Writings in the Dark.

Guess I am official. I have a spankin' brand new Author's page set up on Amazon.com. Feel free to follow the link - love the bio!

http://www.amazon.com/Luis-Blasini/e/B002POEV5Y/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Born in the Deep South to a lower upper middle class family, Luis Blasini was raised in Los Angeles, California as an ardent fan of the arts. Attending film school and majoring in English Literature at a Southern California University - Luis was influenced by avant-garde film directors and well read in the written works of the Beat Generation. Graduating with honors in both Cinema Direction and Literature.

Bored by the plastic fakes of Los Angeles, he relocated to the slums of Tijuana, Mexico where, integrating with the junkies, thieves, male hustlers, and notorious expat homosexuals of Zona Norte, the Author continued to keep detailed journals of his deliciously degenerate lifestyle among the back alleys of the border slums.

Going on a 'Kerouac Kick', he left Tijuana and for a decade wandered aimlessly as a self proclaimed 'hobosexual' - traveling and exploring via seedy hotels and homeless shelters the span of the United States, Caribbean, Central and South Americas. All the while, writing about his experiences in a world renowned blog.

The Author now lives a sedate and relatively comfortable life in a beach house in Baja.

"I traveled the world in search of myself and all I got was a lousy t-shirt..."

Puta in Blue Jeans.

Awaken by the ruckus of the youngsters hired to paint the house - the landlady had hired them, you see and are doing a great, if noisy, job. Three good natured lads and not bad eye-candy, so it all works out. During these shenanigans, was visited by two acquaintances from the Plaza. Jonny - usually seen on the corner of said Plaza painted head to toe in silver and doing the robot gig for pesos thrown by passing locals and tourists. An intense 20yr old Honduran with not a lick of schooled education - that is if you don't count street schooling in which he excels.
Then there was Ivan, hunky guy also hailing from Honduras - both illegals everywhere, I reckon - and fluent in English. These two decided to visit for some wacky reason that would be revealed as the day progressed.
Ivan chatted with Chuck - the Master of this Manor - and asked if he could live in our house. Chuck confided in the boy it was a 'gay' house in which said lad stated that he didn't have a problem with it. I should say not - with the benefits of changing from some back alley hovel with a beach front hacienda, what was the problem? The idea of having the youngster in the house on a permanent kick made my mind move in insidious directions. Wouldn't you?
Fed the two grilled ham sandwiches and as soon as word was out that these were fags hording up in the house - the hustler gene in both blatantly spilled out. Ivan began to exercise and show off his physical prowess (As so, I snapped a picture of him) while Jonny went for the more subtle approach and just kept popping erections in his blue jean shorts all the while droning on and on about his sexual escapades with his various girl friends downtown.
Bored with this tripe (Me and Chuck) we all wandered outside in the shade of the house and talked and watched the painters work. Then, Jonny did the worst faux pau, at least on Chucks account - right in front of the group and God, little Jonny fell on the nod. Slumped over the chair, eyes fluttering, tongue lolling out...
I looked at Chuck and rolled my eyes - Chuck picked up on it, too. Ivan fumbled and sighed knowing full well that his cover was blown. He understood that using the house in the future as a shooting gallery with him and his friends were nipped in the bud. And so, the two junkies were asked to leave.

Actually, I guess I would have not of mined Ivan staying here...really a swell fellah. But, the other one would have been a handful...so to speak...

Literary Outlaw

Just published my new novel entitled Tweeker. Spanning a two-week period, Tweeker is a drug-soaked, deliciously degenerate novel that follows a writer's spiraling existence into an endless litany of pathetic addicts, sordid hotels, lifeless romance, and meth induced brawls, as he makes his bitter, brilliant way from one drug score to the next. Tweeker, offers a crude, brutal, savagely funny portrait of the writer's introduction to methamphetamines, subsequent addiction and his on-going hellish relationship with the demon in the slums of Tijuana and his outrageous employment in an all night adult theater stateside. Tweeker is a masterfully vivid evocation concerning the 'vicious circle' of meth addiction, and the many attempts by those afflicted to escape the circle, but once you're in it, there is really no getting out - entirely.

You can order an advance copy direct from the publisher from the site below. It is safe and secure. So, grab a copy and take a wild ride!

https://www.createspace.com/3374168

Re-edited and completely over-hauled (I was never happy with the first rushed result) Borrowed Flesh has been put back on market bigger and better than ever! From the back cover:

A literary cry from Hell, Luis Blasini frankly tells the exhilarating true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel. Blasini brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual perverts, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. Taken from the notebooks he kept while on the road and written in a hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a very tough, yet very funny narrative of his adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance. Borrowed Flesh is hard, derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so. A lucid, shattering portrait of a life going down the tubes.

Again, you can clik on the link and grab a copy of this literary insanity directly from the publishers estore before they hit the bookstores!

https://www.createspace.com/3382659

One More Drag.

It is awfully bright. I roll over on the bed - sheets and blanket rumpled - gaze on my side out the window. The chipped wood frame has no screen as heat and dust wash over my sleepy, hungover face. Two floors below me, I see a panorama of The City in all its glory. Honking, choking autos sluggishly roll over shimmering concrete, filthy prostitutes of both sexes parade and lean and stare catatonic under the bleak sun as terrified and belligerent tourist paw over their diseased wares with lascivious finality. An old man sits in his own waste and stirs a putrid puddle in the sidewalk with a twig as filthy children play and frolic - dashing around obese mothers and between legs of hip-hop pushers of fine fine medicines. It is too much as I roll upon my back.

Flashbulb of images from the previous night assault my mind. Standing on darkened corner with friends under pale yellow light of lamp post, smoking and spitting and talking of sexual bravura. Entering dank bar with five local lads and one snooty American queer and chugging caguama in a booth by the blasting rockola - commenting on each song - across from the booth was the metal entrance to the mensroom. Smell of sour beer and piss and bleach. Saul and I snorting lines of meth off of toilet paper dispenser. Dancing with some doe eyed queen - awfully - to Mexican top 40. Almost fist fighting some macho hustler in denial, set him straight - so to speak - Saul and I did. Outside in the cool night, Saul and I repair to cheap hotel room and do things that would had made Caligula blush.

