Coast to Coast - New Orelans, LA to Savannah, GA

With the better part of 700 miles separating New Orleans and Savannah, we still had a lot of ground to cover, on this, our last day on the road. We set out early, planning on not making any unnecessary stops along the way so that we might arrive in Savannah before nightfall and with a chance to celebrate our homecoming with a dinner out on the town.

As we sped across I-10, we began to pass through states like they were mile markers. First we came to a huge sign welcoming us to Mississippi, and we were passing through Biloxi before 10am. Then, before we knew it, we were gassing up in Mobile, Alabama. We hit the Florida state line before lunch and at that point settled in for the long haul out to the Atlantic.

We hadn't noticed it much in New Orleans, but having arrived in the Southeast, we had entered into another ecological zone. A temperate, almost tropical, landscape lay before us, with salt grass marshes breaking up dense jungle enclaves of over-grown ferns and moss-covered Cypress and Oak trees. And the land was brimming with life; fresh hatches of bugs splattered against our windshield like a light passing rain shower; flights of birds, armies of billowing frogs, and orchestras of crickets filled the thick humid air for miles and miles of open road.

I-10 is an amazing freeway, stretching, almost in a straight line, from Louisiana to the Northern tip of Florida, and we made amazing time. We were passing though Jacksonville by mid-afternoon and looked to be arriving in Savannah before 5pm. Then, with little more than 15 miles left to go in our 3,200 mile journey, disaster struck.

We were cruising along in the fast lane when I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw two large men closing in behind us on big hogged-out Harleys. Unlike most people in the South, I pulled out of the lane to let them pass. As they pulled along side me, I got a better look at them, both guys were African-American, both probably 350 to 400 lbs, and both had much smaller females sitting behind them clutched to the backs of their waists. The guys were wearing leather gloves and goggles (and helmets of course), standard issue gear for long-distance rides, but they were also sporting t-shirts and loose fitting pants, both things that can leave you vulnerable if you ever got into an accident on a bike.

This very thought was passing through my mind when, now about 25 yards in front of me, the front bike suddenly bucked on itself and nose-dived into the asphalt going around 85 miles an hour. After that everything else seemed to pass in slow motion. The first bike, and its riders started to skid along the freeway as the second bike crashed straight into them and sent the second set of people skidding along the pavement as well. Sparks and metal flew off the bikes as we quickly came up behind them and I had to quickly swerved to the right, narrowly missing the bikers as we flew past them.

Once passed, I looked back in my side view mirror to see other cars swerving out of the way to avoid hitting them as they continued to skid off the freeway and shoulder toward a grass ditch serving as the median. I shutter to think of what would have happened if there was no median.

I quickly pulled off the freeway, coming to a screeching halt about 100 yards in front of the accident. I told Naomi to stay put with Zoe and I ran back to toward the rising smoke. I came up on the first couple, now laying in a watery ditch next to their bike in the middle of the median. I expected the worst but, miraculously, they were not only still alive and in one piece, but able to pull themselves out of the bog under there own power. “Are you guys OK?” I asked. The man, dazed, gave me a slow nod. “Yeah, we’re good, check on my boy,” he said as he motioned up to the shoulder where the second couple lay, about 25 yards apart, motionless, on the pavement.

At this point, about half a dozen other people had gotten out of their cars and were running up to help. People were already attending to the girl so I ran up to the man to give aide. He was lying on his side and as I approached I could smell burnt flesh in the air. I came closer and could see his pants and shirt were torn in many places, blood oozing from the holes onto the hot concrete. I knelt down by his head and could hear him breathing. Well, wheezing actually, and they were coming in short sporadic heaves. I peered over his big shoulders and looked at his face. His eyes were open, but glazed over and drifting off in two different directions. Blood was dripping down the side of his mouth. This was not good.

Having been an instructor at a sports camp for kids throughout high school and college, I had extensive trained in first aid and CPR. But at this exact moment, I might as well have had never taken a class, I was drawing a blank as to what I should do. I tried to remember the first steps when you come to the scene of an accident. What was it.... Ah yes! ABC (airway, breathing, circulation), that is what you're supposed to check first! Then I reminded myself that he was already breathing and I didn't need to do that. I froze up again. See if he can respond, I remembered more from common sense then from training. "Sir, are you OK?" Nothing. "Sir, can you hear me?" He just continued to lay there with a vacant stare, bleeding and breathing laboriously. His neck! You've got secure his neck, Scott. I reached down to hold his helmet and as I did, he gowned and fell on his back. Shit! I thought. I just snapped his spinal cord.

