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the journal of a small time hustler hiding out in Mazatlan
Thursday, July 17, 2003
It has been a very long time since I last wrote in this journal. I wish I could say that I have been too busy to write, but that would not be totally true since I find time in my busy schedule to take a 2 hour siesta every day. Nevertheless, I have been keeping myself occupied during my waking hours. The last entry to this journal showed the perilousness of my situation. I have found in Mexico, the opportunity to reflect, and capitalizing on that opportunity, have come to the choice of whether to act on these radical thoughts, or to hold them at arms length as one would hold a baby while wearing a new suit, ever concerned of the unpredictable substances that could come spewing out of such a precious creature.
The episode in the turtle mountains, mentioned previously in this journal, was an isolated incident. Like a sudden break in the clouds, it left me breathless and amazed, grateful of the brief respite from my turbulent world of survival. Muscles I had never known were in use suddenly relaxed, indeed, eyes I never knew were closed were briefly opened. Yet, like the man dying of thirst who finds a small amount of water will swallow it all but taste nothing as the water soaks into his desperate body, I was too astonished of that oasis of peace at that pond, that I desperately tried to take as much comfort and joy from that place as possible, leaving my parched soul satiated for the moment but my mind unable to grasp the implications of the miracle.
Where in the turtle mountains I was allowed a taste, here in Mexico I am allowed my fill. And as any commodity becomes more plentiful, it depreciates in preciousness, but gains the value of practical use. I had found a nugget of truth, now i seek to mine the source. I found against all logic, a small store in this Mexican town that sells used english books. I remember when I was in high school, before i dropped out, the only class that I found interesting in the least was english, and while the other guys would complain about having to read the books that our English teacher Mrs. Pearson gave us, I secretly enjoyed reading them, and writing the necessary responses. After I dropped out of high school and and found my place on the street, I read less and less eventually forgetting the joy I had found in a good book. Walking into that illogical store I dusted off those memories like an old treasure and decided at that moment to buy the thickest book in the store and read it during my stay here. It didn t take me long to pick out the thickest book, there was only a selection of about two hundred books most tattered copies of romances with a few Louis Lamour westerns for good measure. I reached past the romances and past the westerns to a huge book resting towards the back of the shelf, turning it over I saw the name. Les Miserables.
To say that I dove into the book rekindling my youthful love of literature would be false. After the initial excitement of my rediscovered passion, I became apprehensive of the actual task of opening the massive novel. I feared that my time spent cultivating the skills necessary to survive on the streets had left little room for the finer aspects of art and that perhaps my very ability to appreciate literature had been ground into the dirt, fertilizer for those baser needs. Despite these fears, my time spent in Mexico had awakened in me a thirst for knowledge which I now had the leisure to pursue, and I went about it with the same tenacity that made me successful as a criminal and dangerous as a man.
I have already made mention of the charming cafe Machado which I frequented nightly, and now I must mention it again, for it serves as the setting of this account. Some places carry with them the spirit of those who dwell there, some places are imbued with the spirit of the city they reside in, still others, small though they may seem, may embody the spirit of a nation. I saw Mexico from those white iron worked chairs. I spied through the surrounding iron fence not people passing by, but a People in movement. In being welcomed and befriended by the meseros, I was welcomed by a country. No doubt the stigma of that place was added to by the recent awakening of my senses. the strangeness of my physical surroundings: sounds, smells, tastes, even the light was foreign to me, combined with the violent rearanging of my heart and mind to create a place full of magic and hidden meanings. It was here I chose to read my book and in so doing, change my direction. And so, I sat down in that surreal little cafe where the meseros were ambasodors, and the children were ghosts content to laugh, where the sun dripped, rather than shown, down on us all and I started to read.
I had never heard of the novel before, nor the author Victor Hugo. I only surmised that it was written in a different language because of the translators name on the cover. I did not know when it was written, where the story takes place, or even what genre to expect. When I opened the novel for the first time, I did so with a mind desperate for nourishment, a mind made innocent through it´s ignorance.
One hundred pages were turned that first night, a number inconsequential in relation to the things I had learned. There were words I did not understand, but rather than hindering my understanding of the text, I felt my perception heightened as I took each into my mouth tasting it like a new and exotic fruit. These intellectual stumblings delighted me, and I chuckled aloud as I sounded out the complex french words. I felt liberated in my mistakes, since most of my life I have lived fighting the triple current of law, survival, and human nature, where to fail is to be swept away either to jail, death, or that final stage of poverty which is the bankruptcy of the spirit. How refreshing to fail and fall only to my knees! That night I read until the early morning hours before, with sore eyes, full of cigarette smoke and fresca, and a certain lightness about my entire body that made it difficult not to smile, I shut the book and walked back to the apartment I shared with the Old Woman.
This sequence of events became to me something more than a habit, leaning more towards an addiction. Every evening I would say goodnight to the Old Woman and head down to the Machado, stopping to stock up on cigarettes whether I had some or not. Walking the narrow streets, the raised sidewalks scarcely wide enough for two people to pass abreast, I noticed differences around me that were in fact reflections of the changes taking place in my mind. No longer would I look at the buildings and homes I passed searching for weak hinges or an unlocked window, instead I noticed the colonial architecture, the Mexican color, and the wide sweeping balconies. No longer did I watch the people I passed with suspicion, or size them up for the hit, instead I looked at them and wondered where they came from, and where they were going. If I had lent the thought, I would have noticed that the faces of people I passed on the street were kinder than what I was used to. For the faces of strangers are often mirrors of your own, as quick to reflect kindness as suspicion, interest as disdain. Occaisionaly I even found strangers smiling at me, a markedly new experience. My walks in the streets invariably led me to the Machado, where I poured over Hugo s tome which led me to different places altogether.