The squalid room is small. Mattress up on cinder blocks, old rickety chair with my clothes flung across, squeaky ceiling fan churning slowly stirring the musty funk of the room. My body - I am wearing just my boxers - is covered in a fine layer of grimy sweat. I reach down to the dusty black and white tiled floor for the near empty fifth of cheap tequila and take a swig. It burns going down. My mouth is foul and evil tasting.

Two knocks on the worn wooden door and Saul bursts in without notice. He smiles, "You still in bed? C'mon! Get dressed. Let's get something to eat."

I grunt, sit up, and painfully put on my clothes. They smell of sweat and cigarettes. I grab the huge plastic square attached to the small room key and mumble, "C'mon...let's go."

Clopping down well worn wooden stairs, I hand the key to the fat mamacita at reception and dart out into the bustling street.

Dodging groping hookers and grasping hands of dirty children, Saul and I syphon into a booth at a small cafe in Zona Norte. We sip horrid instant Nescafe and my eye catches a young Mexican queer sitting on a metal stool - glancing at me from the diner. Red and white striped polo shirt and tight blue jeans. He smiles. Handsome until he smiles - mouth a forest of rotted black teeth. I stare out the window - dead black flies line the sill.

After the waitress slams our plates of eggs and chorizo onto the formica table, Saul pleads, "Don't go, guero. Your life is here. Your friends are here."

I sit and listen down into myself. I jerk into focus, "I can't stand TJ anymore, man. I can't connect with anyone. Everyone - present company included - are all on the hustle. I am burned out with this town."

He smiles, "Tijuana is your home. That's why you keep coming back. And you know you can't live with out your friend." He glances down at his crotch.

"A big cock doesn't make a life complete." I smile.

As to answer his question, there is commotion outside across the one way street. Two hoggish police have cornered a pelon thug - he falters and starts fighting back. The crowd gathers. Two paramilitary trucks pull in. The soldiers swarm the thug and with club and boots and rifle butts beat him to a bloody pulp - dragging his unconscious blood splattered torso to a paddy wagon and fling him in. Hookers and transvestites scowl at the soldiers and mutter to themselves. We return to our cold tasteless breakfast.

I light a cigarette and blow smoke up to the high ceiling of the cafe - painted mint and dangling with dust bunnies.

"Look, Saul - I already bought my ticket to Tucson. It's too late to change my mind. And plus, I already promised Paco that I would sell my laptop to him. I meet him this afternoon."

Saul's face goes slack and ethereal - he says as if the words were transmitted from somewhere else, "You have to stop living like that. You will die if you continue."

I take another one more drag, "I'm hoping on it."

Bogo

Trudging down by the seashore, ocean spray fogging my glasses, wires criss crossing over my head, sea gulls diving and swooping in a scavenger frenzy, and that blue Mexican sky so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it.

So, like I was saying, I'm walking over to the cafe to meet a friend - she knows some unethical croaker that doles out high octane diet pills that will melt that fat and all toxic toxins from this withered frame.

Withered? Who am I kidding? Since my seclusion in November to knock out these horrid novels - soon, Luis, soon - I have kinda let the old cuerpo go. And, long time suffering friend Saul was no boost to the old ego the night before.

He smiles walking into the murk of some dingy street, "Hurry up, ya chubby fucker!" Platonic laughter.

I stopped and wearily stated, "I prefer the moniker 'Flabbily Delicious', thank you."

Later that night, I stand in front of full length mirror naked as God intended and was repulsed by my my middle-aged man body. Next morning, I dutifully wobbled to the market and purchased a new jogging suit and sneakers - will attempt to get back in the rut jogging in the morning. Time I have, since I am done with that last book and want a break before pissing the ol' familiar off with my next tome concerning the most fucked up childhood ever.

Okay. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah - at the cafe. Thanks, glad you're paying attention.

So, my friend was not there, of course - she being like me and nuttier than squirrel shit with time and appointments being meaningless. I stomped over to her apartment building, looked up to the third floor window of hers and hollered:

"Michelle!! Michelle!! In apartment 403!!! The pill popper and chronic masturbater!!! Are you there?!!" My voice echoing through the apartment complex.

No answer. Nice. Nothing left but to get drunk. Which I did.

So, I'm sitting all prissy like out front of playas' only fag bar, Arco Iris cooing and cutting my constituents to pieces with gay double entedre, slugging back beers and watching the boys parade on the malecon. Had a nostalgic ping as at th next building were they sold stomach destroying camerones; a live band from Sinaloa tootled away and the folk sitting at the outside tables danced in the heat - happy and clapping on the sidewalk.

Try finding that life in America, I thought.

And then, an old balding pinche turista americana sat blatantly with me - lost I suppose and befuddled at the lack of a Police State scrutinizing his every move - and started to bitch and whine and over opinionating about the good ol' U.S of A.

I sat and half listened to this long-winded ass thinking to myself - if you don't like the States, leave! I did.

Tired of this crap, I repaired back to the cafe only to find Michele and her dwarf of a boyfriend waiting for me (Five hours had passed) and invited me to join them to the annual FestiArts festival at a nearby park.

A huge affair of local artists selling their wares of handmade jewelry and paintings. Three huge stages offered live bands. All were good until on one, an alternative band called Bogo hit the stage. Reminiscent of early Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cafe Tacuba, and thier own distinct style - this band rocked. The lead guitarist named Blazko was sexy as fuck and I was surprised that Michelle knew him.

Already we three were blitzed off of large amounts of tequila (First time I tried Tijuana Beer - awful concoction, tasted if it were dredged from the Tijuana river itself and then drained through a hobo sock) when Bogo left the stage, Michelle wanted to go to their private trailer and talk with them. She has a small online promotion business on the side, you see.

At said trailer, we were barred by the biggest bouncer in Baja, so I did my best Raul Duke, drunk as I was:

"I have to see Blazko now - I know him from my childhood, we grew up together - I used to romp with him!"

The drummer was coming in, saw Michelle, and allowed us access. The trailer was filled with a gaggle of giggling groupies and sitting in the middle of this harem was lanky Blazko. He offered us drinks and I sat on the overstuffed couch next to him under hostile eyes of jealous teeny boppers discussing art, music and the writing of the beat generation in which he was a fountain of knowledge. Good times.

