Well there I was. Smuggled in, hustled out of most of my cash, only 140 Quetzals in my pocket and no idea of where to go. I look for a sign to the only destination I've heard of in Guatemala. Guatemala City. Unfortunately it's about a billion kilometers away through unknown territory, forest, mountains, and I have no map. Better get started.
I haven't eaten, I haven't had anything to drink, right now I'm running purely on a combination of anger and desperation. So I bike. I run through patches of burning forest that farmers had set a flame to make way for fields. Coconut and mango plantation stretch on for miles. The only indication that I'm headed in the right direction is the occasional road sign for Ciudad Guatemala. I take off my shirt for some relief from the intense sun while workers chop up vegetation with machetes resembling short katanas.
There are food stands, but with no idea of where I can find an ATM I keep what little cash I have out of fear. Then I come to a sign to turn for the city, which leads me on a little inhabited road to a bridge.
No. NO. GOD NO.
There isn't a bridge. It seems intense rains have literally washed the concrete away. What was once my only route to salvation is now a skeleton of metal that could come down at the slightest provocation. Defeated, I turn back, but I wasn't alone on this road.
Staring at me with teeth bared is a pack of wild dogs. But these aren't the little ankle biters I had to deal with in Tapachula. No, these are full size, full wild, fully vicious, german shepherd mixes. Five of them, and I'm fresh chicken.
"Nice Doggies. N-nice puppies."
I guess they didn't speak english. They move closer. One stares at my throat. Four snarl at my limbs. And one... I swear he had his fangs zoned in on my balls. My dangly bits. My naughty parts. For the sake of my future children, I react with a decision. It's now or never. VAMOS! I burn the back tire like a cross at a KKK meeting, right through the pack with the canines hot on my heels. They're gaining on me, fast. I pedal as hard as my chicken legs can push but it's no match for the half wolves. Every time they snap at me, I miss their jaws by centimeters.
I can't run. I can't hide. No one can help me. It's time to fight. I jump off my bike with it still in motion. My two wheeled steed ghost rides without me and I don't blame it. It goes what I estimate to be a good twenty feet before falling over like a dead gazelle.
Now to deal with the pack. It's a freaking Guatemala stand off. I lock eyes with the leader, the ball killer. Not my nuts. No today. It comes at me and gets close enough to nip my peach fuzz, but then...
BAM! My foot connects with it's throat. The half wolf gives a yelp, then starts wheezing. I turn, kick again, and my sandal hits air, but then connects with a jaw on the back swing. Thank you 3 years of junior karate. I kick, and kick, and kick. Sometimes I connect, most of it hits air, but the point is made. Two get a shot in the ribs. The testicle killer, who had the hard shot to the throat isn't moving. And the other two, seeing the pain and possible death of their comrades, just back off.
I back away to my bike. Pick it up. And ride on.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Smuggling Human Cargo
At 5 am the bus reaches Tapachula, the border city of Mexico and Guatemala. Now originally I thought I was headed to Pachula. Pachula is a laid back sea side town where you can smoke pot with the locals and burn your buns on a nude beach. Personally, I love being nude in public and this seemed like an awesome excursion. In contrast, Tapachula is locked in a border war of drugs, guns, and human trafficking. Unfortunately, I was about to unwittingly become human cargo.
Already my heart bleeds for the señora who lovingly shared her disney princess blanket and laid her head on my shoulder for the long overnight ride. She made it worth while, even while mexican soldiers turned the bus upside down looking for drugs. Drugs that I was carrying. A fine sack of pot was lovingly tucked under my balls while my heart rate sped up to the beat of dub step remix. Luckily, no federates got frisky and I made it to the border just fine. With Guatemala only a few kilometers away, I figure I can save some money and reach the border on bike.
This was my first mistake.
I pass what's left of my pot to a local who I asked for directions. He drops it to the ground like I gave him an 8 ball of crack cocaine. Whatever, as long I don't break into the exciting world of trans-border narcotics smuggling, I'm happy. Peddling down the road I attempt to see some Mayan ruins. Unfortunately I never make it. I'm greeted by a pack of WILD CHIHUAUHAS!!!
These little ankle biters are relentless and while not scary in any real sense, I am afraid of crushing one under the wheel of my front tire in front of a bunch of Mexican kids. Looking back on it, I wish I had punted those little bastards into the river, but I digress. In shame, I turn back, thwarted by tiny little four legged jerks.
Peddling to the border down a steep road comprised mostly of loose gravel and toad guts another wild dog jumps in front of me like a kamikaze bombers. Slamming on the brakes, my bike with 40 pounds of gear flips like a 12 year old chinese gymnast. Like the Irish proverb says, the road rises up to meet me, and my right hand is sliced like cheap salami. This was witnessed by 23 mexican/guatemalan road workers who took the time, not to help me, but to point and laugh while I stitch myself up with road side surgery. I choose not to become an enraged tornado, based simply on the fact that I was optimistic about Guatemala. Why am I always wrong?
I make it to the border without any paraphernalia, going in completely legit. But plenty of Guatemalans keep jumping out and going, "Hey Amigo! Buddy! Friend!"
Quick note, if you are traveling and someone you don't know calls you amigo, take out whatever weapon you have and SHANK THAT MOTHER FUCKER LIKE YOU'RE IN RIKER'S PRISON!!!
So I peddle past them with a look that says, "You people must be kidding me." That is, until one jumps in front of me with a badge that says "immigration" on it. Being a stupid American, I still think that badges mean something. I respect badges. Show me a badge in the states and I turn into Mr. Rogers. This has kept me out of many well deserved trips to the county. Here though, it's a mistake like my conception.
Everyone who shouted amigo at me swarms like killer bees. They grab my passport. Another douchebag changes my 1500 pesos into chump change Quetzals. I don't know the exchange rate so they take advantage of me like the passed out girl at a frat party. 15 people are grabbing my shit, moving my bike, telling me to hurry up. Wait, where the fuck is my passport?
I start screaming. "GET THE FUCK OFF MY STUFF! WHERE'S MY PASSPORT?! FUCK, WHERE'S MY GOD DAMN MONEY!?" Three guys with two inch long coke nails say we got it and to jump in a cab. I'm so confused and disoriented that I jump in just to escape the vultures molesting my property. As I jump into the car the coke claw trio jumps into the back. Then another guy leans halfway into my window and demands cash for allegedly helping me move my bike. No freakin' way. I shout to the driver, "VAMOS!", and he burns out and through the border. No security checks, and the guys who just took every penny I have, as well as my passport, are in the back laughing their asses off.
Something doesn't seem right. The driver keeps hauling ass into on coming traffic with me nearly defecating myself in the front seat before they take me to a public mall. Holy christ, they're demanding more money. Then it hits me. Crap, that passport isn't stamped, this isn't immigration, and I'm fucked. At this point, all I can do is buy my passport back. 700 Quetzals to the coke trio. 150 to the driver. I basically had to buy all my stuff back. It could have been a fight, but they got numbers on me.
The triplets disappear leaving me with the driver. Completely bewildered and lost, I ask the smuggler which way to the bus station. He says he can take me. For another 400 Quetzals. However he's alone now, and my rage is driving me with the explosive power of Krakatoa. I get real close, real fucking close. Two inches from his face, and whisper with teeth bared, "I could kill you right now. I could fucking murder you in front of everyone here and they would just send me home. I'm an American, they would give me a god damn medal for ending you. Get. The. Fuck. Away."
This gets the point across and he jets outta there without another word. There I stood, smuggled in, nearly penniless, and no Idea of where to go.
And the day had just started.
Already my heart bleeds for the señora who lovingly shared her disney princess blanket and laid her head on my shoulder for the long overnight ride. She made it worth while, even while mexican soldiers turned the bus upside down looking for drugs. Drugs that I was carrying. A fine sack of pot was lovingly tucked under my balls while my heart rate sped up to the beat of dub step remix. Luckily, no federates got frisky and I made it to the border just fine. With Guatemala only a few kilometers away, I figure I can save some money and reach the border on bike.
This was my first mistake.
I pass what's left of my pot to a local who I asked for directions. He drops it to the ground like I gave him an 8 ball of crack cocaine. Whatever, as long I don't break into the exciting world of trans-border narcotics smuggling, I'm happy. Peddling down the road I attempt to see some Mayan ruins. Unfortunately I never make it. I'm greeted by a pack of WILD CHIHUAUHAS!!!
These little ankle biters are relentless and while not scary in any real sense, I am afraid of crushing one under the wheel of my front tire in front of a bunch of Mexican kids. Looking back on it, I wish I had punted those little bastards into the river, but I digress. In shame, I turn back, thwarted by tiny little four legged jerks.
Peddling to the border down a steep road comprised mostly of loose gravel and toad guts another wild dog jumps in front of me like a kamikaze bombers. Slamming on the brakes, my bike with 40 pounds of gear flips like a 12 year old chinese gymnast. Like the Irish proverb says, the road rises up to meet me, and my right hand is sliced like cheap salami. This was witnessed by 23 mexican/guatemalan road workers who took the time, not to help me, but to point and laugh while I stitch myself up with road side surgery. I choose not to become an enraged tornado, based simply on the fact that I was optimistic about Guatemala. Why am I always wrong?
I make it to the border without any paraphernalia, going in completely legit. But plenty of Guatemalans keep jumping out and going, "Hey Amigo! Buddy! Friend!"
Quick note, if you are traveling and someone you don't know calls you amigo, take out whatever weapon you have and SHANK THAT MOTHER FUCKER LIKE YOU'RE IN RIKER'S PRISON!!!