Then I looked up and saw a crowd of people standing over me and I stopped thinking about what I should do and just starting doing it. I barking out orders: "someone tell me how the girl is doing?" "She's breathing, and can move her legs but I don't think she can hear us" someone yelled over to me. "Did someone call 911?" I inquired. "I'm on the line with them right now," someone else responded. "Good, tell them we got two down and unconscious, non-responsive, and with possible head trauma and bleeding."

Just then the big man moved his arms. Oh my god, I thought, I didn’t break his neck after all. That’s good. But then he started to mumble, "get it off... get... it off" and he reached up for his helmet. This was not good, if he did have any injuries to his head or spine taking off this helmet could make things a lot worse. "Some one grab his hands!" I yelled. Two guys jumped in and took hold of his hands. Just then, the other guy from the first bike staggered up. "Tim, Tim are you okay?" he asked. "Get it off!" he garbled again. The first guy just stood there staring, no doubt in shock in seeing his friend in this condition. I jumped in. "Hey man, you said his name is Tim?" "Uh, yeah" he uttered. "Okay, I need you to talk to your buddy Tim, and let him know that help is on the way and that we can't take the helmet off until they get here." He bent over and started speaking into Tim's ear. Whispering really, that everything was going to be alright. Meanwhile I waited for the sirens, and help to arrive.

At this point a women came bursting onto the scene carrying a first aide badge shoving it into peoples face. “Excuse me,” she said, in thick southern accent, “coming through, I’m trained in first aid, please let me by.” She came up to us and pushed the Xeroxed credentials in my face. “I’m First Aid Certified!” she announced. “That’s great” I said, wondering what the hell she wanted me to do about. “Let me talk to this man,” she said an leaned down. “Miss,” I started “he’s not really responding, but he’s got motion in both his–.” “Sir,” she said leaning over the big guy uninterested in what I had to say, “Sir, can you hear me.” “Miss,” I offered again, “we’ve already trie–” “Sir,” she said cutting me off again “Sir can you tell me your name.” She reached over and tried to turn his head. At that point, I leaned over and got between them. “Miss, as you are also first aid certified, you’ll remember that you never want to move someone, especially there head, unless they are not breathing” (it was starting to come back to me at this point). “Well,” she said, obviously embarrassed to be called out in front of everyone, “I am just trying to help.” And, with that she got up, dusted herself off and walked off in a huff.

The minutes passed and my arms were starting to ache. I felt like I had been holding his head forever and Tim, while not responsive to us, was beginning to move around and become more adamant about getting his helmet off. He had full use of both arms now and one of his legs, and even though he was very much crippled by the accident, he was still the better part of 400 lbs and it took all my strength to hold his head in place while the other guys tried to gently secure his arms.

Suddenly a guy pulled up in a truck and came running up. "I'm an EMT, let me though." 'Thank God' I thought, now he can take over I thought. "You," he said, pointing to me. "You stay right where you are and keep a hold of his head." As good as it felt to know I had been doing the right thing, it was the last thing I wanted to hear. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting away the Tim's clothes. Soon after, the fire trucks and ambulance arrived, and I thought for sure that I could relinquish my post, not so much because I was tired anymore, but to be honest I was scared. I was scared I would mess up, break his neck, see him die. I was just plain scared. But, when the fireman got on the scene and the first thing he said was "you," pointing to me, "stay right there."

What happened next was kind of a blur. I think they thought I was an EMT because they started saying thing to me that I didn't understand and they apparently thought I did. "Okay, were going to get under the cap and secure him in a grave-hold, then you gotta C-roll him on your count... got it?" I didn't but nodded anyway. They brought in a neck brace and had me hold the helmet and the brace as the tried to tape it to his head. Then they brought in a stretcher in and set it next to him. Tim did not like being moved and started to shout and squirm and it was becoming increasingly difficult to contain him. We had to move quickly, "OK, on your count, " the fireman said, and all the EMTs (there were four of them now) all looked up at me. I stuttered, 1-2-2-uh-3 and the rolled him on his side, slid the stretcher underneath him and then rolled him back, all the while I tried to hold his head straight. Then he gave another set of coded instructions which apparently meant it was time to lift him and put him on the gurney, then, finally into the ambulance.