Without going into detail about plot, allow me a few words about the novel Les Miserables. I have already mentioned the difficulty of the language, yet I found hidden in that tangle of unpronouncable words a landscape of history, religion, adventure, and romance. One walking that landscape meets men like mountains, massive, humbling, and noble; from whose shoulders can be seen the wide vista of human dignity, the cliffs of self sacrifice, and the snow white summit that is a heart focused on God. One also will meet men who encapsulate the abyss of moral degredation, the black valleys of hopelessnes, and the deserts of human depravity. In men like the former I glimpsed where I wanted to go, while in men like the latter, I looked with new eyes at exactly where I had been.
to be continued.
Maxwell
The episode in the turtle mountains, mentioned previously in this journal, was an isolated incident. Like a sudden break in the clouds, it left me breathless and amazed, grateful of the brief respite from my turbulent world of survival. Muscles I had never known were in use suddenly relaxed, indeed, eyes I never knew were closed were briefly opened. Yet, like the man dying of thirst who finds a small amount of water will swallow it all but taste nothing as the water soaks into his desperate body, I was too astonished of that oasis of peace at that pond, that I desperately tried to take as much comfort and joy from that place as possible, leaving my parched soul satiated for the moment but my mind unable to grasp the implications of the miracle.
Where in the turtle mountains I was allowed a taste, here in Mexico I am allowed my fill. And as any commodity becomes more plentiful, it depreciates in preciousness, but gains the value of practical use. I had found a nugget of truth, now i seek to mine the source. I found against all logic, a small store in this Mexican town that sells used english books. I remember when I was in high school, before i dropped out, the only class that I found interesting in the least was english, and while the other guys would complain about having to read the books that our English teacher Mrs. Pearson gave us, I secretly enjoyed reading them, and writing the necessary responses. After I dropped out of high school and and found my place on the street, I read less and less eventually forgetting the joy I had found in a good book. Walking into that illogical store I dusted off those memories like an old treasure and decided at that moment to buy the thickest book in the store and read it during my stay here. It didn t take me long to pick out the thickest book, there was only a selection of about two hundred books most tattered copies of romances with a few Louis Lamour westerns for good measure. I reached past the romances and past the westerns to a huge book resting towards the back of the shelf, turning it over I saw the name. Les Miserables.
To say that I dove into the book rekindling my youthful love of literature would be false. After the initial excitement of my rediscovered passion, I became apprehensive of the actual task of opening the massive novel. I feared that my time spent cultivating the skills necessary to survive on the streets had left little room for the finer aspects of art and that perhaps my very ability to appreciate literature had been ground into the dirt, fertilizer for those baser needs. Despite these fears, my time spent in Mexico had awakened in me a thirst for knowledge which I now had the leisure to pursue, and I went about it with the same tenacity that made me successful as a criminal and dangerous as a man.
I have already made mention of the charming cafe Machado which I frequented nightly, and now I must mention it again, for it serves as the setting of this account. Some places carry with them the spirit of those who dwell there, some places are imbued with the spirit of the city they reside in, still others, small though they may seem, may embody the spirit of a nation. I saw Mexico from those white iron worked chairs. I spied through the surrounding iron fence not people passing by, but a People in movement. In being welcomed and befriended by the meseros, I was welcomed by a country. No doubt the stigma of that place was added to by the recent awakening of my senses. the strangeness of my physical surroundings: sounds, smells, tastes, even the light was foreign to me, combined with the violent rearanging of my heart and mind to create a place full of magic and hidden meanings. It was here I chose to read my book and in so doing, change my direction. And so, I sat down in that surreal little cafe where the meseros were ambasodors, and the children were ghosts content to laugh, where the sun dripped, rather than shown, down on us all and I started to read.
I had never heard of the novel before, nor the author Victor Hugo. I only surmised that it was written in a different language because of the translators name on the cover. I did not know when it was written, where the story takes place, or even what genre to expect. When I opened the novel for the first time, I did so with a mind desperate for nourishment, a mind made innocent through it´s ignorance.
One hundred pages were turned that first night, a number inconsequential in relation to the things I had learned. There were words I did not understand, but rather than hindering my understanding of the text, I felt my perception heightened as I took each into my mouth tasting it like a new and exotic fruit. These intellectual stumblings delighted me, and I chuckled aloud as I sounded out the complex french words. I felt liberated in my mistakes, since most of my life I have lived fighting the triple current of law, survival, and human nature, where to fail is to be swept away either to jail, death, or that final stage of poverty which is the bankruptcy of the spirit. How refreshing to fail and fall only to my knees! That night I read until the early morning hours before, with sore eyes, full of cigarette smoke and fresca, and a certain lightness about my entire body that made it difficult not to smile, I shut the book and walked back to the apartment I shared with the Old Woman.