So I peddle past them with a look that says, "You people must be kidding me." That is, until one jumps in front of me with a badge that says "immigration" on it. Being a stupid American, I still think that badges mean something. I respect badges. Show me a badge in the states and I turn into Mr. Rogers. This has kept me out of many well deserved trips to the county. Here though, it's a mistake like my conception.
Everyone who shouted amigo at me swarms like killer bees. They grab my passport. Another douchebag changes my 1500 pesos into chump change Quetzals. I don't know the exchange rate so they take advantage of me like the passed out girl at a frat party. 15 people are grabbing my shit, moving my bike, telling me to hurry up. Wait, where the fuck is my passport?
I start screaming. "GET THE FUCK OFF MY STUFF! WHERE'S MY PASSPORT?! FUCK, WHERE'S MY GOD DAMN MONEY!?" Three guys with two inch long coke nails say we got it and to jump in a cab. I'm so confused and disoriented that I jump in just to escape the vultures molesting my property. As I jump into the car the coke claw trio jumps into the back. Then another guy leans halfway into my window and demands cash for allegedly helping me move my bike. No freakin' way. I shout to the driver, "VAMOS!", and he burns out and through the border. No security checks, and the guys who just took every penny I have, as well as my passport, are in the back laughing their asses off.
Something doesn't seem right. The driver keeps hauling ass into on coming traffic with me nearly defecating myself in the front seat before they take me to a public mall. Holy christ, they're demanding more money. Then it hits me. Crap, that passport isn't stamped, this isn't immigration, and I'm fucked. At this point, all I can do is buy my passport back. 700 Quetzals to the coke trio. 150 to the driver. I basically had to buy all my stuff back. It could have been a fight, but they got numbers on me.
The triplets disappear leaving me with the driver. Completely bewildered and lost, I ask the smuggler which way to the bus station. He says he can take me. For another 400 Quetzals. However he's alone now, and my rage is driving me with the explosive power of Krakatoa. I get real close, real fucking close. Two inches from his face, and whisper with teeth bared, "I could kill you right now. I could fucking murder you in front of everyone here and they would just send me home. I'm an American, they would give me a god damn medal for ending you. Get. The. Fuck. Away."
This gets the point across and he jets outta there without another word. There I stood, smuggled in, nearly penniless, and no Idea of where to go.
And the day had just started.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Public Indecency an Attempted Murder
Man these past few days have been awesome. Surfing, fishing, trying in vain to hit on ladies in remedial spanish. Smoking pot in my hostel lobby while swinging in a hammock and drinking cold fortys. Made some new friends with Isaac; his buddies Chongo, Daniel, and plenty I can't remember. A surfer and a lawyer taught me how to smoke my green in the leaves of an almond tree, which I would do every night. Most chill. But I haven't seen a pair of jigglys in quite a while. So I ask Isaac if he knows where we can get a drink and see some lovely lady lumps.
Oh yea, he knows.
First we stop over at a no cover bar and pregame with a 2 liter of beer. A TWO LITER OF BEER! I'm served a giant bottle of Corona that could have been used as a murder weapon. Yea, let me just put a lime wedge in that. Splitting it up into regular mugs, we salud, and down the brew.
Now I don't really drink that much anymore. Partly because my liver looks like swiss cheese at the ripe age of 23, and partly because I get a little, shall we say... rowdy. But I can still handle myself as long as I'm not doing blow.
"Hey Isaac, you know where we can get some blow?"
Ten minutes later we're doing bumps in the baño. Now the blow in Mexico is about 593475983746 times better than it is state side. Dios mio. My eyes are stretched out of my head. You know what we need? Strippers. Mexican strippers. Back in the barrios, me and my muchacho are entering into the seediest, dirtiest strip clup that ever existed.
Immediately, a slag comes up to me and starts speaking spanish, which I do not understand. But she points to here jigglypuffs and I just say, "si". Next thing I know she is bare chested and my hands are flicking her nipples like I'm playing pacman. This blows my mind, stateside I have been banned from several bars for getting handsy. Here, I'm motorboating this girl like the coast guard. Until she sees my wallet. She literally grabs my wallet, flicks it open, and looks for come cash. Jokes on her though, I'm broke as an ethiopian peasant. Pissed off for the free action, she struts off to do her dance of shame.
Whatever babe, I got my blow. More bumps. Then I see another girl out of the corner of my eye. About six feet away is a cute girl with another guy. Wait, what's he doing? Is that his- OH GOD IT IS! This guy is right beside me boobie banging a stripper right in the middle of the club. Back and forth, jiggle jiggle. I can't help but watch in a combination of horror, disgust, and intrigue. Wow he is really into it. Doesn't even care that me and everyone else is watching. Ok, time to get out of the line of fire. Isaac and I break a few bottles, I don't know why, and dip.
This is where the night ended, but when we woke up it was night again and the party was still in us. Today though is Cinco de Mayo. Not an actual holiday in Mexico, but not gonna stop us. We meet up with Chongo and the others at a bar in a popular part of town.
Yes, with blow and towers of beer. Chug and bump, baby. We're having an awesome time. There's a sexy dance contest where you dance around a girl. My friends, I have hips that move like Shakira. It's both scary and impressive. I enter the contest and basically molest a latin girl with my package in her face, mentally scarring her for life. In fact, I do it so well that my shiny white ass wins the contest. The prize? A big ass 1.75 liter bottle of bacardi rum. Hard liquor. No way this can go bad.
Now going through hard liquor and nearly pure cocaine, we're partying like rock stars. I end up dancing with a tranny. Things just happen, ok!? Photos on my facebook. Still though it's a great time. The DJ switches up to some harder music and we start up a mosh pit. We're running around like morons and I excuse myself to the bathroom for a whiz and a bump. That's when things went horribly wrong.
I was in the bathroom for two minutes and this is what I've been able to piece together.
The mosh pit gets out of hand. Two guys go to slam Isaac, he ducks and they slam into each other. Pissed off, one of the guys slugs Isaac.
This man does not realize the mistake he's made.
Isaac, without missing a beat, starts punching him repeatedly in the face. The other guy takes a swing at my amigo, but is then on the wrong side of Isaacs coke rage. So Isaac starts choking him until he's unconcious while the first guy starts punching the back of Isaacs head.
Meanwhile in the bathroom: "God damn beer runs right through me. I've been pissing for nearly a minute straight. Jeez, I wish I had timed this."
Isaac is choking one guy while swinging at the other guy until the bouncers finally through everyone out. Walking out of the bathroom I look for my friends. "Umm... Guys? Where'd ya go?" I walk out side where Isaac; black, blue, and bloody, tells me to run home. Which I do without hesitation.
The next day, we decide that maybe we've partied enough, and tone it down. A few days later, we're saying our good byes, remeniscing about the crazy times and I'm off to Guatemala.
However, things we're about to go very, very wrong...
Oh yea, he knows.
First we stop over at a no cover bar and pregame with a 2 liter of beer. A TWO LITER OF BEER! I'm served a giant bottle of Corona that could have been used as a murder weapon. Yea, let me just put a lime wedge in that. Splitting it up into regular mugs, we salud, and down the brew.
Now I don't really drink that much anymore. Partly because my liver looks like swiss cheese at the ripe age of 23, and partly because I get a little, shall we say... rowdy. But I can still handle myself as long as I'm not doing blow.
"Hey Isaac, you know where we can get some blow?"
Ten minutes later we're doing bumps in the baño. Now the blow in Mexico is about 593475983746 times better than it is state side. Dios mio. My eyes are stretched out of my head. You know what we need? Strippers. Mexican strippers. Back in the barrios, me and my muchacho are entering into the seediest, dirtiest strip clup that ever existed.
Immediately, a slag comes up to me and starts speaking spanish, which I do not understand. But she points to here jigglypuffs and I just say, "si". Next thing I know she is bare chested and my hands are flicking her nipples like I'm playing pacman. This blows my mind, stateside I have been banned from several bars for getting handsy. Here, I'm motorboating this girl like the coast guard. Until she sees my wallet. She literally grabs my wallet, flicks it open, and looks for come cash. Jokes on her though, I'm broke as an ethiopian peasant. Pissed off for the free action, she struts off to do her dance of shame.
Whatever babe, I got my blow. More bumps. Then I see another girl out of the corner of my eye. About six feet away is a cute girl with another guy. Wait, what's he doing? Is that his- OH GOD IT IS! This guy is right beside me boobie banging a stripper right in the middle of the club. Back and forth, jiggle jiggle. I can't help but watch in a combination of horror, disgust, and intrigue. Wow he is really into it. Doesn't even care that me and everyone else is watching. Ok, time to get out of the line of fire. Isaac and I break a few bottles, I don't know why, and dip.
This is where the night ended, but when we woke up it was night again and the party was still in us. Today though is Cinco de Mayo. Not an actual holiday in Mexico, but not gonna stop us. We meet up with Chongo and the others at a bar in a popular part of town.
Yes, with blow and towers of beer. Chug and bump, baby. We're having an awesome time. There's a sexy dance contest where you dance around a girl. My friends, I have hips that move like Shakira. It's both scary and impressive. I enter the contest and basically molest a latin girl with my package in her face, mentally scarring her for life. In fact, I do it so well that my shiny white ass wins the contest. The prize? A big ass 1.75 liter bottle of bacardi rum. Hard liquor. No way this can go bad.