No sooner had they closed the doors than I slipped passed the fire crews, police units and caution tape and walked back to my car in the now dark evening sky. Naomi was waiting for me and I gave her a big hug and we got in a drove off. I felt bad for leaving, no doubt they could have used a whiteness to recount what happened, but I needed to get out of there. Away from the blood, burnt flesh, and gas soaked haze. I was shocked by what I had seen. We were half way home before I realized that I was covered in blood and had some how scrapped up my arm pretty bad.

We made it the rest of the way without incident. We made it to our pretty little apartment set on a lake off right off the highway and a two-minute car ride from downtown. We did have our celebratory dinner that night, at a great little pizza spot downtown and it was truly nice to be home at last. But I had a hard time taking it all in, I was still shell-shocked from the incident on the highway. But in the coming days, the shock would fade and the excitement of a new life in a new place would take hold, and maybe even with a bit more a poignancy then it might have been before because I learned two things that day: 1) Never ride a motorcycle on the highway in a t-shirt and 2) life is short and you better enjoy the ride (which is preferably not on a motorcycle on the highway in your t-shirt).

I never found out whether Tim or his girl made it or not, but I like to think that he did. That he and his other riding buddy are out there right now having a beer at a biker bar someplace and laughing about the time they almost kicked the can. Then, they would get into their dual-airbag, traction-controlled Volvos and driving home in complete safely.

Coast to Coast – New Orleans, LA

I knew, from the outset, that any cross-country road trip would have to include a stop in New Orleans. Not so much because it’s one of the most historied cities in America, nor for the amazing food, music, and parties it has. Not even so much for the support I wanted to give a city still being rebuilt 5 years after Katrina. No, my desire to was for one reason only: cocktails!

As a professional bartender, New Orleans is my Mecca. The birthplace of Peychuad Bitters and the world’s first cocktail: the Sazerac. But more poignant to me then the drinks, were the places where they were first served. Not the tourist trap haunts of Bourbon St. with its sugar-laced Hurricanes served in neon-colored yard glasses, but the REAL New Orleans bar scene. Places like The Napoleon House, Tonique, and The Old Absinthe House. Places where a well-balanced drink was a hand-crafted art revered by both barmen and patron alike, and the walls were as old as the country they inhabited. Yeah, that's why I was here.

Arriving in the late morning, we parked few blocks off Decatur St. in the French Quarter and walked down to the Mississippi river. With narrow stone-lined avenues backed by French townhouses and flowering 2nd story terraces, we could see and feel the cities unique and charming Creole character. As we walked, we could smell fresh bread coming from corner bakeries and and hear the buzz of a big city still stirring to life.

Following the advise of my father, we grabbed a table at Café Du Monte and welcomed ourselves to the Big Easy with an order of their famous beignet and fresh-roast coffee. As mid-day rolled around and the thermostat began to bob around 100 degrees we opted for a lazy stroll through the garden district and an afternoon in the shady recesses of Annunciation Park. After lunching at The Bulldog beer garden we took the rest of the afternoon off and napped back at the hotel.

Come evening, after the temperature had returned to early levels, we ventured back down to the French Quarter and I searched out my hollowed watering holes. We found them; The Carousel Bar, Antoine's, and The Sazerac Bar, with tuxedo wearing barmen, no cocktail menus, and perfectly measured libations. It is where every aspiring bartender should go to get their education.

After a few samplings, I was beginning to wonder if a bar-to-bar-to-bar evening was such a great idea seeing as though we had a 12 hour drive ahead of us the following morning, but, thankfully, I got side-tracked by one of our friends who lived in town.

She insisted on taking us out for a real Cajun meal, just what a man on the brink of sobriety needed, and after a country-size portion of gumbo and jambalaya, I had my second wind and we ventured back out into the lively night. As a volunteer in the recovery effort, our friend was well-informed of all the political and social issues, both past and present, and made for an excellent guide. As we crossed through Washington Square she shot us down an alley and we arrived at the front door of a non-descript music club where one of the most prolific jazz musicians in New Orleans, Kermit Ruffins, was putting on an unpublicized show. We literary walked right in and were standing in the front row. It was a great show.