This sequence of events became to me something more than a habit, leaning more towards an addiction. Every evening I would say goodnight to the Old Woman and head down to the Machado, stopping to stock up on cigarettes whether I had some or not. Walking the narrow streets, the raised sidewalks scarcely wide enough for two people to pass abreast, I noticed differences around me that were in fact reflections of the changes taking place in my mind. No longer would I look at the buildings and homes I passed searching for weak hinges or an unlocked window, instead I noticed the colonial architecture, the Mexican color, and the wide sweeping balconies. No longer did I watch the people I passed with suspicion, or size them up for the hit, instead I looked at them and wondered where they came from, and where they were going. If I had lent the thought, I would have noticed that the faces of people I passed on the street were kinder than what I was used to. For the faces of strangers are often mirrors of your own, as quick to reflect kindness as suspicion, interest as disdain. Occaisionaly I even found strangers smiling at me, a markedly new experience. My walks in the streets invariably led me to the Machado, where I poured over Hugo s tome which led me to different places altogether.
Without going into detail about plot, allow me a few words about the novel Les Miserables. I have already mentioned the difficulty of the language, yet I found hidden in that tangle of unpronouncable words a landscape of history, religion, adventure, and romance. One walking that landscape meets men like mountains, massive, humbling, and noble; from whose shoulders can be seen the wide vista of human dignity, the cliffs of self sacrifice, and the snow white summit that is a heart focused on God. One also will meet men who encapsulate the abyss of moral degredation, the black valleys of hopelessnes, and the deserts of human depravity. In men like the former I glimpsed where I wanted to go, while in men like the latter, I looked with new eyes at exactly where I had been.
to be continued.
Maxwell
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
We are entering the seventh month, according to the locals july is when it starts to get hot. I have slipped into a pretty easy routine down here. It is hard to look back towards the united states, all i see are heat waves. When I was young i remember my friend Rudy T and I jacked this car from some old womans drive way and went joyriding. We ended up overheating after a couple hours and were stranded somewhere in the turtle mountains. We decided to hoof it out of there since we didn t want to be caught trying to fix a stolen car.
We walked for about an hour and passed a few farms, but didn t want to call anyone that close to the car and kept going. After a while we walked around a curve, and Rudy T saw something in the woods. I followed him as he took off into the forest. There only about fifty yards from the road was a small pond surrounded by boulders. The rest of the ponds we had seen had been watering holes for cattle, but this one was strangely untouched, the water was clear and sparkling in the noon sun. There we were, two toughs who had never been out of the city before confronted for the first time with a place of peace and beauty. I started to feel a strange tightening in my throat and for some reason my eyes started to itch. Thankfully the moment was splashed aside as Rudy T let out a whoop and throwing his clothes on the bank did a running cannonball into the pool.
I silently scoffed at Rudy T, he was a good guy, but i always guessed he was soft. Look at him splashing around like a little school girl. I noticed a particularly large boulder on a small knoll inbetween the pond and the trees. I walked through the tall grass until i could reach and pull myself up on the boulder. It felt like something was crawling on my legs, and when i lifted up my pant leg i saw three brown flat bugs making there way up my leg. I picked them off and through them into the grass. I took off my shirt and found two more on my stomach. I sat on the boulder picking the strange flat bugs off my body, while Rudy T floated in the water.
From the top of the boulder, the plains of stretched out as far as I could see reminding me of a multi colored jail. I could see a few tractors tooling around in the perfectly square fields, inmates pacing their cells. It was strange, those fields never seem so square when you see them from the window of a stolen car. The idea of hidden patterns and disguised order sent a chill down my back. It was beautiful though, I ll admit it now though i never would have then. As I sat there, i realized i was completely out of my element. It struck me that there weren t any easy marks walking by demanding my attention. I could hear no vehicles or human voices. For once it seemed that my mind was free to wander.
This is not to say there wasn t anything happening around me. On the contrary, a wind was rustling the elm leaves above me and it sounded like rain. Rudy T was floating on his back in the pond, and every time he kicked his legs or waved his arms to stay afloat the water sounded like breaking glass. the longer I sat there in silence, the more noises i heard. Something cracking twigs underfoot, measured steps in the forest, the scurrying and chatter of squirrels, and the hurried deliberations of the birds.
Slowly, it came to me. It was not that I had left society and civilization behind, rather, i had simply moved from one society to another. No doubt there was a snake or a fox out in the woods right now watching for their easy marks, listening to the racket of the living forest. But here in this society I could only be a spectator. The feeling of opportunities lurking around corners just out of my sight had left me, freeing my mind to contemplate things other than survival and the next score. I decided that I was glad that the old womans car blew up where it did and that Rudy T saw the water from the road, even if that did make me a pansie.
That time in the turtle mountains overlooking the plains was the first time i tasted the bittersweet juices of self reflection. Here in Mexico is the second time. In the narrow streets of this town i will never know, amidst the voices of these people whose meaning i can never comprehend, surrounded by this mysterious culture and magical land, once again, i am forced into the role of the spectator and once again my mind is free.
hasta luego mis amigos
Maxwell
We walked for about an hour and passed a few farms, but didn t want to call anyone that close to the car and kept going. After a while we walked around a curve, and Rudy T saw something in the woods. I followed him as he took off into the forest. There only about fifty yards from the road was a small pond surrounded by boulders. The rest of the ponds we had seen had been watering holes for cattle, but this one was strangely untouched, the water was clear and sparkling in the noon sun. There we were, two toughs who had never been out of the city before confronted for the first time with a place of peace and beauty. I started to feel a strange tightening in my throat and for some reason my eyes started to itch. Thankfully the moment was splashed aside as Rudy T let out a whoop and throwing his clothes on the bank did a running cannonball into the pool.