Now going through hard liquor and nearly pure cocaine, we're partying like rock stars. I end up dancing with a tranny. Things just happen, ok!? Photos on my facebook. Still though it's a great time. The DJ switches up to some harder music and we start up a mosh pit. We're running around like morons and I excuse myself to the bathroom for a whiz and a bump. That's when things went horribly wrong.
I was in the bathroom for two minutes and this is what I've been able to piece together.
The mosh pit gets out of hand. Two guys go to slam Isaac, he ducks and they slam into each other. Pissed off, one of the guys slugs Isaac.
This man does not realize the mistake he's made.
Isaac, without missing a beat, starts punching him repeatedly in the face. The other guy takes a swing at my amigo, but is then on the wrong side of Isaacs coke rage. So Isaac starts choking him until he's unconcious while the first guy starts punching the back of Isaacs head.
Meanwhile in the bathroom: "God damn beer runs right through me. I've been pissing for nearly a minute straight. Jeez, I wish I had timed this."
Isaac is choking one guy while swinging at the other guy until the bouncers finally through everyone out. Walking out of the bathroom I look for my friends. "Umm... Guys? Where'd ya go?" I walk out side where Isaac; black, blue, and bloody, tells me to run home. Which I do without hesitation.
The next day, we decide that maybe we've partied enough, and tone it down. A few days later, we're saying our good byes, remeniscing about the crazy times and I'm off to Guatemala.
However, things we're about to go very, very wrong...
Jet's an Autonomous Jerk
Bank of America. I wish girls would go down as fast as your stock price. I've seen suicide jumpers with less vertical dives. Now I know why. Let me explain.
I've been in mexico for around 3 weeks now with no problems. Need cash? Boom, ATM. 500 pesos here, 500 there, I live comfy. Travelling for this long though has made my clothes about as pleasant smelling as grandma's corpse on a summer day. Well I am a man of atleast some hygiene so I drop them off at a lavanderia. Unfortunately the won't be washed until the next day so I'm stuck freeballing is swim trunks. Not an issue though, a chill night in and I'll grab them in the mañana for only 20 pesos. As the night goes on I try to withdraw some cash from an ATM for some food. An error message pops up on the first one. And the next one. And the next one.
What the hell is this? There is no way I've blown through that much cash. What institution, after 3 weeks in a foreign country, would freeze an account. Bank of fucking America, that's who. I have no phone that works in Mexico, and I'm half naked, with no money to get my cash. The only thing I have is my nook to get in contact with my bank. The following is a real, unedited, conversation with abraindead zombie jackass Bank of America employee.
Welcome to an online chat session at Bank of America. Please hold while we connect you to the next available Bank of America Online Banking Specialist. Your chat may be monitored and recorded for quality purposes. Your current wait time is approximately 0 minutes. Thank you for your patience.
Thank you for choosing Bank of America. You are now being connected to a Chat Specialist. For security purposes, please remember to close your chat window when completed.
Jet: Hello! Thank you for being a valued Bank of America customer! My name is Jet. May I have your complete name?
You: Hey i{m in mexico. you guys froze my account. Please unfreeze it because i{m sitting half naked in an internet cafe because i cant get 20 pesos to get my laundry
You: and it really, really sucks being an improperly dressed sunburned white boy in mexico
You: Jara buchholz
Jet: Hi, Jara. I understand that you are inquiring to unfreeze your account.
Jet: Let me check that for you and do my best to assist you on this matter.
Jet: Can you kindly verify the last four digits of the account you are concerned about?
You: 2818
Jet: Thank you for providing me with the necessary information.
Jet: I'll be with you shortly.
You: no problemo
Jet: Upon reviewing your account I do see that your card was on restriction status.
Jet: You don't have to worry with it.
Jet: You just have to call our ATM Customer Protection Service Specialist.
You: but i'm in mexico. no telefono
You: so you can see how this is a problem
You: because i've been trying to skype for the last 1/2 hour and it just ain't working out
You: so whatever you need to know i can give it to you, mothe's maiden name, favorite pet, whatever. but we gotta get this taken care of
Jet: I understand and I can really relate to that, however if you have friend that you can call please try to contact our Service Specialist, since this is the only way for you to make your card open again.
Jet: Please contact ATM Debit Card Customer Protection at 1.602.597.2395. They are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Jet: This is a collect number so it is free. Bank of America pay the fee on this call./
Jet: I apologize for the typo error.
Jet: Rest assured that I will not provide you a specialized department number unless and until it becomes absolutely necessary as providing a number defeats the purpose of you chatting with us and we providing you quick solution to your concern.
You: Jet, If your company leaves me stranded on my vacation in puerto escondido{m exico. with no money, no way to pay for food or water, and no way to get back home, so help me god I' will work my way up the corporate ladder until i bitch slap the CEO and file a lawsuit for the near death experience that would be inflicted upon me. so maybe you guys want to try and call my skype
Jet: I understand you situation and we really want to help you with this. Do you have friend or relative that have a phone with them? If they have you can right away call our Service Specialist.
You: I hear where you?re coming from, Jet. But I'm here. Alone. With no phone..
Last text message received
Jet: I understand. I'll be with you shortly.
You: I'll be right here
I've been in mexico for around 3 weeks now with no problems. Need cash? Boom, ATM. 500 pesos here, 500 there, I live comfy. Travelling for this long though has made my clothes about as pleasant smelling as grandma's corpse on a summer day. Well I am a man of atleast some hygiene so I drop them off at a lavanderia. Unfortunately the won't be washed until the next day so I'm stuck freeballing is swim trunks. Not an issue though, a chill night in and I'll grab them in the mañana for only 20 pesos. As the night goes on I try to withdraw some cash from an ATM for some food. An error message pops up on the first one. And the next one. And the next one.
What the hell is this? There is no way I've blown through that much cash. What institution, after 3 weeks in a foreign country, would freeze an account. Bank of fucking America, that's who. I have no phone that works in Mexico, and I'm half naked, with no money to get my cash. The only thing I have is my nook to get in contact with my bank. The following is a real, unedited, conversation with a
Welcome to an online chat session at Bank of America. Please hold while we connect you to the next available Bank of America Online Banking Specialist. Your chat may be monitored and recorded for quality purposes. Your current wait time is approximately 0 minutes. Thank you for your patience.
Thank you for choosing Bank of America. You are now being connected to a Chat Specialist. For security purposes, please remember to close your chat window when completed.
Jet: Hello! Thank you for being a valued Bank of America customer! My name is Jet. May I have your complete name?
You: Hey i{m in mexico. you guys froze my account. Please unfreeze it because i{m sitting half naked in an internet cafe because i cant get 20 pesos to get my laundry
You: and it really, really sucks being an improperly dressed sunburned white boy in mexico
You: Jara buchholz
Jet: Hi, Jara. I understand that you are inquiring to unfreeze your account.
Jet: Let me check that for you and do my best to assist you on this matter.
Jet: Can you kindly verify the last four digits of the account you are concerned about?
You: 2818
Jet: Thank you for providing me with the necessary information.
Jet: I'll be with you shortly.
You: no problemo
Jet: Upon reviewing your account I do see that your card was on restriction status.
Jet: You don't have to worry with it.
Jet: You just have to call our ATM Customer Protection Service Specialist.
You: but i'm in mexico. no telefono
You: so you can see how this is a problem
You: because i've been trying to skype for the last 1/2 hour and it just ain't working out
You: so whatever you need to know i can give it to you, mothe's maiden name, favorite pet, whatever. but we gotta get this taken care of
Jet: I understand and I can really relate to that, however if you have friend that you can call please try to contact our Service Specialist, since this is the only way for you to make your card open again.
Jet: Please contact ATM Debit Card Customer Protection at 1.602.597.2395. They are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Jet: This is a collect number so it is free. Bank of America pay the fee on this call./
Jet: I apologize for the typo error.
Jet: Rest assured that I will not provide you a specialized department number unless and until it becomes absolutely necessary as providing a number defeats the purpose of you chatting with us and we providing you quick solution to your concern.
You: Jet, If your company leaves me stranded on my vacation in puerto escondido{m exico. with no money, no way to pay for food or water, and no way to get back home, so help me god I' will work my way up the corporate ladder until i bitch slap the CEO and file a lawsuit for the near death experience that would be inflicted upon me. so maybe you guys want to try and call my skype
Jet: I understand you situation and we really want to help you with this. Do you have friend or relative that have a phone with them? If they have you can right away call our Service Specialist.
You: I hear where you?re coming from, Jet. But I'm here. Alone. With no phone..
Last text message received
Jet: I understand. I'll be with you shortly.
You: I'll be right here
This was the last I heard of Jet. Through facebook I convinced the girlfriend of an old highschool friend to call the bank on my behalf. For only meeting her once, I ask a lot of this chick, but like Dominoes Pizza, she delivers fast and on time.
Here's a special message just for Jet, if he does some how read this. What the fuck do you mean you can "understand" and "relate" to my experience. When was the last time you were half naked in a mexican internet cafe? How many times have you flashed your nut sack at foreign children because your bank has the reasoning ability of a brain dead chimpanzee. Fuck you Jet. Next time put the monkey on, atleast he'll make me laugh.
Stabbed in the Face
Isaac and I have spent the last couple days chilling out and having a pretty cool time. But you know what I want to do? I'm down for some fishing. Unfortunately every fisherman wants around 400 pesos an hour to take us on the water. Fuck you 400 pesos! So me and Isaac set off for some less financially draining fun, cliff diving.