Eventually, he had to fuck said groupies in turn, so we said our goodnights and over delicious tacos carne asadas at an all night taco stand, Michelle and I drunkenly poured over the evening.

I definitely have to say, Bogo has a new fan...

When Night Falls.

"Whataya gonna do?" He asked swigging on his warm beer.

I looked around at the dank bar - brimming with perverts and dikes, and pedophiles, and junkies. Male prostitutes did their stylized ballet around the gray haired smiling old American leaches that preyed on them. A fat cop stood at the entrance waiting to do something.

I flicked a cockroach off the bar like playing finger football - it flew into the ice bin. Took a long drag off my Luckie. Some fat tranny - like Fred Flintstone in drag - stood with her sweaty mole covered back to me, with chubby, clip on nailed fingers, pulled the panties outta her ass.

"I am really tired of Tijuana, ya know. If it wasn't for that asshole father of mine, (I grit my teeth in insidious contempt at muttering the word father) I would be somewhere else."

The music switched on the rockola - a sad lament began to warble out in Spanish. The drag queen harpies - huddled in the corner screeching and gesticulating like fags do - began melodramatically singing atrociously along.

I smooshed my cigarette butt out on the dirty floor with my shoe, "What am I thinking of doing? Seriously? I am going across country - starting in Tucson and staying in every homeless shelter from there to Miami. Really looking forward to San Antonio and New Orleans. Eventually, winding up on the island of Puerto Rico. Then and only then will I have accumulated enough material for my next book."

He spit on the floor - saliva and blood - and took another swig, "What? That's crazy! You live so well now. Nice clean house on the beach. What about all your furniture and stuff - why do you want to do that to yourself?"

"Why not?" I stated blankly - feeling the coldness from my insides get even colder. That dark precipice getting wider and wider. "I can't do it - I can't continue to live in this little comfy cocoon of nothing I have been stuck in since November, you know what I mean? I hate it. Truly, deeply loathe it. The fact of the matter is - and this is the most crucial part I need you to understand - I have even more severe panic attacks and bouts of depression when I am sedentary. I get so antsy. I have to go. Go. Go."

"But, why?"

"It's what I do. It's all I know." Smirking inward. "How do you even attempt to keep a normal, stable life when the thought of it leaves nothing but dread on your tongue like the taste of rotten fruit?"

"Whataya going to do when you get to Puerto Rico?"

"I'll find out when I get there. That's the thrill of it - not knowing."

"But your books are selling well, right?"

I lit another cigarette and ordered another beer.

The hag behind the bar delivered it with hatred and contempt - the attitude of most ignorant locals down here. They really hate Americans.

I squeezed a lime into my bottle - gritty, black dirt on my finger from the bottle. "I don't care. What is the point? What is the point of accumulating all this stuff - money, material possessions - when in the end, it doesn't amount to shit? I don't care. I have said it once and actually I am tired of saying it - this life, my life - I don't want it. I hate it. I am just going through the motions waiting to die."

"Okay" He takes one of my cigarettes, sighs, "So, when are you going?"

"Soon." I said. "Soon. The time is not right, the winds of fate have not started blowing and my sails need the energy."

"Dude, that makes no sense. I still don't know why you are doing this. You are simply crazy and lost."

"You have no fucking idea how right you are." I stated with utmost honesty.

A street band entered - short grungy troupe from Sinaloa - and began wailing a brass tune. Slow and dark and low. Old haggish corpse in frayed green dress slithered and undulated like a rag doll across the bar floor - hands out and clutching at patrons for money. She came to me - rheumy eyes bright and sparkling, rotted teeth far apart, smiling face bunched up in overlapping wrinkles. I dropped coins into her gnarled hands.

I sat on my stool, back to the bar, leaning and thought. They are free. They are totally free and know how to live. No worries about when they are buying that 42 inch flat screen TV or what people think and judge. They live - truly live. They are happy because they are what they are and there is nothing more.

I am ready...ready to finally put that second foot forward and step out of the loop. Thing is - I am so far out now I don't think I can ever come back...

Wind through Dark Trees

I got idea, man...

You take me for a walk

Under the sycamore trees

The dark trees that blow, baby.

In the dark trees

I'll see you and you'll see me...

I'll see you in the branches that blow in the breeze...

I'll see you under the trees.

Summer's End

The queens swirled and cackled and jerked in galvanized movements as faggots often have a tendency to do. Cooing and pawing the waiters who wearily served beverages with sullen apathy.
I sat at my table - sun blaring down under that unrelenting blue Mexican sky - the surf crashed in whispers on the shore not too far away.
Sitting in front of me at this new and swanky gay bar that had been here in La Playa for a relatively short time was the owner, Juan. Stout, wrinkled, jovial. He was a pleasant man, I assume but it was the vomit spewing forth next to him that held my attention. Ken, he sez his name is - a fucking 'merican. Ex-cop. Stateside. So what.
Loud mouth long-winded alpha male faggito that cancer this area like so much garbage. One of those types that have to have all the attention, command every conversation, yell instead of talk, is always right on all subjects of Mexico. A complete and utter bore.
Tired of his drivel, I excused myself - "I ain't done talking to ya, sit down!" - I keep walking.
Stroll along the malecon and dig the serene scene. Families frolic, flavored ice vendors sell their wares, Indians hawk their baubles, sky peppered with darting candy colored kites. A marimba band plays on a patio bar and I stand - okay, was a little drunk, so I wobbled there - and grooved to the music.
Scanning the beach checking out the tanning flesh, eyes met two boys relaxing under a palapa. One smiles and motions me over.
They introduce themselves as Omar and Giovanni - two Mexican tourists visiting from the state of Oaxaca. I mention that I just came up from their and with a twinkling smile was asked to sit and enjoy the afternoon with cerveza and good company.
We three sat and talked and joked as the sun swung down and boiled over the horizon in a blasting kaleidoscope of colors.
Darkness falls and a chill sweeps across the beach. My two new friends bid adios and return to downtown and their hotel. As a fact, a large percent of the beach population made that exodus as that cold shroud covered the night.
Forlorn and deep depression hitting me, I walked the malecon down to the end - where the rusted steel wall separates two cultures. There you will find a small park peppered with the lost immigrants getting the nerve up to cross that abomination.
I sat on a concrete bench and watched as a stout young guy walked from trash can to trash can, digging through and removing the cans. He spots me and smiles.
"Hey, man." He says in perfect English."I just got deported yesterday and I am starving. I was wondering if you can help me out with anything."
I looked him over quickly - with a bath the guy would really be handsome. I thought I could be like your average trolling faggot and seduce him back to my flat and barter with food and a warm bed unmentionable acts against nature. But, I am not like that.
"Man" I said. "That's a tough break. Here." I reach in my wallet and pull out a 200 peso note. "Go get something to eat. And over there, there is a cheap hotel for 100 pesos."
Meekly he took the crisp note, looked up at me and said thanks. I offered a cigarette and we stood there for a few minutes as he wove his tale of woe.
Bidding him goodnight, I walked the few blocks to my house - agitated about my life. I want to leave Tijuana and just GO.