I silently scoffed at Rudy T, he was a good guy, but i always guessed he was soft. Look at him splashing around like a little school girl. I noticed a particularly large boulder on a small knoll inbetween the pond and the trees. I walked through the tall grass until i could reach and pull myself up on the boulder. It felt like something was crawling on my legs, and when i lifted up my pant leg i saw three brown flat bugs making there way up my leg. I picked them off and through them into the grass. I took off my shirt and found two more on my stomach. I sat on the boulder picking the strange flat bugs off my body, while Rudy T floated in the water.
From the top of the boulder, the plains of stretched out as far as I could see reminding me of a multi colored jail. I could see a few tractors tooling around in the perfectly square fields, inmates pacing their cells. It was strange, those fields never seem so square when you see them from the window of a stolen car. The idea of hidden patterns and disguised order sent a chill down my back. It was beautiful though, I ll admit it now though i never would have then. As I sat there, i realized i was completely out of my element. It struck me that there weren t any easy marks walking by demanding my attention. I could hear no vehicles or human voices. For once it seemed that my mind was free to wander.
This is not to say there wasn t anything happening around me. On the contrary, a wind was rustling the elm leaves above me and it sounded like rain. Rudy T was floating on his back in the pond, and every time he kicked his legs or waved his arms to stay afloat the water sounded like breaking glass. the longer I sat there in silence, the more noises i heard. Something cracking twigs underfoot, measured steps in the forest, the scurrying and chatter of squirrels, and the hurried deliberations of the birds.
Slowly, it came to me. It was not that I had left society and civilization behind, rather, i had simply moved from one society to another. No doubt there was a snake or a fox out in the woods right now watching for their easy marks, listening to the racket of the living forest. But here in this society I could only be a spectator. The feeling of opportunities lurking around corners just out of my sight had left me, freeing my mind to contemplate things other than survival and the next score. I decided that I was glad that the old womans car blew up where it did and that Rudy T saw the water from the road, even if that did make me a pansie.
That time in the turtle mountains overlooking the plains was the first time i tasted the bittersweet juices of self reflection. Here in Mexico is the second time. In the narrow streets of this town i will never know, amidst the voices of these people whose meaning i can never comprehend, surrounded by this mysterious culture and magical land, once again, i am forced into the role of the spectator and once again my mind is free.
hasta luego mis amigos
Maxwell
Monday, June 23, 2003
I spent this weekend out at the Canadian s place. It is a slow time of the year for backpackers and the like, so it was just me and two girls from the class I m taking staying out at the hostel with the Canadian, and one other traveler, a Texan hombre, he s 55 years old and is fond of telling all of us kids that he has tatoos that are older than we are. He s a vietnam vet with a family back home who is now running around mexico rotating between three or four places he calls home. The Texan is a drunk old man with a mouth dirtier than mexican water, he is my kind of guy. He took me around to some other places on the island and introduced me to some of the other boys who all seem to be around 45 to 50 years old. It turns out the island is a veritable retirement community for tough guys and scammers. We walked from one hut to the next each one housing an old american man with a mexican woman where we were offered various recreational opportunities. I knew enough to respectfully decline, these guys come off nice, but thats just all the more reason not to trust them. As long as I don t give them an opportunity and stay cordial, things will stay cool. They all have stories to tell, and I find myself mentally taking notes. I don t know what these guys have done back in the states, but they ended up living on a tropical beach for penny s a day, and you have to respect that.
It was an interesting weekend, the first night out at the hostel, there was a mexican wedding reception in the restaurant next door. We all danced with the family and played with the little kids as they scrambled to fill plastic cups full of hermit crabs. we spent the next day in our swimming suits, climbed a small mountain overlooking the City and the Island, and ate excellent Mariscos at the best beach joint in town. It was good to get back to the Old Woman though and wash the sand from my hair.
hasta luego
Maxwell
It was an interesting weekend, the first night out at the hostel, there was a mexican wedding reception in the restaurant next door. We all danced with the family and played with the little kids as they scrambled to fill plastic cups full of hermit crabs. we spent the next day in our swimming suits, climbed a small mountain overlooking the City and the Island, and ate excellent Mariscos at the best beach joint in town. It was good to get back to the Old Woman though and wash the sand from my hair.
hasta luego
Maxwell
Thursday, June 19, 2003
The sun was hot today. Surprising, since every other day I ve been here it s been blistering. I spent an hour with the Old Woman last night, it was alright, we talked a bit about our different scams, she filled me in on just how to talk to the banditos down here, and I taught her how to say I want my lawyer in ingles. There s some tough hombre s down here. The other day I was walking around downtown, and found myself in a dirty neighborhood on the side of a hill overlooking the pacific. I saw some trouble up ahead, four punks were sitting out looking like they needed something to do. I walked by slow, to let them know they didn t scare me. As I walked by one of them turned and said something to me, of course I didn t know what he said so I ignored him. The four punks followed me for two blocks yelling at me in spanish. oh well, nothing happened, eventually I made it to a busy street and they slithered off back onto the side streets. I knew I was never in any danger. I just had to tell them I was with the Old Woman, and they would have backed down, but I wanted to see where it would lead.