Right across from Playa Zicatella is this old spanish stone bridge about two or thee stories above the water. We walk up and see 10 year olds flinging themselves like rag dolls from the rock face. If you've never seen a 10 year old mexican belly flop from 3 stories up, it's pretty spectacular. Personally I liked how he would hit the water like it was concrete, then sink. But damn if he wasn't tough as nails.
Following suit, I jump in followed by Isaac, from a slightly lower altitude. This continues as we try to avoid the sea urchins that are on every rock under the water. My muchacho is convinced that they, along with puffer fish, eels, and nearly everything else under the water are deadly and out to get him. Looking up I see something deadly and awesome in the hands of a local fisherman. Its a hawaiian sling. A fishing spear.
I. Must. Have. This.
Excited as all hell, I pay him a hundred pesos for it, though it's probably worth about twenty. I truly don't care. I want to stab something. I throw on my goggles, dive without hesitation, and ready the spear. Me and Isaac take turns mock shooting it at each other, which is about the nautical equivalent of pointing a loaded gun at someone. Me being the stronger swimmer, finally submerge to do some serious hunting. Little fishies scurry around the rocks, oblivious to the danger.
Welcome to hell my fishy friends. A few misses to start but I soon become deadly. I wage war on the innocent angels, slaughtering whole schools. This is not a hunt, it's a genocide. In my head I can hear their tiny, bubbly screams as I skewer them like kebabs. Then one comes up to me and stares me right in the eyes, his defiance a true symbol of courage. Like the man in Tiananmen Square he will not be moved.
SO I STAB THE LITTLE BASTARD RIGHT IN HIS FACE!!!! MWAHAHAHA!!!!
My bloodlust satisfied I crawl onto the rocks where Isaac and I take stock of our kills. Not bad sir, we've filled up a whole bag with fresh fish. Now I know the whole story was filled with terrible violence, and some new hate mail from PETA is fresh on it's way, but I don't just kill for the sake of killing. Not my style. In order to win back some karma from the icthyo-genocide we hand the fish over to people who can really use it. Homeless mexican cripples. Yep, Jara done good.
The food chain was followed, the poor ate, and we wrapped the whole experience up with a celebratory smoke session on the water. Esta bien.
Right across from Playa Zicatella is this old spanish stone bridge about two or thee stories above the water. We walk up and see 10 year olds flinging themselves like rag dolls from the rock face. If you've never seen a 10 year old mexican belly flop from 3 stories up, it's pretty spectacular. Personally I liked how he would hit the water like it was concrete, then sink. But damn if he wasn't tough as nails.
Following suit, I jump in followed by Isaac, from a slightly lower altitude. This continues as we try to avoid the sea urchins that are on every rock under the water. My muchacho is convinced that they, along with puffer fish, eels, and nearly everything else under the water are deadly and out to get him. Looking up I see something deadly and awesome in the hands of a local fisherman. Its a hawaiian sling. A fishing spear.
I. Must. Have. This.
Excited as all hell, I pay him a hundred pesos for it, though it's probably worth about twenty. I truly don't care. I want to stab something. I throw on my goggles, dive without hesitation, and ready the spear. Me and Isaac take turns mock shooting it at each other, which is about the nautical equivalent of pointing a loaded gun at someone. Me being the stronger swimmer, finally submerge to do some serious hunting. Little fishies scurry around the rocks, oblivious to the danger.
Welcome to hell my fishy friends. A few misses to start but I soon become deadly. I wage war on the innocent angels, slaughtering whole schools. This is not a hunt, it's a genocide. In my head I can hear their tiny, bubbly screams as I skewer them like kebabs. Then one comes up to me and stares me right in the eyes, his defiance a true symbol of courage. Like the man in Tiananmen Square he will not be moved.
SO I STAB THE LITTLE BASTARD RIGHT IN HIS FACE!!!! MWAHAHAHA!!!!
My bloodlust satisfied I crawl onto the rocks where Isaac and I take stock of our kills. Not bad sir, we've filled up a whole bag with fresh fish. Now I know the whole story was filled with terrible violence, and some new hate mail from PETA is fresh on it's way, but I don't just kill for the sake of killing. Not my style. In order to win back some karma from the icthyo-genocide we hand the fish over to people who can really use it. Homeless mexican cripples. Yep, Jara done good.
The food chain was followed, the poor ate, and we wrapped the whole experience up with a celebratory smoke session on the water. Esta bien.
Prostitutes Make Terrible Tour Guides
Seeing as I'm in the most laid back hostel that ever existed, I decide to see if I can get ahold of a certain cactus derived substance that's quite rare North of the border. Mescaline. A potent hallucinogen found in peyote and san pedro catci. Word to the adventurous, san pedro can be legally bought in the United States and is easily converted into a drinkable tonic. Never having experienced this delicacy, I head off into the back neighborhoods. The easiest way to get into mischief is to find other like minded ne'er-do-wells so I pop into a local bar with a cute, albeit slightly pudgy bartender.
One, two, three cervezas later I've questioned everyone in the bar to no avail. No one knows where to score any mescalina. Well balls. I go out to my bike and begin to work the combination lock, but with a little buzz going on it takes me longer than usual. Just enough time for a 4 foot 9 inch mexican prostitute with a speech impediment to walk up to me.
I shit you not, the following is true.
She starts talking to me in spanish. Except it doesn't sound like spanish. It sounds like a mexican Kermit the Frog with a mouth that has sucked far too many dicks. Her mouth is filled with silver teeth, scars on her lips, breath like a sewer rat, and the body of a twelve year old boy.
I've had worse.
Tonight though, I'd like to avoid a morning dose of penicillin. She offers her sevices which I quickly decline. She lowers the price from 4 dollars to 2. As tempting as this close out sale is, I continue to say, "no gracias". Unless she has mescaline, peyote, or some other potent mind fuck, I ain't buying.
What's that you say, street whore? Through drowning cat spanish she leads me to believe she knows where to get it. Well lets vamos! I hand her one american dollar as a tip and she stares at it like she just won the lottery. That dollar... That was too much for what happened next.
She leads me to bar after bar where pimps try and throw scores of whores my direction. Every time I ask for mescaline it leads to a 10 minute conversation of, "NO GOD DAMMIT! I don't want a slag, a shot of mezcal, or a donkey show! I want mescaline do you understand!? Peyote! Alucinogentes, COMPRENDE!?"
This is fucking useless, and on top of that she keeps wanting to kiss me. Everytime she catches me by surprise and shoves her tongue down my throat I taste the cock of 500 dirty mexicans before me. It takes every bit of southern politeness and congeniality to not puke down her esophagus. Every dead end she leads me too, she gives me the same promise that the magic cacti is just around the corner.
Finally I run into a guy, Isaac, who speaks english. He's selling mezcal and chupalines from a street stand. I ask him for any ANY hallucinogens or where to get them. The dude is mad chill and tells me he'll look and to come back in an hour. I ditch the street walker and return a half hour later.
-"Nah dude, I checked but you can't get any of that around here. Just mota and blow."
"Aw dammit. Thanks though... So, umm, ya wanna smoke some pot?"
-"Fuck yea white-o! Lets go!"
He hands me a shot of mezcal for the road. It burns like fire and makes my hair stand on end. I eat a chupaline, a grasshopper covered in chile to get rid of the taste. Once done we score nearly 50 oz of green and smoke on his roof.
-"You know whitey, you're the first white guy I smoke with."
I look at him, take a puff from his aztec pipe and say, "Well dude, you're the first mexican I smoked with who I didn't think was gonna rob me."
We both laugh, and enjoy our newfound international friendship.
One, two, three cervezas later I've questioned everyone in the bar to no avail. No one knows where to score any mescalina. Well balls. I go out to my bike and begin to work the combination lock, but with a little buzz going on it takes me longer than usual. Just enough time for a 4 foot 9 inch mexican prostitute with a speech impediment to walk up to me.
I shit you not, the following is true.
She starts talking to me in spanish. Except it doesn't sound like spanish. It sounds like a mexican Kermit the Frog with a mouth that has sucked far too many dicks. Her mouth is filled with silver teeth, scars on her lips, breath like a sewer rat, and the body of a twelve year old boy.
I've had worse.
Tonight though, I'd like to avoid a morning dose of penicillin. She offers her sevices which I quickly decline. She lowers the price from 4 dollars to 2. As tempting as this close out sale is, I continue to say, "no gracias". Unless she has mescaline, peyote, or some other potent mind fuck, I ain't buying.
What's that you say, street whore? Through drowning cat spanish she leads me to believe she knows where to get it. Well lets vamos! I hand her one american dollar as a tip and she stares at it like she just won the lottery. That dollar... That was too much for what happened next.
She leads me to bar after bar where pimps try and throw scores of whores my direction. Every time I ask for mescaline it leads to a 10 minute conversation of, "NO GOD DAMMIT! I don't want a slag, a shot of mezcal, or a donkey show! I want mescaline do you understand!? Peyote! Alucinogentes, COMPRENDE!?"
This is fucking useless, and on top of that she keeps wanting to kiss me. Everytime she catches me by surprise and shoves her tongue down my throat I taste the cock of 500 dirty mexicans before me. It takes every bit of southern politeness and congeniality to not puke down her esophagus. Every dead end she leads me too, she gives me the same promise that the magic cacti is just around the corner.
Finally I run into a guy, Isaac, who speaks english. He's selling mezcal and chupalines from a street stand. I ask him for any ANY hallucinogens or where to get them. The dude is mad chill and tells me he'll look and to come back in an hour. I ditch the street walker and return a half hour later.
-"Nah dude, I checked but you can't get any of that around here. Just mota and blow."