Dark Tweeker Rising

The sun just began crawling over the horizon. Off in the mist a dog barked - a car passed. The depression was hitting me with full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.

The apartment - what was left of it - was a filthy, dank den that smelled of aluminum and farts. The mattress was exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to have - all sold for crank - the room was empty with long shadows of a prison.

I lay on my bed with a cigarette in my hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I have nothing. Nothing. My family hates me, I cannot, will not fall in love with anyone. But, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I have attempted since my move to Tijuana has ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my sick mind.

The loneliness howled over me like a cold black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits that I had throughout the night.

What is wrong with me?, I thought.

I began thinking of all the routes in life I could have taken - staying in Los Angeles, keeping a job, becoming a writer, or even making movies. All these crashed into failure. Everything I attempt runs to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into the dope addicts I associate with. All they care for is their drugs and whatever they do got it is never enough - so they will go after yours like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.

I tried to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.

I tried to focus onto the future. One time, long ago, I had great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young guy, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all which faded into mist. I had no future. Over the years I have acquired the mental state of such downward bleakness that when I ever did think of that hopeful future, I was met with a dark cold abyss in my mind’s eye instead.

The depression sunk me lower on these spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there is no point? It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen from these damn naco junkies.

My face wrinkled into worry and saddness. I looked over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.

I picked up a meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Looked at its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. It was this shits fault. All the fault of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattering it against the concrete wall.

I yelped and leapt out of bed to the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! I have to go buy another one from some bitch I can’t stand. I looked at the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a kindred spirit to the little fucker and I just killed it!

Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing. Nothing.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and pulled a small knife out of the drawer. I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would have forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents don’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

I stood grasping the knife, clutching it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel was cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow. Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck am I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain started to come. I was scared more than anything - scared at the foolish attempt that I had just committed.

I walked into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.

I went to the corner farmacia to buy some bandages. I sat in a nearby park. Kids played, men sold balloons, frozen flavored ice, couple strolled in love. Around me the beat of life. I sat there like a stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression. I held my head, cigarette dangling from my lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life…hell, I even failed at ending it.

Stood up and walked over to Cahuilla Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

Ghost of Future Past

Clacking down the rail on the southbound trolley and i hit San Ysidro. Glancing out the window I saw a phantom perched in the blazing afternoon sun squatting on the steps of the local Jack in the Box. It was Dan Cockenour. No mistaking that visage.

You long term readers will remember him as the lad I went to New York with years ago. I had seen him maybe twice since then. Once at Vinnies and once strutting around the corner of 2nd and Revo in TJ - again, that was years ago.

I jolted off the train to give the boy the glad hand - as I approached his visage! The broken withered Angel hipster that stooped there! Frail thin, wasting away - ragged clothes and skin leathery and burned. His face held in a mask of inner anger and hatred - the face of the terminally insane.

A few steps to go and I was ready to converse - but, he shot up and walked arrogantly past. Just enough time for me to ask, "Dan?"

I wasn't sure this wreck was him. I mean, a few years living like we did can tax a person both mentally and physically. He was in such dire shape.

Well, that didn't go so good, so I just lit a Lucky and crossed over back home.

I have been hitting my new novel with full steam and it is coming out fantastic. Also, been hunting for an agent. All this aside - Tijuana has become a slow bore. Sure, the tranquility of my lifestyle now is great in the fact that I am getting a lot of writing done, but, I am not happy. My wandering eye has been looking towards the barrio La Perla on the island of Puerto Rico. Why not?

Beaten but not Out

Was standing in Plaza Santa Cecilia enjoying the hot day. It was near mid-afternoon and the sun beat down in shimmering heat upon the concrete thoroughfare. The stalls were an arabesesque of multihues selling all types of candy colored curious. The air wafted with smells of spoiled garbage, automobile exhaust, and seared taco meat as local families strolled with their giggling children, bewildered tourists gawked, rent boys prowled and stood in cooling shadows as a band tootled and twanged music indigenous to Sinaloa on the stage under the Millennium Arch.
Like I said, standing there taking it all in when a young man hobbled on crutches up to me all smiles. It was Edgar - a Tijuana native I had known for some years. An all right guy, never looked for trouble, held a steady job at a local farmacia. Just another local jumping through the tough myriad hoops of Tijuana life.
“Hey, Edgar!” I grinned, looking him up and down. “What happened, man? What’s with the crutches?”
His face grimaced into pain and mumbled something about having a hard time standing. I invited him over to a table at The Boys Café and we both ordered a coke.
Again, I lightheartedly inquired what was wrong with his legs. He stared at the passing throng, took a sip of his soda for dramatic effect, and began his tale of woe.
With a determined look deep into my eyes he said, “I was walking home from work two days ago - you know, out by Tiente Guerro Park. A squad car pulled up and two officers started harassing me. They had me sit on the curb as they began going through my backpack. I had nothing in there but my uniform, right? They asked for my ID - which I had, it was current - but, this one pendejo accused it as being fake.” He took another sip of his soda. “They started all kinds of shit that I looked like some runner for the cartel that they had been looking for and right in front of me cut my ID up with a knife. Then they threw me into the back of the squad car.”
“Damn. What happened next?” I asked.
His eyes became misty, “They drove me out to the middle of nowhere, man. Still cuffed they dragged me out behind this building and had me take my shoes off. I was sitting in the dirt when they took their batons and began beating my feet.”
He lifted one pant leg and his skin was mottled with large purple and blue bruises. His tan skin ashy from scratch marks.
I scowled. “Goddam!”
Edgar rolled his pants back down and continued, “They threw me in the back of the car again and drove me to my neighborhood and dumped me about six blocks from my house.”
With the utmost contempt peppered with fear, Edgar eyed two police patrols meandering through the Plaza - one hulking apish looking man and a stone faced dumpy woman. I actually talk with these two and they seem like good people, but at that moment I could not help feeling Edgar’s emotions. I loathed them, too.
“Wow…that’s tough.” I mumbled. I mean, what could I say?
“That’s not all of it.” He spat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “As I was walking home - the best I could - another patrol car cruises up and they start their shit. I explained what happened, right? They laughed, accused me of not having an ID after I had told them what happened - threw me in the back of the car and drove me around awhile - all along not saying a word. Once at a substation, they put me in a cell and beat my legs as other prisoners silently looked on. It was horrible!”
As tears began to stream down his brown cheeks, I asked, “Then what did they do?”
“They let me go.” He stated flatly. “They drove me a block to my place and let me go.”
He sat there for a moment - I am sure reminiscing about that terrible ordeal. He gulped another mouthful of coke, “The next day - I told my neighbor and she gave me these crutches. I took a taxi over to the police station on 8th and tried to explain what happened. The receptionist just said that it was my word against the cops. And that they would believe the cops - since I had no ID. After that I went to the Human Rights building and told them - but, I got the same response. Man, I tell you amigo - you gringos have no idea how fucked up it is for us here.”
Indeed.