We could not have asked for a better evening in the Big Easy and since it was our only one, we felt very lucky and considered it a perfect way to end our vacation. We would be on the road again in the morning and come nightfall we would be in Savannah, and at the end of our journey. But we wanted to savor tonight, and we walked a little slower on our way back to our hotel, taking in the sites, the air, the feeling of being a visitor in a new place one more time. Where everything is still fresh, still new, and you want to take it all it because you don’t know when, or if, you’ll ever be back. But like I said before, this is my Mecca, and I think I can make another pilgrimage or two before everything is said and done.

Coast to Coast – Austin, TX

We had heard, from more than a few sources, that Austin, Texas was a must see on anyone’s southern-bound road trip. People spoke of a vibrant metropolis, replete with young progressive minds, a hopping party scene, and quite possibly the best music scene in the United States. And, as is the case with most movies, restaurants, and blind dates that receive similar hype, it didn't quite live up to expectations.

The city itself was nice enough. Even as the state capital, Austin still managed to avoid most of the pitfalls that come with that title. It was a descent size city, but there were plenty of open space. It was stretched out over a large area but had a navigational freeway system. The downtown had its skyscrapers and state buildings, but it was also set on the banks of a huge river (called the 'town lake'), which ebbed its way through the heart of the city. It also was home to the University of Texas, a school with 50,000 undergrads and its own zip code, so there was plenty of action to be had out on the town both during the day and at night.

And yet, despite all of these attributes, we never really seemed to fall in step with the town. Upon our arrival, we were starving and stopped in at a local Mexican spot that came HIGHLY recommended by one of our friends. After waiting outside in the blistering 103 degree afternoon heat because they wouldn’t allow dogs on there patio, we got our to-go order and found it to be some of the worst food we’ve ever been asked to pay for. After the meal and after our gag reflexes subsisted, we searched for a dog friendly park nearby and found one, Butler Park, right downtown along the river. But, after walking a mile or so to get to the off-leash area were dogs could swim, another Texas Monsoon hit the city and we had to sprint back to our car to avoid the deluge of rain and flooding that ensued*.

In the evening, after the storm broke, we headed back downtown to see the famous mass exodus of bats, apparently in the hundreds of thousands, that flows from under the downtown (bat) bridge at dusk. We were told to get there early to ensure a good seat. We arrived about 25 minutes before sundown to find almost no one there at all, and proceeded to wait until well past dark for the bats that had apparently taken the night off. After and underwhelming dinner, we headed down to East 6th Street, where all the bars, nightclubs, and live music venues are concentrated. But, being a Wednesday night in the middle of summer vacation, there wasn’t a whole lot of shaking going on. Just C-list cover bands and a half dozen people in each of the 300 bars that seemed to stretch on forever. Defeated, we called it an early night, knowing that we would be leaving tomorrow and this would be our only memories of Austin.

The next morning we got out early, but, before leaving, we gave Austin one last chance. Grabbing some iced coffees, as it was already 89 degrees at 8:45am, we headed back to the dog park on the river. We got walked back to the off-leash area and found a huge pack of dogs and owners hanging out by the waters edge. We could barely unhook Zoe’s collar before she was bounding around in the water, chasing stick and balls with the rest of the pack. A light breeze blew in off the water and, for the first time since we’d gotten here, I looked up at the cityscape before me and though to myself ‘hey, it’s kinda nice here.’ And I wondered if I shouldn’t give everything else another go (except the Mexican food), and some of the other things I wanted to see(Like Barton Springs Pool, or The Salt Lick BBQ house). But that would have to wait for another day, cause we had to get back on the road. Next stop: New Orleans!

*On our way back to our hotel in this huge storm that was flooding streets and bringing down trees, we passed by the UT football practice facility and saw hundreds of fans standing out in the rain watching the Longhorns practice. Practice! We’re not talking about a game, we’re talking about practice. Practice! I guess that’s what happens to sports fans in a state capital city without a pro sports team. Oh yeah, and it’s Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM to Austin, TX

Needing a bit of a break from the road, the following morning we stuck around Santa Fe, taking Zoe to an off-leash trail head on the outskirts of the city and hiking up a ridge that offered panoramic views of the city and surrounding mountain ranges. We lunched at another patio restaurant, and took that time to plan our next leg of the journey.

It would take us 13 hours to get to Austin, and we knew that we didn't have that in us today. So we decided not to decide. We would just get in the car and drive as far as we felt like and then we would stop where ever we wanted and that would be that. It was kind of invigorating not to have a destination, we could go anywhere, do anything, and we wouldn't be veering off course because we didn't have one.

