean, so whitewashed and proper. Hell, even the local rug factory outlet had a landscaped storefront with Bay trees and a manicured front lawn.

And the people, oh the people. They were a shock in their own right and while I can go on and on about the fakeness and superficiality of southern California versus the honest, down to earth culture of Latinos, I will only say this: Americans have no conception of personal space, and by that I mean other's personal space. Whether your walking down a sidewalk or standing at a bar, people just don't seem to notice (or care maybe) that your alive. They walk/bump/stubble right into you and rarely take the time to apologize. They yell meaningless things to each other across noisy rooms, often times right over your head or even through your ear canals without stopping to think for a second that you might actually like being able to hear and wish to continue to have the ability. Yes, it was a shock indeed.

I met up with half a dozen of my closest high school and college buddies who were in town to celibate our friend Peter's Med school graduation. It's funny, but even after being gone all this time, having only spoken to a few of them a handful of times, I fell right back in step with them like I had only been out of the room a minute to use the head. It was good to be home.

After a memorable homecoming in Newport, I hopped up the cost to Santa Barbara, where my Alma Mader and sister resides. I spent a week in this equally whitewashed, plastic paradise and felt relieved to arrive back in my hometown of Berkeley, which carries some of America's cleanliness and signs of affluence, but also a more down to earth, holistic feel. Where people say excuse me after they bump into you and only yell important, meaningful things through your ear canals.

Yeah it was good to be home. I had been gone just one day shy of 8 months. 242 days. I had been to 8 different countries, visited over 150 different destinations and slept in over 120 beds, beaches, hammocks, and couches. I had visited seven Mayan ruins, fished five different rivers, climbed four volcanoes, and seen two oceans. I got food poisoning four times, was robbed twice, had a job once, and made 6 really good friends. I learned to speak Spanish, scuba dive, salsa dance, catch Mahi Mahi, Poi, and play the guitar. All and all traveled over 12,000 miles, the majority of which on bus, train, boat, and foot. And, managed to spend almost all of my savings in the process.

So now I'm back home and back to where I started, with no obligations, living in my dad's basement and unemployed. It was this exact situation that prompted my epic journey in the first place, but I feel different now, more grounded in myself, my beliefs, and my desires. Excited about what the future holds rather than anxious, eager to take on the world rather then ready to run away from it.

I've satisfied the travel itch... for now. But, as I often tell people, traveling is like a highly addictive drug, once you start, you can't stop and the more you do it, the more you want it. I'm hooked. But, unlike most aaddictive substances that are detrimental to your body, mind, and spirit, this one fulfills them. It brings happiness, education, and enlightenment on a life outside our own and makes you feel more in tune the world that surrounds you. So, the next time your feeling down, tired, or apathetic, hop on a plane, train, or bus with your knapsack and remember that there is a whole world out there to liven up your day and enrich your life.

That all for now, but don't worry, I won't stay put forever, and in no time I'll be back here posting new adventures from the Ramblin Schambelan.

Copper Canyon - Mexico Pt. 2

Creel to Batopilas

They say that to truly conceptualize the vastness of the Copper Canyon, you need to descend from its highest elevations to its lowest depths. One of the more popular ways of doing this is to take a bus from Creel to Batoplias via an auxiliary road that starts at the top of the Canyon rim and descends more than 6,000 ft to the bottom of a river valley. During this jittery 5 hour ride, you pass through three separate micro-climates, go from temperatures in the low 40s to the high 80s, and get some of the best views of the canyons. It would turn out to be one hell of a ride... in more ways than one.

I boarded the bus at 7:30am. There, I met Dr.Zongo (not his real name), a fellow gringo who lives in the states, but owns land outside of Bato and makes the trip back and forth often. He's a wiry guy of 45, but has the stamina of a 25 year old, and possesses a travel resume that puts the Ramblin's to shame. Just think of the most obscure country at an obscure time and he's probably been there.

We set off, paving our way across black tarmac through mesas of Ponderosa Pines, and scattered Granite boulders. 75Kms later we left the pavement for a single-track dirt road that petered through some more Pine and Juniper before opening up over the side of the Taramauca Canyon rim, offering us our first views of jagged monolithic peaks that fell swiftly to sweeping river canyons and also view of the trepidous decent that awaited us.

We slid down a steep set of dusty switchbacks, the terrain transforming from thick sub-Alpine forests and Granite to sparse desert outcrops of Mesquite, Cacti and lose chalky Sandstone. The air temperature was changing too, rising from a crisp mountain cold to dry desert heat. The bus driver, who must have done this trip a 1,000 times before, didn't bat an eye as he took tight hairpin turns at alarming speeds cusping the sides of the road and sheer 1000ft drop offs.

We fell further into the depths of the canyon, passing through another climate zone, now sub-tropical, Redrock surrounded by wildflowers, mango trees, and a thick stagnant heat. Bato is a small hamlet that stretches down along the river in this valley. It was once a silver mining community in the late 1800s, but now passes as sleepy cowboy town, where the dress code is crocodile boots and white straw cowboy hats. It's also an outpost for the local Raramuri Indians who live in the surrounding hills. After over 400 years of being chased off their land by Spaniards and then the Laditos, have settled in this unwanted and unvisited region. This interesting mix usually makes for a relaxing and engaging time, however, as soon as the Dr. Zongo and I disembarked from the bus, we could both detect a uneasy tension in the air and this place was anything but sleepy.

I should mention here that this area is one of the biggest Cannabis growing regions in Mexico and almost everyone that lives here is connected to it in some way. Even the Raramuri, who wear their traditional multicolored frocks and loincloths and sport baseball caps with big marijuana leafs across the front. And we had just arrived during harvest, a tense time when growers come down from the hills to make deals with buyers from the boarders and outside cops and army patrols are brought in to try and catch transporters.

Even the good doctor, whose been coming here for years, felt uncomfortable. I checked into a local hotel and after a delicious lunch we sampled some other local flavors before heading off to the river. Everything seemed to mellow out after we got out of town, things slowed down, and it became a stress-free afternoon.