"Aw dammit. Thanks though... So, umm, ya wanna smoke some pot?"
-"Fuck yea white-o! Lets go!"
He hands me a shot of mezcal for the road. It burns like fire and makes my hair stand on end. I eat a chupaline, a grasshopper covered in chile to get rid of the taste. Once done we score nearly 50 oz of green and smoke on his roof.
-"You know whitey, you're the first white guy I smoke with."
I look at him, take a puff from his aztec pipe and say, "Well dude, you're the first mexican I smoked with who I didn't think was gonna rob me."
We both laugh, and enjoy our newfound international friendship.
Cowabunga in Oaxaca
Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca. Literally translated it means "the hidden port", and hidden it is. While being one of the world's top surf destinations, it remains a traditional fishing and market village to this day. Legend has it that a woman, fleeing from the spaniards, used the cove and it's natural fortress of thorns to escape persecution.
Me though, I'm just here to catch some waves.
Heading towards the Pacific, I check into the first hostel I see and rent a private room for less than ten american dollars a night. My place; Hostal Shalom. One of the most awesome homes away from home I've ever been in. The reception desk doubles as a full bar. Hammocks in the lobby are free to lounge in for as long as you please, and reasonably priced chopper style bicycles and surf boards are available for rent. Although there's no tv or hot water, it gets better in a big BIG way. The next day I found out exactly how chill this hostel was as I spent the majority of my time smoking pot, night after night, in a hammock in the lobby.
Dropping off my meager possesions, I head over to la Playa Carazilillo. Big name, great waves. While the most famous beach with the biggest waves is Zicatella, I needed to take baby steps. Playa Carazilillo is a perfect spot for beginning ocean riders and pros alike. Renting a board on the beach runs me 150 pesos for the entire day with plenty of waves to wrangle.
And surf I did. Gliding over wave after wave, I only come in for sea side tortas and cola. With more surfers flocking to the water, my ride finally ends when my legs match the color of freshly cooked lobsters and a hot German chick nearly knocks me unconcious with her board. She doesn't apologize, but i can't stay mad at a body like that. Eventually I haul my water logged carcass back to the hostel and fall into a satisfied slumber, sure to be peeling for weeks to come.
Me though, I'm just here to catch some waves.
Heading towards the Pacific, I check into the first hostel I see and rent a private room for less than ten american dollars a night. My place; Hostal Shalom. One of the most awesome homes away from home I've ever been in. The reception desk doubles as a full bar. Hammocks in the lobby are free to lounge in for as long as you please, and reasonably priced chopper style bicycles and surf boards are available for rent. Although there's no tv or hot water, it gets better in a big BIG way. The next day I found out exactly how chill this hostel was as I spent the majority of my time smoking pot, night after night, in a hammock in the lobby.
Dropping off my meager possesions, I head over to la Playa Carazilillo. Big name, great waves. While the most famous beach with the biggest waves is Zicatella, I needed to take baby steps. Playa Carazilillo is a perfect spot for beginning ocean riders and pros alike. Renting a board on the beach runs me 150 pesos for the entire day with plenty of waves to wrangle.
And surf I did. Gliding over wave after wave, I only come in for sea side tortas and cola. With more surfers flocking to the water, my ride finally ends when my legs match the color of freshly cooked lobsters and a hot German chick nearly knocks me unconcious with her board. She doesn't apologize, but i can't stay mad at a body like that. Eventually I haul my water logged carcass back to the hostel and fall into a satisfied slumber, sure to be peeling for weeks to come.
Everything is for Sale in District Federal
Finally in a sober state of mind, I wake up in DF, Mexico. My bus won't be departing from this geographic location until 5:30 in the afternoon. With only a short stop over and no real destination in mind, I hang a left toward some street food. No health codes, no problem. I grab a delicious torta cubana with ham and pine apple and continue on.
Unfortunately with mere hours between me and the next leg of my journey, I don't get to see all that this culturally diverse land has to offer. However, just as the spanish came here in search of fortune and gold, one doesn't have to look far to find treasure in Mayan territory. My hunting grounds? El mercado. The giant market place of this city. In a seemingly endless maze of tents and stalls, everything is for sale.
Taking pictures with my soon to be "misplaced" camera, butchers proubly display the heads of decapitaed farm animals. These are a people who know exactly where their food comes from. By contrast, we in the states rarely see the source of our mass produced, antibiotic injected meat products. If no one had let me in on the secret, I would have told you that chickens pop out of an egg prewrapped with a price tag. The butcher, with a grin, chops up a pig head in front of me and I can't help but start to feel hungry again.
Moving deeper into the mercado labyrinth a plethora of flavors hide like nuggets of aztec gold. Freshly squeezed juice and coconut milk wets my whistle, and you can become more intimately acquainted with your recently slaughtered swine amigo. Cameras that are hotter than the caliente salsa can be bought on the cheap. For the truly bold, stop a few booths over for a more permanent souvenir. You heard right; flea market tattoos. That might be a bit much, even for me.
Regretting the shortness of my stay, I make my way back to the bus station, keeping a mental note to retur to this corner of the globe.
Unfortunately with mere hours between me and the next leg of my journey, I don't get to see all that this culturally diverse land has to offer. However, just as the spanish came here in search of fortune and gold, one doesn't have to look far to find treasure in Mayan territory. My hunting grounds? El mercado. The giant market place of this city. In a seemingly endless maze of tents and stalls, everything is for sale.
Taking pictures with my soon to be "misplaced" camera, butchers proubly display the heads of decapitaed farm animals. These are a people who know exactly where their food comes from. By contrast, we in the states rarely see the source of our mass produced, antibiotic injected meat products. If no one had let me in on the secret, I would have told you that chickens pop out of an egg prewrapped with a price tag. The butcher, with a grin, chops up a pig head in front of me and I can't help but start to feel hungry again.
Moving deeper into the mercado labyrinth a plethora of flavors hide like nuggets of aztec gold. Freshly squeezed juice and coconut milk wets my whistle, and you can become more intimately acquainted with your recently slaughtered swine amigo. Cameras that are hotter than the caliente salsa can be bought on the cheap. For the truly bold, stop a few booths over for a more permanent souvenir. You heard right; flea market tattoos. That might be a bit much, even for me.
Regretting the shortness of my stay, I make my way back to the bus station, keeping a mental note to retur to this corner of the globe.
Well Lubricated with Mota Oil
Mexico City. District Federal. Or as I like to call it; Mexico, Mexico, Mexico. A city, a state, a country. One of the largest cities in the world, it maintains a population of around 26 million citizens.
Now how the hell did I get here? It's a two day bus ride from Puerto Vallarta via the slow bus and I seem to have magically appeared out of nowhere. The only realization that we've arrived comes from an irritated bus driver telling me to vamos. Let's retrace events, shall we?
I bought my ticket through a mix of trash spanish and wild hand gestures, pointing to a map on the bus station wall. A quick quesadilla for the road before I go through another 48 hours in a "first class" bus seat.
Security check. Mexican federales, with their full automatic overkill stand imposingly by the xrays and metal detectors. I figure like American TSA agents, it's more for show rather than deadly Mexican justice. I put my bags through the scanner. All clear. Obviously they can't x-ray my bike so I walk through in plain view with a water bottle full of marijuana infused cooking oil. Everything goes as smooth as Rob Thomas. Soon we're moving and the soldiers disappear behind a wall of mountains.
Know what time it is? It's party time! I take a gulp of my inebriating concoction. It tastes like somebody took an oily shit in my bottle as some sort of sick practical joke. Gagging, I chase it down with a mexi-soda similar to 7 up. Only thing left to do is wait.
Something to know about me; I am not what you would call "a patient man". About half an hour goes by without so much as a buzz.
Impatient, I take another shot. This tastes worse than before and slides down my throat like eel slime. Gag. Chase. Wait. I may be getting a few looks from the locals. A gringo drinking from one bottle, holding back puke, then shoving off brand soda from another bottle into his pie hole raises questions. I neither notice nor care.
Another half an hour goes by and I'm almost certain I've fucked this operation up. Logical decision; take two more shots!
Oh god. Dios mio. The oil almost comes back for a rematch this time. Thankfully though I swallow like a porn star and everything is kosher.
Suddenly I'm very, very hungry. Are these the munchies? Digging in my bag I eat a weeks worth of jerky, granola bars, and melted almond joys. Right now there's a buzz in my head and the bees are starting to swarm. Still coming up on my THC rollercoaster, I'm flying over the mountains. I'm high as a kite. Blasted like an astronaut. There are no problems in this world that could bring me back to earth. The spanish dubbed american movies are suddenly hilarious. Adam Sandler ducks around his movie with the classic stupidity I've come to love, but now he's a mexi-jew! This is too much. I laugh like a special kid finger painting pictures of dicks. The feeling is probably the same.
The bus leans dangerously over the cliffs. No guard rails. I look out of my window as the bus leans over at a startingly diagonal angle on a particularly treacherous stretch of road and I have my last coherent thought.
"We're all going to die on this bus... I'm okay with that. Hehehehe..."
Well that's it. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in District Federal with around 30 hours completely unaccounted for. I don't know what I did, what I ate, the sights I saw, or the women I came on to. Luckily, I didn't soil myself, so I'll count it as a win.
Here in Mexico, that's something to be happy about.
Now how the hell did I get here? It's a two day bus ride from Puerto Vallarta via the slow bus and I seem to have magically appeared out of nowhere. The only realization that we've arrived comes from an irritated bus driver telling me to vamos. Let's retrace events, shall we?