Tijuana Regresso...

Slingshot out of the steaming jungles - grasping my backpack and landing feet first, cabrones!! Just got back from Tikal, Guatemala - partied and drank mind altering mixes with brujos and screaming monkeys in ruined pyramids all under a Mayan moon! Now back in boring Tijuana...drunk and screaming into the crotches of burrachos...

The Lost World

Alex, Juan, and I caught a 6am bus that was slightly late and packed and only minutes after leaving we hit a roadblock. Guatemalan protesters had cut down trees and were blocking the road, we were told they’d be a slight delay so we sat tight and tried to take sneaky pics through the windscreen. That was until a dozen guys in balaclavas armed with machetes started marching up the road towards us. The lone police car did a runner and we were a little worried. Turned out they were only handing out leaflets and when they turned round and were all wearing tiny rucksacks they looked like little kids trick or treating, was actually quite funny.
Once we were let past, it was quite a long journey until the breakfast stop where we discovered everyone else was on a jungle adventure, also. Was a fab buffet breakfast, expensive at 5 bucks but just what we needed.
After a few more hours clunking through the jungle on a dirt road, I thought we were just being dumped but were taken to the immigration office where after a bit of ug ug uging we paid a few dollars and got our passports stamped. Then it was off to a boat.... it was a beautiful boat ride and pretty fast. Strange thinking we were actually traveling between to countries.. where actually were we?
When we hit the other side it was an hour wait for our connecting bus. Then it was on to the immigration office to enter.... no ug ug uging this time, plain and simple.... we give them money and they´ll stamp our passports.
The bus we had was a ratty clunker - half the windows were smashed and the seats were extremely bumpy, add that to the fact the journey was 3hrs by dirt track through the middle of nowhere and you can imagine my discomfort.
Eventually a cheery old fuck got on and told us they were no cashpoints in town and refused to take us to the hostel we wanted to go to it annoyed me a tad.
The three of us managed to sort some money and found the hostel. A little jungle like oasis on the weird island city that was Flores. It was dead cheap, had a bar, and served amazing food. Had hammocks everywhere, and turtles, a couple of cute green parrots and loads of plants, including bananas.
Alex, Juan and I sat around talking to some guys who’d been to Tikal and were insistent we didn’t wanna go to Belize cos it was expensive and there was nothing there....gave me something to think about!
The following day had nothing planned, it was to be a rest day as we’d had such a hectic time and give ourselves time to do boring stuff like laundry, dirinking, smoking weed, etc.
Only as soon as we’d hand washed our clothes the heavens opened and that shit wasn’t gonna stop. That was until I donned my plastic poncho and as I headed out to explore - was immediately bombarded by the brightest sun ever. Went and got me sunglasses and it rained again.
Flores is a cool little island - you could stand by the church on the little hill and see water in all four directions.
Explored across the bridge to Santa Elena, wish we hadn’t bothered cause it was a big shithole, especially in rain...there were no pavements only mud...and certainly nothing to look at.
Headed back to Flores and some nachos for lunch. Then remembered we needed some money - so got a cute Tuk-tuk across the bridge to Santa Elena again, cost virtually nothing and was kinda fun - Tuk-Tuk's is a little scooter with a cart thing on the back that carry 2 people...and with a head full of booze and weed, hilarious!
That done - tried to buy me some cigarettes, except nowhere in the whole of Flores had any change. It seems to be a huge problem out here....if you have anymore than the equivalent of a five dollar bill, you can’t buy anything. They have to ask everyone in the town if they can change your money. Its crazy, I think someone somewhere must eat all the small change.
Back at the hostel, we were planning to have an early night, but a couple of Canadian lads insisted we join them and some girls for a drink, we agreed as long as we went somewhere we could get food, cause we was hungry.
Ended up going to a little place on the lake, sat right out on the water on rather precarious bits of wood, where we enjoyed cheap tacos and several beers....oh yeah and good company, too. Stayed until the Canadian kids had to run to catch their night bus, and we headed home to bed....got a very early morning tomorrow.
Got up ridiculously early, like 4:30am. Our bus was due to leave at 5. Headed down to the bus stop still half asleep...wouldn’t you? Still apparently it’s the thing to do. Our bus to Tikal arrived if a little late and we all piled on.
Was quite a long drive, but eventually reached the entrance the park, figured we must be nearly there. Actually it was still some miles....deeper and deeper into the jungle. The signs on the road were funny, apparently we had to watch for turkeys, jaguars, snakes and some other strange creatures crossing the road - saw millions of turkeys - the driver having to stop numerous times to let them cross.