After a siesta in the arvo, Dr. Z and I headed down to the bar to grab a couple beers. Fast forward twenty minutes. I'm sitting at a table with a bunch of the biggest growers in the area asking me if I might want to transport some 'items' back to the states for them and a guy from the Juarez Cartel is asking the doc if he wants to 'join the family.' As thrilling as a life in the drug trade might sound, we both declined and made a discreet exit before the beer cans really started to tip and things got really hairy. Cholo's in low riders were cruising the streets and yelling 'Pinche Gringos' as they road past. Great, even in the deep recesses of the Copper Canyon I can't escape it! I went back to my hotel and Dr. Zongo hitch-hiked to his ranch house up in the hills.

Despite the mayhem that was unfolding outside, the land around us peaceful and soothing. I walked back down to the river at sunset, and watch the glow of the evening sun radiate in the cannons; the Redrock cliffs ablaze like embers in a fire, the Sandstone a cool, bone-white luminescence. I watched the twilight shadows of dusk chase the sun from the valley walls as wildflowers peddles sailed by in an evening breeze. I was instantly at peace again.

The following morning I set out, determined to enjoy the day and find the peaceful, welcoming side of the town. It was not to be had, all I found were cold scornful stares, diverted eyes, and closed doors. The place seemed so dead it was like walking through a ghost town. I decided to spent the rest of the day by the river, at least it wouldn't look at me with contempt. Sometime in the mid afternoon, Dr. Z reappeared, having trekked out 6 miles from his ranch during the hottest part of the day. He had figured out why the place seemed so hostel and filled me in.

Apparently, just the week before, a local shopkeeper had been kidnapped on the road leading up to Creel and the whole town was in a state of shock and fear. Kidnappings, so common in Mexico City, are virtually unheard of up here and it had turned the whole community upside down. Now, no one wanted to make deliveries to Bato and it has flooded the area with even more police and military (all during harvest time remember).

That explained it, the colds looks were not of score, but suspicion, the diverted eyes were not malevolent but saddened. Even though I had found the true motive behind the unwelcoming vibe it was unwelcoming all the same, and I caught the morning bus back to Creel the next day; a town that, despite its rough first impressions, seemed warm and welcoming after the dramas in this place.

Copper Canyon - Mexico Pt. 1

Mazatlan to Creel

The sun had set a half hour ago. Blin hurried to make it back to his hotel room before dark. It's not wise for a gringo to be walking around by himself in this part of town after dark. It draws unwanted attention.

This was not the place he had pictured when he decided to come here, but now he was stuck for the night so he didn't dwell on it. Set on the golden beaches of the Pacific where they meet the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez, Mazatlan sounded like the ideal location for a little R&R; a place where you could sit back, suck down a few brews, and watch the last rays of the sun, burnt orange and red, slip below the horizon like a wildfire in on the prairie. But he was wrong.

Mazatlan is just another dirty town along Mexico's northern keel. It's only expected that after the highlights of Mexico City and Guanajuato, Blin was setting myself up for a let down, and that let down was Northern Mexico. The further he pushed into this hot, dusty plane the further he felt from the cultural heart and soul of Mexico. It seems that the closer one gets to the border, the more one can see its effects on the people. Most of them have lived in the US at one time or another and have brought the worst parts of it back with them: a strong resentment for Americans and, at the same time, a strong desire to emulate them. Young hoodlums dressed like Cholo gangsters cruse the streets blaring rap music and yelling ¨¡pinche gringo!¨ (fucking American!). Yeah, it was time to get off the street.

He awoke early the next morning, packed up his life and, with a monotonous sign, slung his big backpack over his shoulder and grabbed his day pack with his free hand. It is a routine he's done a hundred times before in a hundred different places. It's almost automatic now, like brushing your teeth before you go to bed. He grabbed the early bus to Los Mochis, a lonley country town, set in a dust bowl, 400 Kms north along the west coast of Cortez. He had no intention of staying and as soon as he arrived he hopped on the next bus out of town.

Sometime after 5pm he lands in El Fuerte, another country outcrop that clings to life amid the dry cactus planes of the north. It was a nice enough town, with a shaded zocolo that offered breezy benches in the cooler evening hours. He checked into Hotel San Jose, a real shit hole, with a hose spout for a shower, no toilet seats, and a hole in his door big enough to allow small dogs and large rodents the opportunity to come and go as they pleased. But it was cheap and, with an emancipate bank account, that's all he cared about.

He chose this town because it was the starting point for his journey on the Ferrocarril (Railroad) Chihauhua Pacfico. A stunning piece of engineering achievement, the railway, or Chepe for short, is over 650Km (390 miles) long, crosses 39 bridges and 86 tunnels, climbing from the barren flat lands at sea level to the high plateaus at 2,500 meters (over 8,000ft) and connecting the Pacific Ocean with Mexico's central desert territory.

Making his way out to the station the following morning, Blin brought a ticket on a second class car and climbed aboard. The scenery was incredible. These impressive canyons, seven times the size of the Grand Canyon and in some areas much deeper, were formed sometime in the late Tertiary Age, when northwestern Mexico was in an extreme period of volcanic and tectonic activity. Huge earthquakes and thousands of volcanic eruptions combined to create this vast expanse of craggy mountain tops, high plateaus, and steep river valleys. Chepe, cutting directly through this rugged terrain, was the best way to see it.

He spent most of the trip in the corridors between carriage cars taking in the unobstructed views and feel the crisp sub-alpine air brush past as they climbed further into mountain country. It was early evening before the train finally pulled into Creel, the 'backpacker's' pit stop on the line, with cheap accommodations and do it yourself trips to the deeper recesses of the canyons.

On the surface, Creel seemed a likable place. It sits in a basin surrounded by mesas overlooking the Traahumara valley, cloaked in pine forests and open granite planes. It had a broad main street crowded with old tavern like buildings with low hanging awnings and high walkways; it looked like a moderized town in one of Sergio Leon's Spaghetti Westerns. And a slow-paced rhythm that was easy to fall in step with. He found a cheap hostel on the edge of the plaza, $10 a night for a bed, breakfast, and dinner. He was beginning to like this place, but that was before Creel reared it's ugly head. It seems that, even high up in mountain country, there still exsists the ¨pinche gringo¨ attitude of northern Mexico.