I spend my evenings at a little open air cafe called The Machado in a park dowtown. Its a nice place where you sit under manicured trees in the shade, and you can watch the buisness of relaxation go down in the plaza in front of you. Beers are 10 pesos there, and the service is good. Mexican parks are nice, the whole community comes out every night and sits on the benches and talks. There is a gazeebo in the center of the park where occaisionally bands will come and play, and on one side of the plaza is a music school. In the evenings the band practices, it s usually pretty good, lots of bluesy tunes. When there are no students practicing, no bands in the gazeebo, and no people playing for money and walking around, then the restaurant puts on their favorite tunes. There are no limits to the kinds of music they will play here, one evening I sat through the entire disk of Use Your Illusion 2 by Guns and Roses, only to have it followed by a selection of Beatles songs sang in Spanish. I hear the john lennon song Imagine quite a bit, and I don t mind.
I go to the little cafe every night, other students from the school know this so there is always somebody coming by, when I am alone, I have a book or I speak with Julian or Pepe, or Louise, all servers at the restaurant. Its a good place to practice your spanish while drinking a Dos Equis and eating a Octopus Taco, (excellent Octopus Tacos by the way).
tonight the school is putting on a party for all the students at the Tec, it is a Foam party, with three for one drinks. Now I have tried to explain to the mexican students the difference between parties put on by the schools in mexico and the parties put on by the universities in America, They don t seem to understand that when you hear about a party put on by the school in the states, it usually means cookies and cool aid in the library, not foam parties and three for ones. I still haven t figured out why they have it on thursday and not on friday.
I m spending time here, and that s good, cause I ve been stockpiling it for a while now.
hasta luego
Maxwell
I spend my evenings at a little open air cafe called The Machado in a park dowtown. Its a nice place where you sit under manicured trees in the shade, and you can watch the buisness of relaxation go down in the plaza in front of you. Beers are 10 pesos there, and the service is good. Mexican parks are nice, the whole community comes out every night and sits on the benches and talks. There is a gazeebo in the center of the park where occaisionally bands will come and play, and on one side of the plaza is a music school. In the evenings the band practices, it s usually pretty good, lots of bluesy tunes. When there are no students practicing, no bands in the gazeebo, and no people playing for money and walking around, then the restaurant puts on their favorite tunes. There are no limits to the kinds of music they will play here, one evening I sat through the entire disk of Use Your Illusion 2 by Guns and Roses, only to have it followed by a selection of Beatles songs sang in Spanish. I hear the john lennon song Imagine quite a bit, and I don t mind.
I go to the little cafe every night, other students from the school know this so there is always somebody coming by, when I am alone, I have a book or I speak with Julian or Pepe, or Louise, all servers at the restaurant. Its a good place to practice your spanish while drinking a Dos Equis and eating a Octopus Taco, (excellent Octopus Tacos by the way).
tonight the school is putting on a party for all the students at the Tec, it is a Foam party, with three for one drinks. Now I have tried to explain to the mexican students the difference between parties put on by the schools in mexico and the parties put on by the universities in America, They don t seem to understand that when you hear about a party put on by the school in the states, it usually means cookies and cool aid in the library, not foam parties and three for ones. I still haven t figured out why they have it on thursday and not on friday.
I m spending time here, and that s good, cause I ve been stockpiling it for a while now.
hasta luego
Maxwell
Sunday, June 15, 2003
The Canadian
I woke up the other day and felt the urge to communicate. Since I arrived it has been me and the Old Woman living together, she speaks no english, and I speak spatterings of bad espanol. After a couple days I started to feel like a castaway, lost on a deserted island that happened to hold thousands of cardboard cutouts of people, a city of manequins and I am the only person of flesh and blood. Sometimes I feel like the manequin, moving from here to there always looking for a place to sit and read, or have a beer.
That all changed the morning I woke up determined to communicate. I called up some people I knew and had them enroll me in the local university for a couple spanish classes. It turns out there is some kind of exchange going on now and I got lumped up with a bunch of kids from the states all spending the summer in Mazatlan.
The first night after we met each other, we all agreed to meet at Joe s Oyster bar. It was a good time down in the tourist strip where everyone speaks english, and everyone is your best friend, as long as you buy a pair of ten pound donkey earrings or sandals made of cactus needles. We had a good time and made plans to meet the next day at a hotel called El Cid that rumor has it is run and owned by the Mexican Mafia, whether it is or not, they ve got the set up down. Giant pools fill the courtyard with waterfalls and waterslides, plastic constructions made to look like mountains with little seperate pools for three or four people to sit in and look out over the pool area. A couple swim up bars provide for drinks and food. I knew this was not my kind of place.
I headed off and jumped in a local bus on its way to the ferry. The ferry turns out to be a series of little motor boats. ten pesos or about a dollar will buy you a round trip ticket. I jumped on and crossed a channel. It couldn t have been more than 100 yards wide. A short walk on the other side takes you from mexico to hawaii. The beach stretches off further than you can see with the first mile or so populated by bars and restaurants. This is the natives hideout, people swim, boogie board, surf, and generally frolick in the sun. The sand here is firm enough to drive on, and every now and then a battered old volkswagen bug comes tearing along the beach ready to bring surfers a couple miles past the last restuarant to the big waves. Boats take off and leave from the shore, barreling through the waves mindless of people swimming. I walk a little ways and see a place I had found on the internet before I left, a hostel built by a Canadian named Chris. I walked up and there he was chilling on a hammock reading a book. I introduced myself and told him I had seen his place on the web and he offers me a tour.