So, with that spirit in mind, we started the day with a detour to Galisteo, a small (and when I say small, I mean 13 mailboxs total small) town about 20 minutes of the highway from Santa Fe. The 'town' lay on the same plateau as Santa Fe, but far removed from the tree lines of the mountains. Here, it was just rolling open plains of sage brush and red earth.

The center was nothing more than a crossroads of the highway and a church with a few houses clustered around. Scattered residential plots with single homes and large barns where visible along the open horizon. But other than that, there was really nothing else. No stores, no restaurants, that was it. Why did we bother to stop here you ask? It was here, some 27 years ago, in a Tepee on one of these desert plains that Naomi Windblossom Coffman was born. What on earth her mother was doing here at that time I haven't a clue, and when I asked her she responded with "Well, Galisteo was really hip back then!" I don't know if that is the term I would use to describe it, but it was beautiful. Both stoic and timeless, and if you stood at those crossroads for 100 years I doubt much would change in the end of that time except the cars passing through.

After a few snapshots, we were back on the road, settling in to our familiar routine of drive, gas/coffee/switch seats, drive. Although I haven't wanted to say anything about it until now in the fear that I might somehow jinx it, Zoe, our feisty lab who usually whines if she has to be in the car for more than 20 minutes, has been absolutely amazing. When we head out the car in the morning, she jumps right up in the back seat and lies down in between the two front seats so she can get her share of the A/C. When we stop for gas or food, she hops out, relieves herself on any nearby grass and then hopes back up in the car and lies back down for the next leg. We couldn't believe it. And here we thought we were going to have to sedate her 3-4 times a day to get this desired effect. It made the drive that much more enjoyable.

Even with our little detours, we crossed over into Texas by mid-afternoon and were able to slingshot around Carlsbad Caverns by nightfall. The West Texas landscape was a dry deluge of broken limestone gullies and aired brush. It looked a bit like the Arizona desert, only with more vegetation and color. The air felt different too, where Arizona had been a dry heat, here the air was heavy and thick with moisture. We soon found out why.

As the last of the daylight reseeded back into the western sky, a huge pocket of black thunderheads loomed before us. As we drove straight into the storm, the wind began to push the car from one side of the road to the other. Lightening bolts crashed down at almost the exact same time as the ear-ringing thunder cracked through the darkening night sky. Then the rain came.

It was as if we were driving up a river. We slowed to 25 mph and had the windshield wipers going full blast but we still couldn't see past the constant stream of water coating the windshield. Sensing the tension, Zoe was standing, almost on the front dashboard, to figure out what was wrong.

Finally, we passed through the heart of it, and the rain subsided, but the thunder and lighting remained with us as we pulled into the highway outcrop of Sonora to find a hotel for the night, reminding us that nobody messes with Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM

Though the temptation to stay in this frying pan of a homestead was almost too much to resist, we were on the road by 8:30 the next morning, Needles quickly fading out of site in our rear view mirror. We had a long drive ahead of us, 600 miles to Santa Fe, and we wanted to get there early enough to enjoy an evening out on the town. Luckily for us the speed limit on 1-40 was 75 (sometimes 80) miles an hour and it was a straight shot to New Mexico. We set the cruise control and popped in another book on tape.

We followed the highway, paralleling the famous Route 66, as it bisected the barren heart of Arizona; a seemingly endless expanse of flat, dry desert. It stretched on for hours, the only signs of life were the occasional cars that passed by or the sparse gas stations that popped up along the way.

Five hours in, we hit the New Mexico State line and the topography began to tansform before us– hills formed beneath us; trees and valleys dotted the horizon; and the earth, once a partched pale gray, was now glowing with an iron-rich red hue. The hills soon turned into mountains as we passed through Albuquerque and began to climb the tail of the southern Rockies.

Santa Fe itself sits atop a 7,200ft plateau but also makes up the basin of three large forested mountain ranges. A bustling metropolis of 75,000, it still manages to retain its wild west meets nomadic Indian outpost feel with strict adobe color and architecture building codes throughout the county and the over-abundance of Indian jewelry, clothing, and trinket shops throughout the city proper.