I bought my ticket through a mix of trash spanish and wild hand gestures, pointing to a map on the bus station wall. A quick quesadilla for the road before I go through another 48 hours in a "first class" bus seat.
Security check. Mexican federales, with their full automatic overkill stand imposingly by the xrays and metal detectors. I figure like American TSA agents, it's more for show rather than deadly Mexican justice. I put my bags through the scanner. All clear. Obviously they can't x-ray my bike so I walk through in plain view with a water bottle full of marijuana infused cooking oil. Everything goes as smooth as Rob Thomas. Soon we're moving and the soldiers disappear behind a wall of mountains.
Know what time it is? It's party time! I take a gulp of my inebriating concoction. It tastes like somebody took an oily shit in my bottle as some sort of sick practical joke. Gagging, I chase it down with a mexi-soda similar to 7 up. Only thing left to do is wait.
Something to know about me; I am not what you would call "a patient man". About half an hour goes by without so much as a buzz.
Impatient, I take another shot. This tastes worse than before and slides down my throat like eel slime. Gag. Chase. Wait. I may be getting a few looks from the locals. A gringo drinking from one bottle, holding back puke, then shoving off brand soda from another bottle into his pie hole raises questions. I neither notice nor care.
Another half an hour goes by and I'm almost certain I've fucked this operation up. Logical decision; take two more shots!
Oh god. Dios mio. The oil almost comes back for a rematch this time. Thankfully though I swallow like a porn star and everything is kosher.
Suddenly I'm very, very hungry. Are these the munchies? Digging in my bag I eat a weeks worth of jerky, granola bars, and melted almond joys. Right now there's a buzz in my head and the bees are starting to swarm. Still coming up on my THC rollercoaster, I'm flying over the mountains. I'm high as a kite. Blasted like an astronaut. There are no problems in this world that could bring me back to earth. The spanish dubbed american movies are suddenly hilarious. Adam Sandler ducks around his movie with the classic stupidity I've come to love, but now he's a mexi-jew! This is too much. I laugh like a special kid finger painting pictures of dicks. The feeling is probably the same.
The bus leans dangerously over the cliffs. No guard rails. I look out of my window as the bus leans over at a startingly diagonal angle on a particularly treacherous stretch of road and I have my last coherent thought.
"We're all going to die on this bus... I'm okay with that. Hehehehe..."
Well that's it. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in District Federal with around 30 hours completely unaccounted for. I don't know what I did, what I ate, the sights I saw, or the women I came on to. Luckily, I didn't soil myself, so I'll count it as a win.
Here in Mexico, that's something to be happy about.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
If I Can Find A Churches Chicken Then I'm Too Close To Home
I´ve spent my days in Puerto Vallarta mostly stoned off my ass and looking out from my wrap around balcony. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little like a Latin American drug lord. My Closet is constantly filled with smoke and my tv is stuck to cops. The only show that's in english. Apparently an American acting like an idiot is amusing in any language. Make no mistake though, I continue to explore the surrounding area, catching eyes with any of the chicas who look my way.
The culinary selection in the coastal village is vast and a true temptation for the adventurous palete. From the tourist centered dine in restaurants that I desperately avoid, to the streetside stands with questionable health practices that I love. Unfortunately with the influx of American culture, so too come the food chains that cater to overweight vacationers.
Mickey D's, KFC, Churches Chicken, Dominoes.
Don't get me wrong, put me in anywhere USA and I'll have a pizza with stuffed crust and an order of breadsticks at my front door. Here, it seems to mar the exotic flavor and spanish colonial influence that the town is known for. So a few days later, I decide to head off to somewhere a bit more culturally unique.
Puerto Escondido. Surfer's Paradise.
A complication: I still have enough wacky tobaccy to bake a highschool marching band. With my level of police paranoia I decide not to travel with such an obvious package of mexican grown good times. So I come up with a clever plan. Taking the mota I put it in my water bottle, cover it in oil, and set it in the 5903274 degree Mexican sun. Any extra I smoke by emptying cigarettes and filling it with my high spice. Why cigarettes you ask? Because in the cannabis capital, they don't sell papers. Weird right? I went from shop to shop asking, "fubar papel?". That's probably the incorrect terminology, but the motion of pinching my fingers and putting it to my lips gets the point across. My nonverbal communication skills have become exceedingly efficient. Alas, the answer is still no and I'm forced to smoke out of the hollow carcasses of Pall Mall death sticks.
24 Hours later my mota oil is ready and I'm on my way to the first stretch of my journey to District Federal.
BONUS POST!!!!
While I was in PV, in a state of stonage I left my bike chained outside completely strapped with goodies. The next morning all gone. Fishing pole, flashlight, batteries, even my trash. Which kind of confused me that some theives would go through the trouble of actually cleaning my bike. Now that's kind of a pain, but I really wasn't mad. Maybe it was the tropical paradise, maybe it was the quarter pound of pot, but I just wasn't angry. Besides, I had commited the mexican equivalent of parking a Bently in certain parts of Harlem.
Finally checking out of my hotel days later, there was the biggest surprise of my life. 12 mexicans came out into the street with a bag filled with all my crap. They had taken everything off because this stupid american was setting himself up to get jacked. Many graciases and a few manly tears later, my faith in humanity had been completely restored.
The culinary selection in the coastal village is vast and a true temptation for the adventurous palete. From the tourist centered dine in restaurants that I desperately avoid, to the streetside stands with questionable health practices that I love. Unfortunately with the influx of American culture, so too come the food chains that cater to overweight vacationers.
Mickey D's, KFC, Churches Chicken, Dominoes.
Don't get me wrong, put me in anywhere USA and I'll have a pizza with stuffed crust and an order of breadsticks at my front door. Here, it seems to mar the exotic flavor and spanish colonial influence that the town is known for. So a few days later, I decide to head off to somewhere a bit more culturally unique.
Puerto Escondido. Surfer's Paradise.
A complication: I still have enough wacky tobaccy to bake a highschool marching band. With my level of police paranoia I decide not to travel with such an obvious package of mexican grown good times. So I come up with a clever plan. Taking the mota I put it in my water bottle, cover it in oil, and set it in the 5903274 degree Mexican sun. Any extra I smoke by emptying cigarettes and filling it with my high spice. Why cigarettes you ask? Because in the cannabis capital, they don't sell papers. Weird right? I went from shop to shop asking, "fubar papel?". That's probably the incorrect terminology, but the motion of pinching my fingers and putting it to my lips gets the point across. My nonverbal communication skills have become exceedingly efficient. Alas, the answer is still no and I'm forced to smoke out of the hollow carcasses of Pall Mall death sticks.
24 Hours later my mota oil is ready and I'm on my way to the first stretch of my journey to District Federal.
BONUS POST!!!!
While I was in PV, in a state of stonage I left my bike chained outside completely strapped with goodies. The next morning all gone. Fishing pole, flashlight, batteries, even my trash. Which kind of confused me that some theives would go through the trouble of actually cleaning my bike. Now that's kind of a pain, but I really wasn't mad. Maybe it was the tropical paradise, maybe it was the quarter pound of pot, but I just wasn't angry. Besides, I had commited the mexican equivalent of parking a Bently in certain parts of Harlem.
Finally checking out of my hotel days later, there was the biggest surprise of my life. 12 mexicans came out into the street with a bag filled with all my crap. They had taken everything off because this stupid american was setting himself up to get jacked. Many graciases and a few manly tears later, my faith in humanity had been completely restored.
Don't Get High While Buying Drugs
Well what did you expect? You're in Mexico; the source of a large percentage of the United States' marijuana supply. The cannabis Cost Co. The sensimilla Sam's Club. The weed Wal-Mart. Call it what you will, this is ground zero for mota cultivation. It's time to get high.
I head off with the vague direction of the taco stand dealer. Except I can't remember where the hell I was supposed to go. Left. Right. Figure eight. My two wheeled steed takes me down every street and back road possible. As I peddle, the cobblestones pound my ass like I'm in prison and the impossibly steep hills work my legs like a chinese kid at a Nike factory.
Pause for a second.
These hills are about one step down from being sheer cliffs. Easily a seventy degree angle. Amigos, that's a bitch to ride. But what if we added boulder-like street rocks to the mix so it's a coccyx breaking experience? Well now we have a perfect hell reserved especially for Lance Armstrong.
Okay, maybe not the friendliest roads, but I was seeing every part of Puerto Vallarta in my quest for the burning bush. It's worth checking out the board walk covered insickening whimsical tourist traps, like a restaraunt featuring fat rockstars and locals dressed as disney characters mere minutes from suffering catastophic heat stoke. Or maybe the coast of La Playa Muerto, which must refer to the dead peeling skin of vacationing midwesterners, is still in the top 10 of beaches I've seen. Not just because I've seen less than 10 beaches in my life. Still though, this does not complete my mission.
So it's through the barrios again, where I cautiously start asking the locals in my Dora The Explorer spanish, "Donde es la mota?". In english- "Where's the weed?". Now this is a very blunt approach but with my options small and my grasp of the lingo even smaller it's the best I can do. My first few attempts turn up dry. Although more likely they didn't want to sell to an overly bold foreigner. Soon enough though I find what I'm looking for from a couple of dudes chilling in front of a convienience store. Imagine them as Jay and Silent Bob, except mexican and in tank tops.
"Donde es la mota?" I ask in the same tone of voice I had in 8th grade when I first asked a girl if I could touch her boobies. They look around nervously then ask me in spanish how much I'm looking for. The conversation went a little something like this.
"Cien. One hundred pesos."