The following day, he rented a bike from a local outfitter, set on taking a tour of the surrounding hills. He stopped first at the super to get some water and fruit for lunch and then back at the hostel to pack up before he head out. He set his bike in the courtyard and went back in his room. He returned a few moments later to find his back brake unhooked and he was unable to reconnect it. Perplexed, he took it back to the shop where the owner told him someone had switched the tire out. That was impossible, he thought, he was only in the store for a moment and the only other place he went was the hostel.

¨Well, there's your answer right there,¨said the owner said.

¨But, they wouldn't have done that,¨Blin protested, ¨Would they?¨

Then he remember that while he was in his room packing, one of the front desk staff had come in as struck up a conversation, a bit strange since he hadn't said a word to him the whole day before and now was leaving the front to come in a chat with him. Not to chat, to distract!

¨Those pinche maricons!¨Blin exclaimed. ¨They're not going to get away with this!¨

He raced back to the hostel, mad as all hell that they would take advantage of one of their guests like that. But, half way back, he realized that if he went in there, guns a-blazing, there was no way he'd get the wheel back. So he decides to be a bit more shiesty.

¨Hey man, I think there's been a mistake,¨ he said as he came back through the front door with the bike. The clerk looked up with a strained blank expression.

¨What seems to be the problem?¨

¨I left my bike out in the courtyard earlier and I think one of your guys must have thought it was one of yours 'cause someone switched the tire out.¨
The clerk gave nothing away. ¨Are you sure it was here? Maybe you left it on the street, that's quiet common on the street.¨

¨No couldn't have been, only been at the bike shop and back here.¨ A lie, but a necessary one.

The clerk tells him to wait while he calls the bike guy on his cell phone. Blin study him as he makes the call, he acts genuinely concerned, he's good, but he doesn't know he's dealing with a master. The guy comes back and again, Blin explains the situation. The guy just shakes his head and says that he didn't see anyone and it must have happened on the street. This guy was good too, obviously they had done this before and knew what to say. Then Blin breaks the farce with one word.

¨Are you sure, maybe there's a new guy who doesn't know the difference between the bikes. You might want to make sure 'cause the guys down at the bike shop are pissed, they want to call the police!¨ There eyes both meet his at the same time, then each others, then back to his. He knows hes got ém.

¨Yeah, really pissed,¨Blin continues, ¨guy wanted to call them right away, but I told him to wait 'cause I wanted to see what happened first.¨At this point the clerk starts looking around anxiously as if maybe they'd been called anyway.

¨But I'm sure it's just a mix up... with the new guy, right?¨

¨Oh, yes¨the clerk chirps, ¨there is a new guy.¨He gives a quick glance to the other guy. ¨Yeeeeah,¨the guys says catching on, ¨The new guy. He's just a kid and doesn't know the bikes that well, let me call him and find out.¨

Ten minutes later, they bring the bike back out with it's original tire and Blin takes off on his ride. It's a great day, peddling through open vistas, through fresh aired pine forests all below an electric blue skyline. He has lunch by a lake overlooking the sweeping summits of the surrounding canyons. The whole while he's got a semi-permeate grin stuck on his face. 'Ha ha,' he thinks, 'you just can't shiest a shiest!'

A lot of - Mexico

The Condescend Books Blog

So, it's official, I'm homeward bound. I've been slowly plying my way north through Mexico and it only seems logical that I should keep on going until I cross the boarder into sunny Son Diago, where the beer flows like wine and the women flock like... It's been over 8 1/2 months and it just seems to be 'that time.' I don't seem to get as excited about seeing new places, meeting new people, and doing new things as I was a few months ago. Plus, I'm running out of money and that also plays a fairly big role in my decision.

So I've picked up the pace, only stopping a day or two in one place, getting a feel for it and then striking out for my next northern way point. And, in doing so, I'm covering a lot more ground than I can fit into one tidy, weekly blog. So consider this to be the Reader's Digest condensed books version...


OAXACA

After escaping Puerto unscathed, I found myself in Oaxaca city, the capital of the state by the same name. It's a bit of a political hotbed at the moment, with lots of shootouts between police and gorillas. But, the heavily touristed areas are still safe because no one is stupid enough to scare off the money... uh I mean vacationers (no, I mean money).

The city itself is actually quiet nice. Set in the sweeping foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range, it was once the capital of the Zapotec empire (a rival to the Aztecs to the north), and today is a prosperous city with a leafy zocalo, colonial monuments, ancient ruins, and great markets. I decided the devote most of my time to shopping. I needed new clothes, after 8+ months on the road, I was beginning to look like a vagrant and I wouldn't be surprised if the boarder patrol denied me entry back in to the states with my current rags.

MEXICO CITY

After my shopping spree, I took a deep breath and headed for the capital, de Jefe. With all the stories about violence, gangs, and taxi cab drivers that rob you, I was not really looking forward to spending time in the world's third largest city. It seemed too large, too intimidating, even for a seasoned traveler like myself. I couldn't have been more wrong.

De Jefe is an great city. The downtown area is amazing, with centuries old cathedrals, palaces, and homes it has an archaic air. The rest of the city is well thought out with large promenades littered with rotunda monuments and breeze side walks. A brilliant metro (only 2 pesos per ride) that takes you virtually everywhere you'd want to go, to parks, lakes, museums, ext. Mix that with a lively, work hard/play hard metropolitan populous and you have one of the better capitals I've visited in the world.

I took a bus tour, which I usually am not apt to do but seemed a good way to see the city and it dropped you at all the major cites. But it was a Monday, and all city services (museums, galleries...) were closed so the most exciting thing on the tour was watching a van catch on fire as it drove beside us. Come to think of it, that still would have been the most exciting thing anyway.

I found out that Aviva, one of my friends from high school/college, was living in the city and hooked up with her. I had a very elegant lunch at her grandparents very elegant house (they were pretty well to do) and then was whisked away to celebrate a friend´s birthday at a club in one of the hot spots in the city. A great night, free bottles of booze, a big dance floor, the same bad Latin music that I now know every word to, and, of course, late night tacos (ok, and hot dogs)!