Alex, Juan and I arrived, paid our fee and went off exploring. Juan chose the way, his thinking being we would get the temples which were further away out of the way first. Agreed, why not?
Problem was the temple we had chosen to see first was deep in the jungle...and it was kinda freaky to be in the middle of the jungle at 6am, with no-one else anywhere else to be seen, and trust me it really is in the middle of the jungle.
Arrived at the temple and then Alex decided he should get his guidebook out to see what it was about, only to read it said you should avoid this temple because it was dangerous, people were often mugged or worse! Headed to another group of temples....were cooler, but still scary. Then we had no idea where to go, the paths and signs seemed to have disappeared...started heading into the jungle, but then decided...thank god....that it was pretty stupid, as we had no idea where we going and ended up retracing most of our steps, till we found a sign. Followed it through more scary jungle and eventually reached an open area and some people meandering about. Not many people around though, it was still early - and it was kinda nice - gives you the whole spiritual feeling about the place, and it isolation. Checked out some cool temples opposite each other and the huge acropolis between them.
Went to find the toilets. Were just leaving when the cleaner came out of the toilet to show us something....I was terrified it was some huge spider....I wasn’t far off....it was the biggest beetle imaginable...no it was bigger than you could ever imagine....its was the size of his hand...and he had just found it in the toilets. Creepy.
Walked the ‘lost world’ and its pyramid of the sun. This is the one to climb - so had to do this one at least. The steps on all Mayan pyramids are stupidly high....god knows how the 4ft Mayans ever climbed them (someone said to us they reckoned someone had built the steps the wrong way up...they should have been wide not high), and these were very eroded. Still people were climbing it so figured it couldn’t be that bad. So up we went.
God it was scary. Some of the steps were bigger than me. Ended virtually crawling up - thanks to a pack of smokes a day, I reckon. One slip and you would have been in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Still we made it, and it was worth it. The views of the jungle and temples peeking through were amazing! Very scary to stand close to the edge and look down though, and I’m not normally scared of heights.
Sat and rested, taking in the view. Alex whiped out the weed and we smoked in awe of the Sun god - long discussions on literature and Mexican/American politics. Disappointingly didn’t see any wildlife, but it wasn’t a great day...misty and threatening rain. Then we had to go down. Now I thought up was bad, but down was a million times worse - the main thing being you had to look down. Took us hours to go down....well not literally but it was ages....had to go one foot at a time, having to slide down on my arse at times.....god was I glad to be on solid ground again.
My legs were like jelly and my left thigh muscle had forgotten how to work - Alex decided I should hop, and for some reason I agreed, and my leg gave way and I nearly fell on my ass.
Saw heaps more temples.....some of the biggest. One they were restoring painfully by hand, chipping away at bits of rocks with chisels, and one which they have rebuilt (which was cool to see how it should have looked). Alex and Juan of course had to climb them all with me in tow.
It started to pour so - we sat in the picnic area. Explored one of the acropolises...and Juan went up a wet and slippery and very dangerous temple - just cause he could - and that was pretty much it. Had a long walk back to the exit through more cool jungle...this a little safer with half decent paths - I struggled to keep my leg from giving way...but somehow made it.
Then waited for our bus back - in the pouring rain. Looked like we had timed it perfectly, would have got drenched if we had come any later. Was a cool experience....magical and scary at the same time.
Back at the hostel we were starving, so ordered burgers for lunch from the hostel. Oh my god, I don’t think I have ever seen such a big burger - it had like 3 slices of bread, pineapple, avocado....and Lord knows what else.
Ended up talking to a couple from Essex, who had come in for food, and had been waiting for hours for it - they do make you wait, cause it is all prepared from scratch but man is it good. Went for a walk and when we got back the couple were still there, they had finally got there food and agreed it was worth waiting for.
Chilled for the rest of the day...our washing still not dry...it had never stopped raining for gods sake.
Juan met these two Guatemalans who agreed to take us deep into the jungle to spot jaguar and meet a tribe that still takes Yage - that herb that William Burroughs searched for in the 1950’s. I mentioned it and the short one named Ignacio said he knew a brujo that would mix me up some.
I am a little wary, Ignacio and his friend Rene are a little on the scruffy side and something just doesn’t seem right about their demeanor - something wrong. I sit at the hostels rinky dink computer typing this out and the four lads are over on the patio laughing and drinking and smoking weed. It took Alex a coy look and sweet talking to get me to go - but, I guess I am on a day trip tomorrow into the jungle…