We pulled into town as the last of the suns rays slipped passed the encompassing mountains and twilight decended on the warm summer's sky. Having been cooped up in the car all day, we decided that we would bring Zoe with us and strolled along the brick-lined sidewalks into town. We heard music up ahead and followed the bluegrass tunes to a small tree-lined central plaza where hundreds of people were sitting around in the grass listening to a live country band on a stage in the center of the park. Children ran around in the fountain, hot food vendors lined the sidewalks, and near-by restaurants all had roof-top balconies filled with tourist and locals watching the show.

This scene seemed like it was a nightly occurrence in this town and Naomi and I were quick to fall in step with Santa Fe's the easy-going ebb and flow. We had a delicious tex-mex dinner in the courtyard of a local restuarant that allowed dogs and sipping maragritas and happy to be in a town where Denny's wasn't your only choice for food, entertiament and social interactions.

Coast to Coast – Photos

A few photos from the first couple days:







Dog is my co-pilot.











Standing on a corner... somewhere in Arizona.

The look Zoe gives me before she makes a brake for it.

Coast to Coast – The first leg

Heading south, down the spine of California, along the hot, black tarmac of 1-5, we tried to plan our route. We didn't have a particular destination in mind for the end of the day, only that we wanted to get as far as we could so we could pull into our real destination, Santa Fe, NM, sometime the following afternoon. It was a good plan, but alas it wasn't meant to be.

With a couple hundred before our next turn, we decided to kill a few listless hours with one of the books on tape our friends had given us for the trip. I have listen to books on tape a few times before and I think that, in my case anyway, it is entirely unsafe for highway travel. I get so caught up in the stories that I loose track of where I am and where I intend to go. Apparently, so does Naomi. We weren't even a few minutes into the tape, a James Patterson thriller, before we became so engrossed in the plot of who killed who for what, that we missed our exit, and the next dozen before we realized our error, and spent the better part of 2 hours getting back on track.

Needless to say, we didn't make it as far we would have liked for our first day on the road. In fact, we didn't even make it out of California, stopping instead at a small town right on CA/NV boarder called Needles. Oh yes, Needles.

Nothing more than a collection of mobile homes, a motel 6 and a Denny's, Needles is set in a dust bowl at the tail end of the Death Valley Desert plains where, upon our arrival at 11:30 at night, it was still almost 100 degrees and seemed to be heating up. While checking in, I asked the motel clerk, who looked like she'd seen a needle or two herself, what people did around here for fun. She looked at me as if she wasn't sure what the word fun meant.

"Uh, well," she finally offered, "there's a Denny's down the road, people go there sometimes."

As Bill Bryson as apt to do in this type of situation, I came up wit a couple slogans the town might want to consider in any new tourism ad campaigns :

Needles: because you'll want to prick yourself with one to make sure you still alive... and not in hell.

Needles: you want em', we got em'!

Needles: because Snaketown, Ghostville, or Monsterland doesn't quite invoke enough terror in visiting young children.

Feel free to add your own...

We got a late start. It was going to be a long day on the road and we had hoped to set out early, but after a huge good-bye bash the night before and an early breakfast with the family, both Naomi and I were a little bushy-eyed and bright-tailed and moving slower than normal. Zoe, our 5 yr old yellow lab perched in the backseat, was the only one that was jumping with anticipation. That didn't help either.

This was it. Our farewell to the Bay Area – for the next three years away. We took it all in as we made our way down the old Maple-lined avenues of North Berkeley toward the freeway; the bright cool morning breeze, the smell of fresh roasted coffee drifting in the air. I was really going to miss this place, and the people in it.

We pulled onto I-580 heading away from the Pacific, our destination: Savannah, Georgia, 3000 miles east along the Atlantic coast. We sat back, set the IPOD to 'song shuffle,' and prepared ourselves for the long journey ahead. The clouds in our head were beginning to lift as we hit I-5 and turned south toward Bakersfield and we started to perk up, even get a little excited, but not nearly as excited as Zoe, who was jumping from window to window in the back seat, she still thought we were taking her to the local beach.

I just can't wait...

to get on the road again. That’s right blogosphere, the Ramblin Schambelan (a.ka. the road warrior) is back on the asphalt and this time he’s keeping it local with a trip out America’s backdoor. San Francisco, California to Savannah, Georgia in less than a week.

The first leg = Berkeley, CA to Joshua Tree National Park, CA – with the girl and dog in toe, that should be good for a post or two…

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.