Guanajuato

I Would have loved to have stayed a few more days in de Jefe, but there was still a lot of Mexico left to see, and a lot of ground left to cover. Next stop was the lively city of Guanajuato. Perched in the higher elevations of the Sierra Madre, Guanajuato is built into a mountain side. This marvel of architecture consists of a tunneled maze of streets and highways sunk below a colorful assortment of colorful houses above. Built almost on top of one another, these homes ascend up the mountain side like stadium seating in movie theater and are connected by small cobblestoned alleyways that can, if your not aware of your surroundings, get you hopelessly lost for hours on end. You wouldn't mind though, as these dizzying walkway, reminiscent of those in Florence, Italy, can lead you to secluded parks, hidden cafes, and to great vistas overlooking the city.

It's a thriving city that is also home to one of the biggest colleges in Mexico, Guanejauto University. As is the case with most towns that host 20,000 plus co-eds, it is a lively place with no shortage of watering holes and dance-all-night discotheques. But it also holds some historical significance in that it was the birthplace of the Mexican Revolution and where Hildago and his rebels won there first decisive victory over the Spanish in 1810.

It is also home to the Museo de Mumias (that's right, the museum of mommies). The city cemetery is very small and if you couldn't afford the maintenance fees, your beloved family members were scooped up out of their graves to make way for the more affluent dead. They started doing this in the late 1800s and realized that, due to the dry air, and and mineral content of the soil in this area, the bodies they exhumed were not skeletons, but perfectly preserved mummies. Then, they logically concluded that the best thing to do with them is put them on display in a museum.

It's actually a fascinating place, with over 100 corpses on display, including: the smallest mummy in the world (a 6 month of fetus) and the best preserved mummy in the world (with no holes or blemishes to the skin). I must admit, it is a bit creepy to be walking through a room surrounded by dead bodies behind a thin sheet of glass that look like they belong in a ¨The Night of the Living Dead¨movie. I always held my breath if I had to passed close by one just waiting for a bonny finger to tap me on the shoulder.

This was another town I could have seen myself getting lost in for a few days, but, for the first time in about 8 months, I´m on a deadline and days of wasted idle hours have come and gone. Now it's a race against time (in this case, time is my bank account) to get as much as I can in before I cross back onto Red, White, and Blue soil.

Puerto Escondido - Mexico

Ready to hit the beach, I took a night bus from San Cristobal to Puerto Escondido, half way up Mexico's Pacific coast. Puerto is a famed surfer spot, legendary for it's pipeline breaks, party scene, and chilled vibes. I guess I must have really wanted to see it because I didn't hesitate to take the direct night bus, and a ziz zagging 13 hour trip to get there.

Normally I steer clear of long over night buses because I can never fall asleep on them and the zig zagging always gives me motion sickness. I was prepared this time however, with my own little nightcap cocktail, Benedryl and Brandy. I thought that would surely do the trick...

I was wrong. Still couldn't get to sleep, but that was probably a good thing in the end because it allowed me to meet Alli, a viberant Aussie from Sydney who was sitting across the isle from me. We got to chatting and I got to know her and her traveling companions. There was Tony, a 6 foot 6 inch real estate agent from north Sydney, who was having a very hard time sleeping as well considering, being packed into a small seat usually meant for a 5 foot 2 inch Mexican, his knee caps were covering most of his face. And then there was his sister Nat, not quiet as big as her bro and sleeping soundly in the next seat. Alli, Tony, and I chatted for a while and, as often happens while when travelers get to talking, we became instant friends and I ended up teaming up with them.

We landed in Puerto a little after 1pm, we were lucky enough to have another three hours tagged onto the journey because of a traffic accident. We checked into the hotel Mayflower, or as it became known afterward, the Australian Embassy. Not kidding, there must have been 35 or 40 people staying there and, of that, 32 or 37 of them here Aussies. I didn't mind though, because, as a rule, Aussies are usually the friendliest, craziest, and coolest people on the backpacking circuit... second only to Northern Californians of course.

We were elated to be there. Puerto sits on a bluff overlooking a cove and boasts a few nice beaches. We wasted no time in throwing on our bikinis and boardies and vamusing a la playa. In all honesty, the beach wasn't all that amazing, small and overcrowded, and the water, murky and with an unavoidable dead fish odor. It seemed to be a little devoided of surfers and would be partiers too. But we didn't care, we were just happy to be off the bus and spent the rest of the afternoon lying in the softening sunlight with intermittent dips in the calm surf.

That night, a team of us headed down to the next beach, Zicatela, where most of the night life was to be found. We had heard that Puerto was a little doggy at night and made sure to stick in a group as we walked the dark side streets along the beach. We stopped in at Bar Fly, supposed to be the hot spot that night. Then I figured out why the party vibe was lacking here. Bar Fly's idea of a party was to play Israeli techno cut with slow blues riffs and a video projection of a nature video with whales matting and dolphins sleeping on the dance floor wall. After a couple drinks and a few more matting montage the girls and I wanted to head home, but Tony, who was talking to a girl, decided he'd stay for a while. He returned home a few hours later and got in his sisters bed, visibly shaken and upset.

Apparently a guy had tried to start a fight with him after we left. They always seem to go after the big guys, some kind of a machismo thing I guess. Anyway, this guy, a local, was with his boys and kept telling Tony to hit him so he'd have a reason to 'kill' him. Nice. Tony, not one to shy away from anything, wasn't stupid enough to actually hit him, but didn't back down either. Just when it seemed like it was going to get ugly, another local named Tarzan (I'm really not making this up) came flying in out of nowhere, took off his shirt, and told the other guy to back off. Apparently, Tarzan has some pull in these parts because the guy made a quick exit.

Everything seemed to be OK after that, until Tony left the bar a half hour later to find the instigator waiting for him outside with a bunch of other thugs. Tarzan was nowhere to be found so Tony did the only sensible thing, he jumped into the back of a van with some other unknown locals and got the hell out of there. Turns out these locals were cool and dropped him off at the hotel without trying to fight him first.

The next couple days past without incident. We took a day trip to an amazing beach an hour south called Mazunte, with a laid-back back-to-earth vibe, brilliantly clear (and clean) water, and good restaurants. We befriended a local barmen and spent the nights drinking acorpion flavored mezcal and dancing in his empty club. And, aside from a mild case of food poisoning-- my third time in my two months in Mexico, while I only got it twice in the other 6 months in all the other countries-- I had a great time. But, there was still a lot of Mexico left to see and I needed to get a move on. So, I booked a ticket on a night bus and said my goodbyes. Kinda of a bummer because now we had a big group, 20 or so people, and it looked like it was going to be an especially big night. I was right, but I'm really glad I didn't stay for it.