The Canadian is a short compact little guy, with a personality resembling a mix between napolean and mahatma Ghandi. He has been living on the beach out on the island for eight years or so, and three years ago built the hostel/campground he calls the twin towers. He talks with a marked canadian accent as he shows me the palm hut cabins raised on posts with netting floors and mosquitoes nets around the beds. We have a beer and he asks me if I play chess. We play a game and he tells me stories about the island. He tells me how pirates used to bury treasure in the hills behind his place and how even right now there are people back there digging for gold. They will find nothing, he explains, because they are looking in the wrong spot, The Canadian knows where the treasure is buried of course. He tells me of hurricanes and spring breaks, of night long parties around his fire pit under the full moon. He tells me about his sweat lodge and the secrets of the universe that can only be found out through a good sweat and some cacti. He gives me the low down on jelly fish, currents and crabs all the while giving me a sound beating in chess. I stay there for three hours and never buy anything from him, nor does he ask me of anything. I take off and come back the next day with eight other students from the university. we do it all over again. This time however, we find the restaurant that The Canadian works at, called Victors. We sit at a table in the sand under a broad palm thatch roof where we are served beers for 10 pesos, and spend 60 pesos on a five star meal of monster shrimp, rice, quesadillas, vegetables, onion rings, and potatoes.
The other students are cool. They assume I m on an exchange program like theirs, and I let them. They are here to party on the beach, spend a ton of money, and do a little studying. I ll probably keep in touch with them while I m down here.
It s time for me to get going, the Old Woman has dinner laid out for me by now and I m getting a bit hungry.
hasta luego
Max
I woke up the other day and felt the urge to communicate. Since I arrived it has been me and the Old Woman living together, she speaks no english, and I speak spatterings of bad espanol. After a couple days I started to feel like a castaway, lost on a deserted island that happened to hold thousands of cardboard cutouts of people, a city of manequins and I am the only person of flesh and blood. Sometimes I feel like the manequin, moving from here to there always looking for a place to sit and read, or have a beer.
That all changed the morning I woke up determined to communicate. I called up some people I knew and had them enroll me in the local university for a couple spanish classes. It turns out there is some kind of exchange going on now and I got lumped up with a bunch of kids from the states all spending the summer in Mazatlan.
The first night after we met each other, we all agreed to meet at Joe s Oyster bar. It was a good time down in the tourist strip where everyone speaks english, and everyone is your best friend, as long as you buy a pair of ten pound donkey earrings or sandals made of cactus needles. We had a good time and made plans to meet the next day at a hotel called El Cid that rumor has it is run and owned by the Mexican Mafia, whether it is or not, they ve got the set up down. Giant pools fill the courtyard with waterfalls and waterslides, plastic constructions made to look like mountains with little seperate pools for three or four people to sit in and look out over the pool area. A couple swim up bars provide for drinks and food. I knew this was not my kind of place.
I headed off and jumped in a local bus on its way to the ferry. The ferry turns out to be a series of little motor boats. ten pesos or about a dollar will buy you a round trip ticket. I jumped on and crossed a channel. It couldn t have been more than 100 yards wide. A short walk on the other side takes you from mexico to hawaii. The beach stretches off further than you can see with the first mile or so populated by bars and restaurants. This is the natives hideout, people swim, boogie board, surf, and generally frolick in the sun. The sand here is firm enough to drive on, and every now and then a battered old volkswagen bug comes tearing along the beach ready to bring surfers a couple miles past the last restuarant to the big waves. Boats take off and leave from the shore, barreling through the waves mindless of people swimming. I walk a little ways and see a place I had found on the internet before I left, a hostel built by a Canadian named Chris. I walked up and there he was chilling on a hammock reading a book. I introduced myself and told him I had seen his place on the web and he offers me a tour.
The Canadian is a short compact little guy, with a personality resembling a mix between napolean and mahatma Ghandi. He has been living on the beach out on the island for eight years or so, and three years ago built the hostel/campground he calls the twin towers. He talks with a marked canadian accent as he shows me the palm hut cabins raised on posts with netting floors and mosquitoes nets around the beds. We have a beer and he asks me if I play chess. We play a game and he tells me stories about the island. He tells me how pirates used to bury treasure in the hills behind his place and how even right now there are people back there digging for gold. They will find nothing, he explains, because they are looking in the wrong spot, The Canadian knows where the treasure is buried of course. He tells me of hurricanes and spring breaks, of night long parties around his fire pit under the full moon. He tells me about his sweat lodge and the secrets of the universe that can only be found out through a good sweat and some cacti. He gives me the low down on jelly fish, currents and crabs all the while giving me a sound beating in chess. I stay there for three hours and never buy anything from him, nor does he ask me of anything. I take off and come back the next day with eight other students from the university. we do it all over again. This time however, we find the restaurant that The Canadian works at, called Victors. We sit at a table in the sand under a broad palm thatch roof where we are served beers for 10 pesos, and spend 60 pesos on a five star meal of monster shrimp, rice, quesadillas, vegetables, onion rings, and potatoes.
The other students are cool. They assume I m on an exchange program like theirs, and I let them. They are here to party on the beach, spend a ton of money, and do a little studying. I ll probably keep in touch with them while I m down here.
It s time for me to get going, the Old Woman has dinner laid out for me by now and I m getting a bit hungry.
hasta luego
Max
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Hola mis amigos y familia,
I guess it s only been a couple days since I wrote last. I found a little internet shop where you can buy yourself an hour on line for ten pesos, that s a little less than a buck. best part is, its less than two blocks away from the hideout.