Border Crossing.

Hi All!

Greetings from Quetzaltenango, Guatemala!

I had a fantastic time in San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico. The town was beautiful and the temperature was refreshingly cool in the mountains. Went on a day excursion to Sumidero Canyon for a fantastic boat ride. In addition to the beautiful scenery, I managed to spot some crocodiles on the banks and spider monkeys in the trees. I was a little shocked by the amount of litter that was in the canyon by damn feelthy tourists, but the place was still very scenic.
After San Cristobal, took a 3 hour bus ride to the Guatemalan border. Guatemala is a very scenically beautiful country, but the cities and towns are quite dusty and dirty. Guatemala is a very poor country, but there is still a lot of life and happiness to see in the locals. Many of the men dress like we would in the States, but the women wear bright multicolored clothing and linens that they drape themselves with - wonderful explosion of color.
After crossing the border, boarded a chicken bus, which are old buses from the USA that were donated to Guatemala for public transportation. The buses are painted ridiculous colors and decorates with all sorts of stickers and religious slogans. Our bus from the border had portraits of Jesus painted on the front and had a bleeding heart and Garfield motif. The chicken bus is not a comfortable mode of transportation - but it was still a great experience. Chicken buses provide a great opportunity to see how regular Guatemalans travel and you get to mingle quite a lot. This is mostly because they cram up to 4 people in a seat! My luggage rode on the roof. There is a drivers assistant that collects the fares from the passengers and also takes care of the luggage. This means that on a windy mountain pass before a stop in a town, the assistant will crawl out of one of the bus windows, climb up on top of the roof, untie the baggage, chuck it down to the people getting off, and climb in through the back door of the bus! This was often done while the bus was in full motion! Sadly, we did not have any chickens on our bus, but one that passed us had two huge baskets of turkey chicken strapped to the roof. They did not look too happy to be there. After our 5 and a half hour ride was done, stopped in Quetzaltenango for the night. This is a pretty large city but nothing much seemed to be happening. This was only our stopover on our was south to the Lake District.
Met two guys on holiday from Monterey, Mexico on their way to Tikal. We struck up a conversation at a food stop - Alex and Juan. Two cool guys and they speak English! I explained my wayward travel and they thought it was downright ridiculous - yeah, I said, I get that a lot in life. We decided to take this last leg together to Tikal.
I must be honest that I was very nervous to be venturing into Guatemala, but I have been pleasantly surprised. Hopefully the rest of Guatemala will prove to be the same experience!
The end of Mexico with my new super amigos was almost upon us. We had returned to the bus station in Tonalá to catch our last bus, which of course by now could only be Gran Lujo, to Tapachula right next to the border between Guatemala and Mexico.
We arrived around 6 in the evening and what was becoming a regular theme to a heavy downpour what we were starting to learn that there is a good reason why it is called the wet season, but its not rain as I know it, dribbles that last for days with grey skies, no this was a tropical downpour, almost like a bucket being throw over you that lasted for maybe an hour but the heat... well that just stayed the same.
So like usual Alex, Juan, and I got a taxi to take us to hotel that we had found in the every useful guide and we headed off into the soaking city.
Taxi drivers are the best, no matter where you go there are always two types, grumpy bastards or talkaholics where nothing is taboo and their opinion is what counts - period. So when the taxi driver of our cab who looked like a Mexican version of Ravon from Phoenix Nights asked where we were from and then proceeded to tell us that in Spain 90% of the people are swingers there was nothing anyone could do but agree because its was his cab and his word goes. Arriving at the hotel getting out of the cab "El Ravon" clearly looking at the gringo and made a comment to Alex letting him know that he "was up for it" then his boyfriend (me) was not to bad either... it was one of those tumble weed moment that no one really knew how to take but it was shaken off with a nervous laugh as scurried into the sanctuary of the hotel. Tapachula has more of a central American major city vibe than that of Chiapas of where it is located, dirty busy streets with a bustling street vibe of ever inquisitive people asking you what your business is and earn a few tourist dollars, random drunks and a sleazy underworld that would not be too hard to find if you scratched the surface.
That is not too say it is all bad but like Tijuana it was a border town that was reflected through the businesses and restaurants and although it had recently seen a 70 million dollar investment to try and take advantage of its location and inevitable passageway into central American this place was still waiting to break away from the pack.
After dumping our bags amongst the funky 70´s decor of the amazingly large room with views (a bit like the views in Bladerunner to be honest) we braced ourselves and ventured out into the night. The clientele was interesting to say the least. I think after 5 minutes I had seen a lady, boy and a child of around about 10 absolutely trolled on the booze... but still there was never any real sense of danger.
The only thing that cut our little tour short was the sudden down pour that if you don’t recognize the first warning signs then you will be literally soaked, luckily we were in the main plaza and with a large covered terrace right next to us so we just dived in there. It was the last supper and there was no messing around with the food, it was be spicy and to be washed down with Mexican beers a plenty. With stories shared and plans made for the second leg we sat there well into the night only having to move inside later on as the rain forced several leaks to come through the roof and on to our table. When we finally chanced the weather to run back to the hotel it felt weird that we would not be tackling another Mexican chapter with Alex and Juan the day after but with the news that the both of them are thinking about setting up home in Mexico city, well it almost certain that the return leg will start there.
We found a rakish little dive bar with good tunes on the rockola. We closed the place down! Drunk, tired, happy - we returned to our ratty room. It must’ve been the cheap beer, because those two decided it was in the best interest of diplomacy to take liberties with my person. The three of us had sex until dawn, crawling bleary eyed to a local café to wash our hangovers down with some juevos ranchero and delicious coffee…

Howl of the 12 Monkeys.

Time to move on. Made the long walk to the bus station...and it was a long walk. Booked my tickets, glad I didn’t have long to wait. Insidious. Very confused at the departure/arrival time of my bus? Didn’t understand, then happened to look at the clock...and it said an hour earlier than my watch? I knew I couldn’t have not noticed crossing a time zone several days ago...and then it dawned on me, that the clocks must have gone back. So had a little longer wait than anticipated.
Eventually got on the bus...another luxury bus...probably the last. Sat under the TV and had to endure movie after movie in Spanish. Did get one in English about native Indians...very odd choice but quite good. The road was twisty and the bus seemed unable to stop - as very glad to get off on reaching Palenque. Scenery was quite cool....lots of little houses...with the usual chicken and other farm animals wandering the streets.
Had no idea where to get a bus to El Panchan - wandering the streets aimlessly when a bus pulled over and asked if I wanted a lift - righty-oh! The type of bus - a clinking, clanking school bus from the ‘50’s, or so it seemed - was what they call a collective...a minibus in fact! Threw my bag on the roof, only to stop just down the road and take it off again cause it started down pouring!
Arrived at El Panchan, was now dark, and I couldn’t seem to see anywhere to check in! Ended up at a bar - where they offered me a cabana - a small shack, basically, but the price was reasonable, so why not…wouldn‘t you? Dumped my stuff and headed to the bar for food.
Was really cool place, in the middle of the jungle...an outside bar with thatched (I say thatched but it actually made with palm leaves), and good food. Had pizzas made in a real wood oven....damn good and a few beers, and even got treated to cool Latin American music for free. Looks like a cool place to hang out…
The next day it was time to explore the ruins. Had breakfast in the same bar...more good food. Then decided to walk to the ruins which were only supposed to be about 1 mile away. Entered the park, had to pay, and got a groovy wristband from the man with his gun. But then the walking got tough, it was all uphill and sooo damn hot. Had to rest when we got there.
Then went exploring. The place was dead, no real surprise there - loads of cool temples - and nicely cut grass. Very impressive structures, many of which still had temples on top unlike those of the last place. I had to climb them all, I soon got bored it was so damn hot!!!! There were loads of people selling amazingly colorful painting of the local art on bits of suede. Decided had to have one, and got down to some serious bargaining. Wasn’t easy but kinda fun and I got a good deal in the end!