Tony wrote me an email the following day explaining the ridiculous night that I was lucky enough to miss. First, everyone got drunk, no surprise there. Then, they went back to Bar Fly, a little bit of a surprise, but I guess they figured with this many people they'd be OK. Then everything went to hell.

Alli, always keen to get down a boggy, was drunk dancing without her shoes on next to a table and bumped into it, knocking over her beer and shattering it on the ground. She then proceeded to dance on the glass with her bare feet, slicing her heel up like provolone. She had to be taken to the hospital.

Then Lee, another Aussie chick from Perth, usually pretty good at holding her liquor, suddenly lost consciousness and couldn't be resuscitated. Someone had slipped a roofie in her drink and one of the other Aussie guys had to carry her home on his shoulders.

Finally, as everything was starting to break up, Tony and Ian, another Aussie, were walking home and stopped in at a bottle shop to get a couple tall cans for the road home. After they paid the clerk, he reached across the counter and opened their beers for them. Not normally done. Then, just as they set foot outside the store, two cops jumped out of the bushes, grabbed them, and threw them in the back of a paddie wagon and drove off into the night. It had been a set up!

They didn't tell them why they were being detained, where they were going, or anything for that matter. They pulled off the main road and drove down a dark ally and stopped the car. They came around the back and pulled both of them out and one started patting them down while the other looked around nervously. Tony and Ian were thoroughly freaked out at this point and didn't know what these cops where planning to do with them. After they had emptied their wallets and searched for any other valuables, they stood around for a moment more, as if they were contemplating something, and then with shake of the head, one of the policemen threw them back into the car and they took them to the police station.

Luckily enough, one of the other Aussies had seen them get grabbed by the 5.0 and went and got Chino, our friendly neighborhood bartender, to go up to the police station to get them out. They still had to pay $100 bail, not including the money the police had already stolen. But, at least they were out, safe and sound, and now they could say they have been in a Mexican jail, both of whom seem proud of that fact.

I'm not sure where I would have fit in had I been there. Doubt I would have been dancing bare foot or have been drugged, so I might have been in the back of that paddie wagon and then I could have said I've been in Mexican jail too. But, to be honest, I think I'm fine with my role as the storyteller. The lesson here is, like most creatures in the ocean, while somethings are pretty and look inviting (Puerto), they can also be dangerous and can get you into a lot of trouble if you're not careful.

Chiapas - Mexico

After my (mis)adventures in Merida, I got back on the road and headed west, leaving the Yucatan and heading into the neighboring state of Chiapas. In contrast to the modernized Yucatan, Chiapas is a heavily forested region who's inhabitants consist of poor, rural farmers and small Mayan communities. Tucked back in the foothills of this province, lies the secluded Palenque ruins and my reason for coming here.

To be honest I was about ruined out, but I was told that Palenque was not to be missed, for the ruins and for the local counterculture that also takes refuge in this remote area. I took an overnight bus and landed in Palenque town at 5am. There, I ran into a set of french backpackers I had met in... you guessed it, Valladolid (Gay Perri), and together we took a taxi out to El Panchan, a cluster of cabañas, hotels, and restaurants, set back in the jungle a few Kilometers from the ruins.

We were let off at the entrance and walked down a small dirt road, pushing its way through the dense bottle-green jungle, toward the encampment. Day broke as we walked and a tiger stripped sunrise rose above the treeline. Howler Monkeys dangled in the canopy, welcoming us with their morning territorial roars- I don't know if you've ever heard or seen a Howler before, but they are about the size of a large domestic house cat, but capable of producing a howl so loud, that it leads you to believe that a large Tyrannosaurus is lurking just behind it in the trees. It's terrifying when you first hear it. We found a nice set of cabañas on the southern fridge of the 'village,' owned by a chatty old Mexican lady and, after a little siesta to get our whits about us, we made our way to the ruins.

They were refreshingly different. While most Mayan ruins are quiet similar in their structure, built on a large, flat grid around a plaza with a temple at one end, maybe a palace at the other, Palenque breaks the mold. Probably because they couldn't clear and flatten the land needed for the classic design in this mountain bound area, they instead built their towering edifices in small groupings that hugged the hillsides and were plotted in small valley plains. The result is a hidden labyrinth of limestone dwellings, observatories and temples cloaked in shadows, tucked behind rivers, and sunken below mountain ridges. It reminds you of what you used to think ruins looked like when you were a kid, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. At times, walking the curving paths through the thick, humid jungle that guide you through the park, I felt like I was being transported back to ancient times and half expected to encounter a group of Olmecs hunters or Mayan warriors, or other indigenous groups that used to roam these lands.

That evening, we returned to our cabañas to find our little 'village' alive with people and attractions. Long haired hippies were hawking hemp woven jewelry along the road, skater Mexicans were performing Poi (fire dancing) to rhythmic drum and bass tunes. We ate dinner in one of the nicer restaurants, Italian fare, accompanied by live music and even a clown show (odd, but entertaining). I liked the vibe, even if it was a bit crowded and maybe even a little trendy.

After another day or two checking out other attractions in the area- waterfalls, swimming holes, and caves- the Frenchies and I bused it west to San Cristobal, another tourist hot spot in Chiapas. I was having a good time with my companions, even if there wasn't a whole lot of conversation between us. Of the three, only one spoke English and it was passable at best, and, since I don't speak french, we communicated mostly in Spanish. This was great for practicing the language no doubt, but we couldn't hold in depth, socially and politically stimulating conversations. So, aside from a few comments here and there, they spoke french and I didn't speak at all. I didn't mind though, it was nice not to half to feel compelled to speak all the time.

Anyways, San Cristobal, a small colonial city situated in the higher elevations, it had a cool crisp air and was a welcome change from the the humid jungles to the east. There really wasn't a whole lot to do here, there were waterfalls to explore, we did that. There were lakes to swim in, we swam in them. And there were caves to venture in, and we ventured. But, as nice as it was, one can only take so many amazing lakes, waterfalls, caves... before you get desensitized to it all and it becomes normal and even a little boring. Plus, I was loosing my beach tan and longed for the cool refreshing waters of the Pacific Coast, my next stop along the gringo trail.