Well, I came to mexico planning on going to Mazatlan, never knowing that I would spend a night in Hell. That s right, the other night I woke around 2:30 in the morning to a series of surprises. The first thing to strike me was the sharp pain in my back and my stomach. here it comes I thought as I stood up to go to the bathroom. I walked barefoot across the blue and white flower print tiles on the way to el bano, where I turned on the light quickly affirmed my supposition, I should have brought some immodium AD... I chose to think of my illness as my body just getting used to a new environment, rather than a bunch of parasites in sombreros having a fiesta in my estomago.
While I was constructing my comfortable fantasy, I noticed something dark scurry across the floor. Scurry is a good word, don t get me wrong, but I don t know if it is the optimal one for this occaision, perhaps something more like flashed or richocheted, maybe even warped, there we go, something warped across the bathroom floor. I probably could have sat on that toilet for a good while, but in a couple seconds I was back, sweating in my bed. between the sweating, fever, sunburn, cramps, pains, and warping bugs, I knew I was in for a long night. I started to see roaches everywhere, in fact, there was a period of time where I watched glow in the dark roaches crawling on the walls around me. Now I have never seen a glow in the dark roach, but then again, we don t get to many roaches in Souris and Mayville. After a massive mental effort of reality adjustment I was able to convince my sleepy fevered brain that bugs do not glow in the dark, and that what I saw was probably swamp gas, or the lights of Venus. Somehow, I fell asleep.
The next day I went and bought some asprin, tums, and gods own gift to americans in mexico, immodium AD, along with some gatorade. I ate nothing but some soup and gelitin and read an entire book. the next day I was fine, no problemo.
I did learn though, the nightime here belongs to the things that warp in the night, and my best defense against another sleepless night is to tire myself out enough where I will positively sleep through the night.
until next time
buenos noches mis amigos
maxwell vittorinorio
I guess it s only been a couple days since I wrote last. I found a little internet shop where you can buy yourself an hour on line for ten pesos, that s a little less than a buck. best part is, its less than two blocks away from the hideout.
Well, I came to mexico planning on going to Mazatlan, never knowing that I would spend a night in Hell. That s right, the other night I woke around 2:30 in the morning to a series of surprises. The first thing to strike me was the sharp pain in my back and my stomach. here it comes I thought as I stood up to go to the bathroom. I walked barefoot across the blue and white flower print tiles on the way to el bano, where I turned on the light quickly affirmed my supposition, I should have brought some immodium AD... I chose to think of my illness as my body just getting used to a new environment, rather than a bunch of parasites in sombreros having a fiesta in my estomago.
While I was constructing my comfortable fantasy, I noticed something dark scurry across the floor. Scurry is a good word, don t get me wrong, but I don t know if it is the optimal one for this occaision, perhaps something more like flashed or richocheted, maybe even warped, there we go, something warped across the bathroom floor. I probably could have sat on that toilet for a good while, but in a couple seconds I was back, sweating in my bed. between the sweating, fever, sunburn, cramps, pains, and warping bugs, I knew I was in for a long night. I started to see roaches everywhere, in fact, there was a period of time where I watched glow in the dark roaches crawling on the walls around me. Now I have never seen a glow in the dark roach, but then again, we don t get to many roaches in Souris and Mayville. After a massive mental effort of reality adjustment I was able to convince my sleepy fevered brain that bugs do not glow in the dark, and that what I saw was probably swamp gas, or the lights of Venus. Somehow, I fell asleep.
The next day I went and bought some asprin, tums, and gods own gift to americans in mexico, immodium AD, along with some gatorade. I ate nothing but some soup and gelitin and read an entire book. the next day I was fine, no problemo.
I did learn though, the nightime here belongs to the things that warp in the night, and my best defense against another sleepless night is to tire myself out enough where I will positively sleep through the night.
until next time
buenos noches mis amigos
maxwell vittorinorio
Monday, June 09, 2003
Hola,
Well, I made it to Mazatlan. The flight was alright, I was going to fly first class, but then I figured that might arouse some suspicion and decided to slum it in coach. I met my contact at the Mazatlan air port, a dusty dive crawling with taxi drivers. Listening to the drivers shout for my attention, I could already tell this was going to be my kind of place. }
My contacts codename is Paco. He showed up after I d been sitting for about 20 minutes, I was just beginning to think I should grab a taxi and head into town solo, when a man tapped me on the shoulder asking if I was Maxwell Vittorinorio. Glancing at the throng of taxi drivers around us, I took him aside and told him my name was Erik Kornkven. I couldn t be sure, but i don t think anyone heard his slip up. You can never be too safe, Sleazy E from Souris is a powerful man, with enough money to buy himself a taxi driver or two.
Paco showed me to his car and we headed towards Mazatlan. He has a working knowledge of English but in his own words he is out of practice. I told him that was fine, since I was out of practice with my EspaÑol. We drove for about 15 minutes through the classic Mexican towns that don t have the luxury of being close to a beach or ancient ruins. The kind of towns that survive off of Mango trees and bean fields. In some places it looks like surviving is all they have time to be concerned about. I looked out the window as we drove down the highway made of American Dollars and saw a little girl walk through a doorway with a blanket over it into a house surrounded by trash, machine parts, and wild looking skinny dogs. The little girl was not wearing any shoes, and her dress, once white, was faded to the color of a pillowcase that hasn t been washed in a couple of years.
