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.
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