Merida - Mexico

OK, back to the usual travel rants... After a few wasted (both temporal and sobrietal) days in Cancun spent waiting for my sand-filled digital camera to be fixed, I pushed into the Yucatan interior, leaving the touristed beach towns for the more authentic, and less traveled, inland communities. Traveling between the two, there was a noticeable transition, and not just in town aesthetics (transforming from high-rise hotels and four-lane highways to classic Spanish colonial architecture and winding cobble stoned allies) but something deeper, something embedded within the culture itself; a down shift from the howty-towty tourist trap to the slower pace of real community life. A life where cowboys still ride in the streets on horse back, Mayan women still wear their traditional colorful attire, and there are still municipal markets packed with local farmers selling fresh produce and meats.

I made a layover in Vallaolid (a.k.a, Gay Perri) to see the fantastic Mayan ruins of Chichén Itza (pronounced, Chic-ken Pizza.. no, not really), who's high-rising pyramids and astrological observatories are rivaled only by Guatemala's Tikal in terms of grandeur. Then I pressed on to Merida. I'm not sure why I chose Merida, it is, after all, just a big city, the capital of the Yucantan. But, I needed to keep moving and it seemed like the next logical place to visit. Plus, a good friend from college, now a Gap Adventure tour guide, had some time off from work and said he'd meet me there.

With Merida, you either love or hate it right away, and I loved it. Maybe it was just because I needed a change from beach life (never thought I'd say that) but I liked the feel of this sprawling center for arts and education. It had a host of Universities, which in turn, lead to a host of bars, cafes, bookstores, and other youth-oriented services. It had more than a few museums and art galleries and, although I must admit I'm not much for either, they were fantastic, and most of them were free. I spent a very pleasent day simply wandering the leafy side streets, drinking espressos in a brassiere by the Zocolo (town square), and browsing through bookshops and art museums. It was great!

Ben Younkmen, my tour guide friend, arrived a few days later and I pushed aside my intellectual inclinations for the more seedy and debaucherous attractions that the city had to offer. Ben and I, being old lacrosse buddies, fell back into a very similar pattern that we shared when at UCSB, which goes a little something like this: Wake up late, have a bite, think about drinking, start drinking, have lunch, drink some more, then have a break to jump in the pool, start drinking again, play pool or watch movies at his hotel, then start drinking before we go out to drink. Only thing was, I was not in college anymore, or playing lax everyday to burn off the hangovers, so I couldn't really keep up like I used too, while Ben, still fresh from his scholastic youth, didn't seem to have a problem.

I did manage to do a few other things other than drink while we were together, one of which was visiting the nearby underground limestone lagoons, or Cenotes. Being friends with a gap tour guide does have it's advantages and Ben was able to hooked me up with another gap tour group heading out that way and the leader treated me like I was one of his group members. It was like sneaking into Disneyland and getting to play all day for free. I got a knowledgeable guide to take me through the city, get me on the right bus to the right village, get me on a horse-drawn rail car to take us out into the outback, and show me three of the best Centones in the Yucatan, with ladders descending into dark fresh-water caverns with piercing beams of blue sunlight illuminating the interior from cracks in the ceiling. And, all for a group discount. It ended up costing me about $8.50 with the gap group, if I had done it alone it would have cost me well over $30, and that's if I could have done it alone. Thanks for that Ben.

After another night of heavy drinking- where I was supposed to take a night bus to Palenque, but got drunk, decided that Ben and I were going to do it right and faked a sickness to exchange my ticket for the following night, then started drinking more, played pool, drank, ate McDonalds, had gut pains for an hour, drank more, and finished the night at an open-bar disco- I knew it was time to move on. Ben, swamped with work and content to stay in Merida on the cheap, wished me well and I was off on my own again, heading west along the narrow isthmus that straddles the boarder with Guatemala and the Gulf of Mexico for the mountains and the mysterious jungle-clad ruins of Palenque, and I all I could think about was my hang over.

Ramblins - Mexico

Ok, no real structure to this one, just random thoughts and snippets of stories as they come to me. It`s time I started living up to my blog name...



I went back to Isla Mujeres last week. I think I got a mild case of food poisoning from the club sandwiches at the hostel, but it was still soooo good. I'd do it again.



Almost killed myself the other day. Coming back from Cozumel, I checked myself into a hotel (not ready to get back to the real world after all) and, coming back from a late dinner, found I had left my key in my room. It was past 11pm and the office was closed. There was no guard on duty. So I decided to break in.

Easier said then done. With bars on the hallway windows, and a good lock that broke both my Miami library and expired international student cards, I was having a tough time. But then I remembered I had left the balcony door open. I took the stairs to the roof and found that if I climbed down the side of a drainpipe I could reach the balcony. Not my balcony, but the one next to mine. From there I could jump to mine. But don´t worry, I wasn`t crazy enough to free climb down the side of a four story building, oh no, I knew I just needed something to hold onto while I descended. I found a length of rope in a storage closet, tied it to a roof pillar, and lowered one end over the balcony and I tied the other end around my waist as a fool-proof safe-guard and lowered myself over the side.

Then I looked down... 100 feet to the hard concrete street below and I realized I was crazy and scrambled to pull myself back over the top of the roof before I lost my grip, slipped through my safety net and made a wet spot on the pavement below. I returned to the office, eventually found the owner, and he unlocked my door for me.




Why do people park in driveways and drive on parkways?




Leaving the beaches I decided to visit a more remote inland town, supposed to have more Mayan culture. The town was over run with french people. It`s funny 'cause the rest of the Yucatan has very little, if any 'french pressure.' I realized it was because the travel guide, ¨Lets Go,¨ adored by the French, lists this town as one of Mexico`s highlights, so they all go there. It's amazing how much people rely on guide books for traveling these days. Here we are pretending to be independent travelers and all we do is follow the same lists, written by the same people, in the same books. It's lazy and I hate it. But I stayed for a few days 'cause the Lonely Planet said I should.




Did you know that you can personally reduce your annual carbon dioxide emissions by 500 lbs. just by using warm water instead of hot water in the washer, therefore helping to curb global warming? (www.climatecrisis). Did ya?




I broke my toe playing volleyball the other day. How wimpy is that! I've already come up with a much better story though. It involves cliff diving, a bull shark, and a Ginzu knife. Maybe I'll write a blog about it.