Finally we pulled into Mazatlan, for anyone who has been to Mexico before, Mazatlan follows the trend of most americanized cities. That is to say we drove through some rough looking neighborhoods before suddenly arriving at the small part of downtown that is manicured and clean. It was in this area that we pulled to a stop outside of a three story white washed building with balconies the width of the building facing the street. After unlocking the steel gate, Paco showed me up to the apartment he shares with his Mother, codename Martha. Martha is an older woman who keeps a clean house. Martha s mother was visiting from Guadalajara. Neither of the women speak a word of English. Martha, however, seems to be adept at speaking ämerican spanish, we can communicate, but i realize that the sentences we speak are probably similar to the ones being spoken at the local kindergarten. It s ok, she understands my situation and agrees to put me up for some time.
I arrived at Martha s home in the early afternoon, and after she fed me a plate of shredded fish with beans, corn, and peppers along with a couple warm tortilla s and some hand squeezed lemonade, I asked her where to find the beach. She pointed at the street out the window and said cinco calles or five streets that way. I took off in that direction with a book and some pesos and sure enough found the beach. I quickly found a beachside cantina and ordered a Pacifico, a beer brewed here in Mazatlan. I paid for it with the money Les gave me before I left. I sat and drank that Pacifico staring out at the pacific. I don t think the ocean will ever cease to amaze me, I watch the rolling waves crashing high against the rock cliffs underneat the worlds highest lighthouse, I watch the huge pelicans floating calmly on the rough seas. I watch the tiny white triangles that are the sailboats sitting anchored near the island beaches. All around me breathes the Mexican culture. Being part of a different culture, I am able to witness the workings of this one more clearly than those native too it. It manifests itself in the breeze, a type of connection between the taxi drivers, the waiters, the families playing on teh beach. There are secrets here that in my short time I will never be able to unravel.
until next time,
buenos noches mi amigos
Maxwell Vittorinorio
Well, I made it to Mazatlan. The flight was alright, I was going to fly first class, but then I figured that might arouse some suspicion and decided to slum it in coach. I met my contact at the Mazatlan air port, a dusty dive crawling with taxi drivers. Listening to the drivers shout for my attention, I could already tell this was going to be my kind of place. }
My contacts codename is Paco. He showed up after I d been sitting for about 20 minutes, I was just beginning to think I should grab a taxi and head into town solo, when a man tapped me on the shoulder asking if I was Maxwell Vittorinorio. Glancing at the throng of taxi drivers around us, I took him aside and told him my name was Erik Kornkven. I couldn t be sure, but i don t think anyone heard his slip up. You can never be too safe, Sleazy E from Souris is a powerful man, with enough money to buy himself a taxi driver or two.
Paco showed me to his car and we headed towards Mazatlan. He has a working knowledge of English but in his own words he is out of practice. I told him that was fine, since I was out of practice with my EspaÑol. We drove for about 15 minutes through the classic Mexican towns that don t have the luxury of being close to a beach or ancient ruins. The kind of towns that survive off of Mango trees and bean fields. In some places it looks like surviving is all they have time to be concerned about. I looked out the window as we drove down the highway made of American Dollars and saw a little girl walk through a doorway with a blanket over it into a house surrounded by trash, machine parts, and wild looking skinny dogs. The little girl was not wearing any shoes, and her dress, once white, was faded to the color of a pillowcase that hasn t been washed in a couple of years.
Finally we pulled into Mazatlan, for anyone who has been to Mexico before, Mazatlan follows the trend of most americanized cities. That is to say we drove through some rough looking neighborhoods before suddenly arriving at the small part of downtown that is manicured and clean. It was in this area that we pulled to a stop outside of a three story white washed building with balconies the width of the building facing the street. After unlocking the steel gate, Paco showed me up to the apartment he shares with his Mother, codename Martha. Martha is an older woman who keeps a clean house. Martha s mother was visiting from Guadalajara. Neither of the women speak a word of English. Martha, however, seems to be adept at speaking ämerican spanish, we can communicate, but i realize that the sentences we speak are probably similar to the ones being spoken at the local kindergarten. It s ok, she understands my situation and agrees to put me up for some time.
I arrived at Martha s home in the early afternoon, and after she fed me a plate of shredded fish with beans, corn, and peppers along with a couple warm tortilla s and some hand squeezed lemonade, I asked her where to find the beach. She pointed at the street out the window and said cinco calles or five streets that way. I took off in that direction with a book and some pesos and sure enough found the beach. I quickly found a beachside cantina and ordered a Pacifico, a beer brewed here in Mazatlan. I paid for it with the money Les gave me before I left. I sat and drank that Pacifico staring out at the pacific. I don t think the ocean will ever cease to amaze me, I watch the rolling waves crashing high against the rock cliffs underneat the worlds highest lighthouse, I watch the huge pelicans floating calmly on the rough seas. I watch the tiny white triangles that are the sailboats sitting anchored near the island beaches. All around me breathes the Mexican culture. Being part of a different culture, I am able to witness the workings of this one more clearly than those native too it. It manifests itself in the breeze, a type of connection between the taxi drivers, the waiters, the families playing on teh beach. There are secrets here that in my short time I will never be able to unravel.
until next time,
buenos noches mi amigos
Maxwell Vittorinorio