-"No. Cien cincuenta."
"150 pesos? No not that much"
-"Come on, mang. Es muy bueno."
I try in vain to talk down the price but I was never that good at haggling, so I hand him 150 pesos. Roughly 14 american dollars.
"Diez minutos. 10 minutes.", Mexican Jay says before he walks over to a group of guys and heads into a tiny shack made out of corrugated steel with one of his buddies.
At this point, I'm fairly sure I've lost my cash, sitting on the sidewalk with my thumb up my butt. But lo and behold about two minutes later he emerges with half of a fat ass joint.. Lights it, takes a puff before passing it to me. I'm a little surprised to smoke it on the street, even in Mexico. Just like it is state side though, I assume he needed to know if I was cool. So I take a hit and start coughing with him. He takes another toke as school children pass by then begins to pass it to me.
Now I'm an avid drug user and ne'er-do-well, but children are off limits in my very limited moral high ground. No need to set a bad example for the niños. Plus he knows I'm down, so no need to be stupid. I respectfully decline his offer.
"No es cool, mang.", pushing it towards my face. I decline again. Suddenly there's a lot of spanish spoken in a slightly more serious tone, the fatty still in my face. Oh cracker jacks. I don't exactly know whats going on, but from context clues and facial expressions I summarize something along the the line of, "This is not a question, mother fucker, smoke the god damn joint!".
I'm already high. Puff again. Stoned. Keep hitting. Soon I'm flying.
Apparently satisfied with my state of intoxication, his muchacho comes out of the house with what I estimate is damn near a quarter pound of sticky green emerging from his boxers. The dealer passes it to his buddy who passes it to me. I stuff the baggie, moist with ball sweat, into my bike pouch, linger for a minute, and take off.
Well that was stressful, but wait! There's More! What more could there be you ask? All I have to do is zip back to my hotel room and smoke the night away. Oh that's right, I'm balls high. With my memory suddenly as foggy as the street I just came from, the paranoia sets in.
I remember an article I read a while back that stated mexi-dealers would turn foreigners over to the policia. In exchange, the cops would overlook the business with the locals. Now that may or may not be true, but in my inebriated state I was convinced every federale was gunning for my white ass.
Cops here are not your small town, Deputy Dan, help you when your car breaks down, officers of the law. They are hardcore, assault rifle carrying, riot gear toting, soldiers. I tried asking one for the time once. He pointed to his gun and said, "No tienes las horas.". Point is, don't fuck with them.
Desperately looking for any distinguishable landmark, I seem to pass every officer in a 10 kilometer radius. Twice. The entire time with a blood shot look of guilt that screams strip search, and I don't think they need probable cause here.
Sweet mercy, I have to chill out before I'm bribing my way out of a mexican prison. Channeling the spirit of famed narco trafficer, George Jung, I start to calm down. Another half hour of being lost and coming down from my high, I make it to my room, hot box my closet, and fall into that deep sleep that Mary J lovingly tucks me into.
I head off with the vague direction of the taco stand dealer. Except I can't remember where the hell I was supposed to go. Left. Right. Figure eight. My two wheeled steed takes me down every street and back road possible. As I peddle, the cobblestones pound my ass like I'm in prison and the impossibly steep hills work my legs like a chinese kid at a Nike factory.
Pause for a second.
These hills are about one step down from being sheer cliffs. Easily a seventy degree angle. Amigos, that's a bitch to ride. But what if we added boulder-like street rocks to the mix so it's a coccyx breaking experience? Well now we have a perfect hell reserved especially for Lance Armstrong.
Okay, maybe not the friendliest roads, but I was seeing every part of Puerto Vallarta in my quest for the burning bush. It's worth checking out the board walk covered in
So it's through the barrios again, where I cautiously start asking the locals in my Dora The Explorer spanish, "Donde es la mota?". In english- "Where's the weed?". Now this is a very blunt approach but with my options small and my grasp of the lingo even smaller it's the best I can do. My first few attempts turn up dry. Although more likely they didn't want to sell to an overly bold foreigner. Soon enough though I find what I'm looking for from a couple of dudes chilling in front of a convienience store. Imagine them as Jay and Silent Bob, except mexican and in tank tops.
"Donde es la mota?" I ask in the same tone of voice I had in 8th grade when I first asked a girl if I could touch her boobies. They look around nervously then ask me in spanish how much I'm looking for. The conversation went a little something like this.
"Cien. One hundred pesos."
-"No. Cien cincuenta."
"150 pesos? No not that much"
-"Come on, mang. Es muy bueno."
I try in vain to talk down the price but I was never that good at haggling, so I hand him 150 pesos. Roughly 14 american dollars.
"Diez minutos. 10 minutes.", Mexican Jay says before he walks over to a group of guys and heads into a tiny shack made out of corrugated steel with one of his buddies.
At this point, I'm fairly sure I've lost my cash, sitting on the sidewalk with my thumb up my butt. But lo and behold about two minutes later he emerges with half of a fat ass joint.. Lights it, takes a puff before passing it to me. I'm a little surprised to smoke it on the street, even in Mexico. Just like it is state side though, I assume he needed to know if I was cool. So I take a hit and start coughing with him. He takes another toke as school children pass by then begins to pass it to me.
Now I'm an avid drug user and ne'er-do-well, but children are off limits in my very limited moral high ground. No need to set a bad example for the niños. Plus he knows I'm down, so no need to be stupid. I respectfully decline his offer.
"No es cool, mang.", pushing it towards my face. I decline again. Suddenly there's a lot of spanish spoken in a slightly more serious tone, the fatty still in my face. Oh cracker jacks. I don't exactly know whats going on, but from context clues and facial expressions I summarize something along the the line of, "This is not a question, mother fucker, smoke the god damn joint!".
I'm already high. Puff again. Stoned. Keep hitting. Soon I'm flying.
Apparently satisfied with my state of intoxication, his muchacho comes out of the house with what I estimate is damn near a quarter pound of sticky green emerging from his boxers. The dealer passes it to his buddy who passes it to me. I stuff the baggie, moist with ball sweat, into my bike pouch, linger for a minute, and take off.
Well that was stressful, but wait! There's More! What more could there be you ask? All I have to do is zip back to my hotel room and smoke the night away. Oh that's right, I'm balls high. With my memory suddenly as foggy as the street I just came from, the paranoia sets in.
I remember an article I read a while back that stated mexi-dealers would turn foreigners over to the policia. In exchange, the cops would overlook the business with the locals. Now that may or may not be true, but in my inebriated state I was convinced every federale was gunning for my white ass.
Cops here are not your small town, Deputy Dan, help you when your car breaks down, officers of the law. They are hardcore, assault rifle carrying, riot gear toting, soldiers. I tried asking one for the time once. He pointed to his gun and said, "No tienes las horas.". Point is, don't fuck with them.
Desperately looking for any distinguishable landmark, I seem to pass every officer in a 10 kilometer radius. Twice. The entire time with a blood shot look of guilt that screams strip search, and I don't think they need probable cause here.
Sweet mercy, I have to chill out before I'm bribing my way out of a mexican prison. Channeling the spirit of famed narco trafficer, George Jung, I start to calm down. Another half hour of being lost and coming down from my high, I make it to my room, hot box my closet, and fall into that deep sleep that Mary J lovingly tucks me into.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
White Man In A Strange Land
Using a local internet cafe, I make reservations for Hotel Villa Del Mar Tradicional. Or in english, The Traditional Village By The Sea... I think... The cheapest I could find online with a price tag of 377 pesos, roughly $28 dollars american. Unfortunately my situation is still the same. I'm lost, and asking for directions is useless. Mexicans are a very helpful people, and even if they don't know where the hell you're going, they'll do the best the can to give you directions. Travelling through the tourist areas and the barrios (the hood) I ask,"Donde es la Villa Del Mar?" on every block. Regretting all those times in spanish class where I was fantasizing about the teacher instead of paying attention, I ride on.
Confused and hungry I stop by a taco stand for the best (and only) tacos durangos I've ever had. Tucked on the edge of a back road, I bite into the crunchy, salsa covered tortilla. Stuffed with what I guess is jicama or potatoes. "Que rico", I exclaim to the proprietor, a kind woman in her 50's. I know this means "holy fuck this is the best thing ever" because I had a Puerto Rican girlfriend and she used to shout this out during sex. These tacos are almost as good as having sex with me, maybe better. After getting rough directions, a man steps out of his yard and shouts, "Mota! Mota!"
I know this word; mota. Need a translation? Pot, weed, green, mauie wowie, wacky tobaccy, sticky, loud, dank, kush, cannabis, sativa, smoke. In short: marijuana. "No gracias." I say to the dealer, but only because I'm still lost and the last thing I need is to be searched by the federales with no idea of where I'm staying. However, I do attempt to remember how I arrived at the taquiria for a return trip.
Beautiful thing about PV is that though being a popular tourist destination for Mexicanos and gringos alike, it still holds on to tradicional spanish influence. Keep an eye out and you'll see it everywhere. From the artistic yet functional architecture, down to the cobblestone streets. Lots and lots of cobblestone streets. A bicyclists hell. After going up and over the hills of the rustic town, the constant vibration has taken away the feeling in my pinkie and ring fingers on each hand.
This is the breaking point. I've traveled hundreds of miles by bike. From Florence, SC to Charleston. From Charleston to Atlanta, GA. But lost, hot, and my ass quickly following my fingers, I grab a taxi and have him take me to the hotel. For loading my bike and dealing with my remedial linguistic skills, I tip him double the cost of the ride. About 3 dollars.