Do you know which animal is responsible for the most human deaths worldwide? The mosquito.



I am tired of everyone complaining about how they don't know what they want to do in life. Who says we're supposed to know to begin with. Isn't it much more fun not knowing, waking up every day with endless possibilities? Imagine waking up knowing, knowing that you were going to have to go to the same boring job day after day for the next thirty years. It'd be like waking up in the 1950s. That is something worth complaining about, dealing with Eisenhower and flat top haircuts. But, at least they had social security when they retired, and they'd had the The Lone Ranger, everyone one loves The Lone Ranger.

But seriously, those days are over, and today the average American has three careers, that's right, three! And that doesn't include your post college past times like waiting tables or stripping. Nope, those are bone-a-fide jobs. So stop worrying about finding the perfect job that you can spend the rest of your life growing to hate, and start doing what everyone is supposed to do in life... enjoy it. Go traveling, tell her/him you love her/him, write a children's book, eat a bucket of Ben and Jerry's ¨Phish Food.¨ Otherwise, it will all be over before you know it, and all you'll have is carpal tunnel and I-O-U social security check.




Ok, that's enough ramblin for one afternoon. I'll be back to true form on the next blog, it's about a shark, cliff diving, and a Ginzu knife.

Tulum to Cozumel- Mexico

Birthday Beach Parties and Solo Celibrations

Team Isla was comfortably situated in beachfront cabanas along Tulum's sweeping white sand concave shore. A great location, we were only a two-minute walk from the ruins, with its cathedral pyramid, atop a overhanging limestone cliff, visible from our front door. And whatsmore, we were literally a stones throw from the water's edge. It was quite and the long streching beach line aforded us our own little slice of heaven all to ourselves. The best part about it was that it was realatively cheap, we were only paying $7.50 a night for our beachfront accomodations, so what if our walls consisted of lose sticks and our bed were more sand than mattress.

Our time together was coming to an end. In a few days half the group would be pushing on into Belize, the teachers would be heading back to work, and a handful of us didn't know where we were going next (I'm sure you could guess which group I was in). But, we all wanted one last bash before we split up and my 26th birthday, only a few days away, would play the catalyst.

Anne and Hanna took the reins and began planning the whole thing, saying that we would have a birthday dinner on the beach and then party with a bonfire. Girls are so good at planning parties. They left in the early afternoon, taking a cab into town to go shopping, and did not returned until after dark. I wasn't allowed to take part in the set up, but was finally summonsed from by cabana just before 8pm and was lead down to the spot they had set up along the beach.

They had gone all out,. There were balloons tied to palm trees, birthday presents, and even a cake! For dinner they had gotten 5 boxes of pizza and we had a little birthday feast after which we had the cake. But the real desert was the 7 bottles of rum they had bought along and we took them and moved to a more secluded spot down the beach and built our bonfire.

The rest of the night consisted of us partying around the campfire, our group growing bigger as other curious travelers were attracted to the blaze. It was a good time and lasted late into the night, no one wanting to let it end. It didn't even stop when the Mexican police rolled up and made us put the fire out, we still raged on. It was one of the best birthday parties I had had in recent memory and I sat back happily drinking rum out of my birthday coconut, watching the others enjoy the evening. I was going to miss these guys, who, after only two weeks, had become good friends and had go out of their way to give me a great birthday party. I was going to miss the card games, the hours we spent playing Mafia, and most of all the always lively conversations.

So it was with heavy hearts that we parted ways a day later and I struck out on my own again. I decided to head up to Playa del Carmen, only an hours drive up the coast, but with a very different vibe than sleepy Tulum town. It was basically a mix of Cancun's over-extravagance and Isla Mujeres' cuteness. Like Isla, it had a quaint promenade, Fifth Ave., lined with hotels and fancy international food fairs. But, just like Cancun's hotel zone, it stretched on for miles, quickly oversaturated your sences, and lost all its charm. The unending line of cute little restaurants, the countless cozy hotel facades all seemed too planned out, too artificial to pallet and it left you feeling like you were stranded in the world biggest strip mall. I wasn't buying it and left the next day for the nearby island of Cozumel.

It was my birthday and I decided to treat myself. I would have no $30 budget, Today. I wouldn't hold back, I would do as any other tourist would do. If I wanted a steak sandwich that coast $13 dollars, I would have a steak sandwich that coast $13. If I wanted a cup of coffee, to hell with it, I'd have two. If I wanted A/C and TV in my hotel room, by golly it was going to happen. I did all of those things, and threw in a two-tank dive trip out to the world famous reefs just off shore for good messure. It was expensive, but worth it, and what did I care, I was just a vacationing tourist on holiday with no budget and no worries. I had a big diner at a nice restaurant and then took in a movie, The 300, after which, I strolled back to my hotel along the waterfront and fell into a long restful sleep. So, this is what it feels like to be old and have money.

But it was only a fleeting moment, a glimmer lost in time, and, awakening the following morning, I knew it was time to get back to the the real world. A world where I couldn't have three meals a day, couldn't have a second cup of coffee, and couldn't afford a hotel room, with or without A/C. Oh well, I am use to it by now, and maybe prefer it in some strange way. At least everyday is a challenge! So, packing up my bags, stowing my nice polo shirt and shoes, I put my jersey and flip flops back on and returned to the mainland, and reality.

Team Isla - Mexico

Team Isla

Still feeling a bit down after my family left, I moved into Pac Na, the only youth hostel on Isla Mujeres and a social hub for backpakers. It was here that I met a friendly collection of travelers-most of whom were also flying solo-and immediately felt whole again. They were all fun, outgoing and warm; the type of people you would meet once and instantly feel like you are good friends. We seemed to form an instant bond and became a tight nit group of 10 people from all over the world.

After a week on the island, with a friendship forged with copious amounts of alcohol, this crack squad of international miscreants decided not to split up, solidifying their unity by leaving Isla together-which is no easy feat when you are staying at Pac Na, arguably the best hostel in Central America with cheap beds, a beach bar, volleyball tournaments, and hands down the best club sandwich ever (it has a Facebook Fan club). But we pulled oursleves away and spent the better part of a week traveling down the Yucatan, and becoming what will forever be know as Team Isla. Lets meet the members shall we :

First up we´ll meet Josh (pictured left but not spiddy), aka Big Smoke, a 23 year-old Californian who lives in Pachuca, Mexico and works as a teacher in a local school. Although he seems like he´d make a great teacher, he hates his job and is seriously considering quitting-to move to Isla Mujeres and work at Pac Na, where they give free club sandwiches to their staff. He´s funny as hell, his humor mainly based on candor, and he´s always coming up with jokes on the spot. Jokes like:¨If all you have in life is a VHS copy of Martin Lawrence´s Nothing to Loose, then you truly have, nothing to loose.¨

Then there is his partner in crime, Ryan (right), aka Cloud Sequence, aka Cloud Strings. Equally as funny as his buddy Big Smoke, but in a more slapstick kinda way, Ryan, a Canuck from Edmonton, also lives and teaches in Pachuca. Yet, unlike his counterpart, I can´t understand how anyone could see fit to let him within 100 yards of children let alone let alone give him authority over them. He´s basically one himslef, except on an adult scale. Think of Jim Carey as Fire Mashall Bill and you start to get an idea of what he´s like. He reminds me of a frat house, if you´re looking for a party, day or night, all you have to do is show up at his front door and you´ll find what you´re looking for.

Moving countries now, we come to Anne, aka Giggles from Germany, which is funny enough in own right since Germans are notorious for their lack of humor. But the name was forever immortalized when Ryan told the joke: ¨what are the three shortest books in the world, (beat), books on French hygiene, Italian war heroes, and German humor,¨ at which point Anne got offended saying, ¨that´s not true, that´s not true, we do have a sense of humor!¨ Ah, you can taste the irony. But she was a good sport, always staying up and partying, drinking, and playing card games with the boys.

Next up is the priceless Ivar, aka The Iron Curtain. He´s actually Dutch not Russian and just got the nickname because he collected a huge wall of chips when we all played poker one evening. But since he´s not a soviet, nor in anyway shape or form does he resemble anything about rigid, cold war communism, the name stuck like glue. He is actually one of the sweetest, honest, and amiable people I´ve ever met and he´d like nothing more in life than to sit around a beach bonfire playing his guitar and singing Counting Crows or Breakfast at Tiffany´s. We gave him the ¨Most Amazing Person in the World¨ award, which he excepted with a humble ¨yes, yes it´s true,¨ and then sang a song about it: ¨IIIIII am the most ammmmazing person innnnn the world, yes it´s trrrrrrue...¨

Now then there is Tom, aka Tommy Two Chins, an ex-surfer from the beaches in England (he swears they do exist) who is traveling with his girlfriend through Central America. A bit of a paradox Tom is, he´s very proper in the English sense of the word, saying things like, ¨I am feeling a bit peckish,¨ and ¨I think I´d quite fancy a cup of tea,¨ but doesn´t hesitate to call his girlfriend a ¨stupid bitch¨ when they fuss (joking of course, but still). Moreover, he´s well read, usually skimming through three or four books at a time, and can argue for hours about politics, but, in the same day he´ll play the Lion King´s I Just Can´t Wait to be King over and over on his IPod singing and dancing to every note. He´s the kinda guy that can get on well with anyone. Provided you´re not a drunk Canadian whore who can´t answer a straight question (sorry, inside joke).

Then there is Tom´s girlfriend and fellow Englander Hanna, aka Skanky Bitch. Yeah, I know what you´re thinking, ´pretty rough on the old girl,´ and I might be inclined to agree but, I´ll relay this small tid bit of a conversation and let you decide. Josh and Tom are talking in a bar when Hanna walks up and grabs Josh:
Josh - ¨Uh, Tom, your girlfriend is licking my neck.¨
Tom - Unphased, ¨uh yeah, she does that.¨
She is one of the funnest drunks I know, solely because when she gets drunk she says things like, ¨oh my god, I´m so drunk,¨ and proceeds to pour herself another double rum and coke and take it down like Takeru Kobayashi takes down a ballpark frank.

From Sweden we have Mikael, aka Mikael, Mikael, Motorcycle. Motorcycle is also a bit of a paradox in that he´s probably the most intimidating person you´ll ever see but the friendliest person you´ll ever meet. He is a well built skin head with a permanently affixed menacing scowl and a white supremacist/serial killer style tattoo of a snake running down his back that reminds you of Ed Norton in American History X or Ralph Fines in Red Dragon. But then he smiles at you, the warmest, most welcoming smile you´ll ever see, and you instantly realize that his just a big teddy bear. I still think he´s probably killed four or five people, but all he´d have to do is flash his pearly whites to a jury and he´d be off with community service.

Then, starting our final lap, we come to Jim, aka Jimbereeno. Also a redcoat, I´m convinced he´s either a superhero or a crack fiend because he´s always disappearing for extended periods of time without explanation. He would party with us all night, then disappear before morning, not to be seen for the better part of the day, and then return in the afternoon for lunch or dinner, then disappear again, either to burn a spoon or fly off and save some old lady in a tree or help a cat cross the street. It´s a coin flip for me, either way it´d be cool to say I hung out with a caped avenger or a smack addict.

Finally we have Joel, aka Young Blood. Even though he is only 19 and the youngest in our group, he is definitely the smartest. He´s currently studying biochemistry at Cambridge, and you can tell he´s going to be the type of guy who works with blue lasers or NASA. With a sideshow bob haircut and quiet spoken demeanor you wonder why this teenager is even allowed out of his house let alone set free to roam Central America alone. Then you have a few drinks with him, and he opens up like a tulip in April telling you his extended history with buying, taking, mixing, and, gulp, making, as many drugs as you care to list and then you realize you´re the rookie and not the other way around.

Then there is me, but, I´m not going to do a write up on my behalf because, if you´re still reading this, you must either be a good friend or my mother and there is no need. I´ll only say that my nickname was Scottie Do and Scottie Ne´Pa, both of which I can´t really give you reason for, but I´ve been called wose and it was just nice to have a nickname all the same.

And although words can never do it justice nor fully encapsulate what they truly are, that is a brief summery of our group, who they are, and what they represent. So sleep easy and know where ever there is beer, where ever club sandwiches are to be had, where ever there is a stretch of beach big enough for a fire and 8 bottles of rum, you´ll find, Team Isla.