Showing the receptionist my card, "Jara Buchholz Travel & Adventure Writer", ensures I get a good room every time. Up the stairs, to the right, room 37. Positioned on the corner with a wrap around balcony, it's the best view in the house. If you don't mind being inches away from a live electrical transformer. Well I was never a stickler for safety and certainly not now. Especially when I'm having my first real bath in a week.
Turning on the faucet with the excitedness of a virgin at a whore house, I wait for the water to heat up. And I wait. Watch some tv. Spank it. Finally a good 45 minutes later the water becomes a passable temperature for bathing. With the smell of BO a distant memory, it's time to hit the town.
Confused and hungry I stop by a taco stand for the best (and only) tacos durangos I've ever had. Tucked on the edge of a back road, I bite into the crunchy, salsa covered tortilla. Stuffed with what I guess is jicama or potatoes. "Que rico", I exclaim to the proprietor, a kind woman in her 50's. I know this means "holy fuck this is the best thing ever" because I had a Puerto Rican girlfriend and she used to shout this out during sex. These tacos are almost as good as having sex with me, maybe better. After getting rough directions, a man steps out of his yard and shouts, "Mota! Mota!"
I know this word; mota. Need a translation? Pot, weed, green, mauie wowie, wacky tobaccy, sticky, loud, dank, kush, cannabis, sativa, smoke. In short: marijuana. "No gracias." I say to the dealer, but only because I'm still lost and the last thing I need is to be searched by the federales with no idea of where I'm staying. However, I do attempt to remember how I arrived at the taquiria for a return trip.
Beautiful thing about PV is that though being a popular tourist destination for Mexicanos and gringos alike, it still holds on to tradicional spanish influence. Keep an eye out and you'll see it everywhere. From the artistic yet functional architecture, down to the cobblestone streets. Lots and lots of cobblestone streets. A bicyclists hell. After going up and over the hills of the rustic town, the constant vibration has taken away the feeling in my pinkie and ring fingers on each hand.
This is the breaking point. I've traveled hundreds of miles by bike. From Florence, SC to Charleston. From Charleston to Atlanta, GA. But lost, hot, and my ass quickly following my fingers, I grab a taxi and have him take me to the hotel. For loading my bike and dealing with my remedial linguistic skills, I tip him double the cost of the ride. About 3 dollars.
Showing the receptionist my card, "Jara Buchholz Travel & Adventure Writer", ensures I get a good room every time. Up the stairs, to the right, room 37. Positioned on the corner with a wrap around balcony, it's the best view in the house. If you don't mind being inches away from a live electrical transformer. Well I was never a stickler for safety and certainly not now. Especially when I'm having my first real bath in a week.
Turning on the faucet with the excitedness of a virgin at a whore house, I wait for the water to heat up. And I wait. Watch some tv. Spank it. Finally a good 45 minutes later the water becomes a passable temperature for bathing. With the smell of BO a distant memory, it's time to hit the town.
In the Land of Peeling Skin
The chihuahua bus pulls in to the station and I exit, refusing to let anyone touch my baggage. Not on a matter of security, but frugality. No help, no tipping. Ten minutes later I've assembled my bicycle. A pump of air at the pemex station gets me ready to explore the new territory.
Did I just say explore? That's a euphemism for "I don't know where I am or where in the hell I'm going." Translation: lost. So at 4 am my navigation consists of, "Ok is that the sun? I should probably go the other way to the ocean." A sketchy idea at best, I work my way into the neighboring villas. Having the internal compass of a brain dead monkey, the majority of my time is spent retracing my steps from every dead end. However, there's a shine to the mornings of Mexico. At 5 am school girls are out in their catholic uniforms.
Now when I say say school girls, I mean bangin' latina teenagers. With skirts as short as my attention span I can´t help but wonder if they're really headed to school or the casting call of Backdoor Latinas 5. What´s the age of consent here anyway?
Jailbait aside, the locals are already hard at work at tortillerias and catching the rickety chicken buses to their respective occupations. Like a mouse in a maze finally reaching the queso, I stumble upon the pacific ocean. Dragging my bike and 40 pounds of gear through sand, I remove my boots and take my first tentative steps into the Pacific ocean. It's colder than expected, but I've been on a bus for 3 days and I´m tired of smelling like cat piss. Pressing on, I take an Improvised salt water bath. Slightly cleaner and drying off on the rocks I take a look at the scenery. Tropical fish swim at my feet, neon crabs scuttle on the rocks, and sea urchins stick out like underwater pin cushions. Suddenly a strange level of zen-like calmness washes over me and I can't help but think that this is paradise.
But fuck I'm still lost.
Did I just say explore? That's a euphemism for "I don't know where I am or where in the hell I'm going." Translation: lost. So at 4 am my navigation consists of, "Ok is that the sun? I should probably go the other way to the ocean." A sketchy idea at best, I work my way into the neighboring villas. Having the internal compass of a brain dead monkey, the majority of my time is spent retracing my steps from every dead end. However, there's a shine to the mornings of Mexico. At 5 am school girls are out in their catholic uniforms.
Now when I say say school girls, I mean bangin' latina teenagers. With skirts as short as my attention span I can´t help but wonder if they're really headed to school or the casting call of Backdoor Latinas 5. What´s the age of consent here anyway?
Jailbait aside, the locals are already hard at work at tortillerias and catching the rickety chicken buses to their respective occupations. Like a mouse in a maze finally reaching the queso, I stumble upon the pacific ocean. Dragging my bike and 40 pounds of gear through sand, I remove my boots and take my first tentative steps into the Pacific ocean. It's colder than expected, but I've been on a bus for 3 days and I´m tired of smelling like cat piss. Pressing on, I take an Improvised salt water bath. Slightly cleaner and drying off on the rocks I take a look at the scenery. Tropical fish swim at my feet, neon crabs scuttle on the rocks, and sea urchins stick out like underwater pin cushions. Suddenly a strange level of zen-like calmness washes over me and I can't help but think that this is paradise.
But fuck I'm still lost.
You ride Greyhound. I'll ride Chihuahua.
As the policia motion me through the metal detector the distinct beep goes off, telling the federales that I may be carrying a little extra protection. He asks for my pocket knife. If I plan onj leaving Juarez, it's a necessary sacrifice. Then my bags are to be x-rayed. Best to hand over everything now before I end up in a back room with no cameras. Doubling back I surrender my much larger hunting knife to the officer. He examines the blade. Quality american full tang construction with a titanium nitride coating. Courtesy of your local walmart. In return he gives me a wide eyed look of disbelief. I simply shrug my shoulders with an expression that says, "What did you expect, this is Juarez." After a final bag check and more tips demanded from bag handlers, I'm on my way to Puerto Vallarta.
A quick side note, mexicans expect to be tipped for nearly everything. Opening the door, tip. Holding my bags, tip. Doing your fucking job, tip. Well fine, Mexico. It may be your culture. It may be because I'm a gringo. But from now on, I'm not tipping more than 5 pesos, and if you don't like it you can suck my chorizo!
I always thought travelling by bus was a great way to save money, meet people, and see the landscape. However, when you no habla the español and you're riding through a desert, things can be a bit more complicated.
While Mexico's towns and villas provide endless sources of exploration, rural mexico can seem like the chase scene in a Wily Coyote cartoon where the background constantly repeats itself. Desert, mountain, a horse, desert, mountain, a dead horse. But you can always lean back, get comfy, and watch american movies badly dubbed in spanish. James Cameron's Avatar crosses all borders.
Buses south of the border tend to be much slower than their northern counter parts. With the country's rough geography, rougher or nonexistant roads, sporadic habitation, and tollbooths actively patrolled by automatic rifle toting federales, it's a wonder some of these buses survive the journey at all. On more than one occasion I found myself praying to whoever is the patron saint of get-me-the-fuck-outta-here. Luckily my cries to the universe were heard and there were few, if any, head on collisions.
With no real itenerary to speak of, the autobus meanders from town to town until I'm the only passenger in the vehicle. Having all this room to move around and a never ending supply of spanish Disney movies, I feel like a third world rock star.Every once in a while stopping for an on the go burrito or a street taco stand.
Unfortunately there's a certain level of guilt as I bite into my 10 peso tacos, and it's of the four legged variety. Animal lovers beware; across the border animals are treated like... well, animals. There isn't a dog catching service for the strays and even if there was it would be a hell of a time telling a stray dog from the scores of underged house pets wandering the streets in the night.
Biting into my bistek taco a hungry pup stares at me, ribs sticking out like a Sudanese famine refugee. Complete with mange and the eyes that I had on previously seen on overly sad American propaganda SPCA commercials for abused animals, its too moch for me. My heart, like the hearts of most overly sympathetic foreigners, begins to bleed all over the streets of Mexico. I hold out my hand for a cautious sniff, then feed the half dead canine a piece of jerky from my back pack. The dog, inhales the dried meat product so fast it nearly chokes. Instead the voracious, creeping eyes begin to emerge behind dumpsters and back alleys.
With my ride leaving and no way to save all the animals of the world, I reboard and settle in for the night. Munching on my go-food there's a spot inside my that all the dehydrated, sodium infused cow flesh can't fill. It's occupied by starving dogs, cats, dead horses, and one burning question; at what point do you stop helping? Forget animals, when can you turn a blind eye to pleading people? If I gave away a few pesos to every beggar I'd be starving too.
Full of philosophy and a 48 hour bus ride later, El Autobus Transportes Chihuahuenses reaches it's destination of Puerto Vallarta.
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