That done, we explored the palace with its hundreds of tiny rooms and cool carvings, then I climbed the remaining buildings, just in case there was some amazing carvings up there - which there weren’t. I climbed the last one, which had amazing views of the whole site...and I sat and chilled for a while taking it all in. That’s when I first heard the monkeys, I mistook them for dinosaurs at first, but since that possibility was pretty unlikely even in the mostly undiscovered jungle - I decided they must be howler monkeys. Man are they loud. Pretty scary to be honest...still not sure how something that small can make that much noise! Couldn’t see them though.
Took a collectivo back to town.
For the rest of the day just chilled. I hung up my hammock outside the cabana, then I realized I had no money so had to go to Palenque to get some...when I returned from a mad attempt at locating an ATM, I chilled in the hammock.
Then ate lunch, it was more like dinner though as it was so late. Saw some actual howler monkeys in the trees at the entrance to my place. They were tiny!! Even saw a baby! Who needs jungle tours when they are on your doorstep? Chilled some more, then deciding there was nothing else to do - did what comes naturally - went to the bar. Spent some time thinking about money, got a bottle of wine, then decided I should get some food, still wasn’t that hungry since I had eaten so late, but it wasn‘t that filling. Had amazing pasta...but couldn’t eat it all. Had more music, and then got kicked out of the bar at about 11, after they had packed away the whole bar, literally around me!
Next day decided to take a tour to some local waterfalls that sounded cool. Had breakfast before I left...yes more food. Then waited for my lift. Got picked up in a mini bus...picked more people up, then had to change to another minibus cause there were too many people - was quite cozy. The smells of indigenous locals…ahhhhh. Wasn’t long till I arrived at the first stop, a really cute waterfall. Had no idea what was going on cause our driver didn’t speak English, but just followed the others.
Checked out the falls, which were really cool, cause you could actually walk behind them, where you got soaked - which was a Godsend it being so hot and humid. Then it was onto the next place.Was a reasonable drive, not too bad - it was a nature reserve. A pretty little lake, with an amazing looking wooden bridge. Again had no idea what I were supposed to do, so went off walking. Crossed the bridge, which was pretty damn scary. It was basically 3 bits of wire with wooden slats, most of which were missing or broken. And man did it sway. Was kinda cool though. Walked a little way further, and then cause I had no idea how long I had, headed back. A pretty pointless stop, but also kind cool.
Then it was more bus trekking. Basically heading back the way we had come from San Cristobal, the falls being somewhere between the two, so had to endure the twisty road again, was a little bumpier in the minibus, too.Finally arrived at out third and final stop - more waterfalls! These were a series of falls that went on for like 8 or 9 miles! All uphill too!!The first part was the most impressive, not that I saw them all, was far too hot to walk 8 miles. It was wide and rocky, and the water was all white - not clear and/foamy but a whitish hue. Odd. Walk more up, but the heat started taking it’s toll.
Chilled back at the bottom, where you could swim. Water looked so tempting, so in I went. So refreshing - and was kinda fun trying to swim against the strong currents. God knows how powerful it must have been at the base of the actual falls. Sunbathed for a while, got a snack and watched all the local people selling mini bananas.Was a long drive back, everyone fell asleep.Back at El Panchan I were so tired. Relaxed in my hammock, then headed to my fav restaurant again for more food. Really gotta start conserving my funds. But, there really isn’t much to do after the ruins and falls except eat and drink.

Decided to have Mexican food as it was my last night in Mexico (boo hoo). Were just about to order, when some Australians asked me to join them for dinner, cause they wanted some people to talk to. Was kinda fun discussing America with them. Enjoyed some amazing enchiladas and fajitas, listened to more cool Latin American music - and some even cooler Peruvian music ( a whole orchestra, with an amazing array of instruments, then headed off to bed, as I have a ridiculously early get up in the morning. Went to sleep to the sound of music and howler monkeys - being in the jungle is cool.

Big in Chiapas.

My twelve and a half hour chicken bus journey high into the mountains was overtly uneventful, though I surprisingly slept for most of the way - as I mentioned so many times before, trouble sleeping on moving vehicles. The route was on a narrow road with sheer drops on one side into misty ravines, the driver careened around the corners that at various times I thought that we would go hurtling over the edge! I sat white knuckled and saucer eyed as the other indigenous passengers stared into space with bored apathy. Soon the road flattened out and I was smoothed into relaxation by my pint of aguardiente I casually sipped through the mountainous roller coaster ride.
I am now in San Cristobal De Las Casas, a small city located in the mountains in the state of Chiapas. Maybe, more famously known for the freedom fighting Zapatista group who reside in the mountains in this area. Luckily for me, my trip here has been quiet from the meddling of pesky revolutionaries, and from what I have heard the group has been fairly quiet of late. The Zapatistas are fighting for the freedom of Chiapas, which from what I have seen is a very different Mexico than other places I have trotted - this due to the huge population of indigenous people in the mountains. In a way I don’t blame them. Anywhere in the world, totalitarian oppression sucks.
San Cristobal is beautiful, upon arrival, I noticed how much colder it was, being up in the mountains is quite refreshing after the heavily polluted cities of Mexico I have so far experienced. Walked about a mile from the bus station to the centre of town - the Zocalo - which is a town square, plaza - every city seems to have one. I sat down and had a coffee in a peaceful sidewalk café and people watched a bit. As the sun swung in that bright sky, I knew I needed to get up off my rusty dusty and find a cheap room. I walked around the nearby streets and found one - very basic, but friendly and clean, the family lives downstairs and rent out the rooms upstairs. The withered old matron who is the owner practices Mayan Medicine and is a typical "Senora" - plaits in her hair, dark wrinkled skin and bossy.
Walked around the city, exploring the cathedral, the Santo Domingo church and walking around the handicrafts market in which a lot of indigenous women from the surrounding villages come to and sell their beautiful, colorful wares. Think baskets, blankets, weaving - such stunning items.
From there, left the historic streets of San Cristobal and walked into the area where many of the locals reside. There was the standard big local market - selling fruits, veggies, pirate CD’s and the like, there were taco stands and juice stands. The local school had just kicked out and so the place was heaving with people, I walked on through the streets and up to the very interesting museum of Mayan medicine.
The Mayan’s are indigenous people, whose history goes back before time BC. Today in some of the villages practices are still as traditional as they were back then. The museum was excellent, and really explained to me the way the Mayan population prefer to use herbal remedies rather than visit the local doctor, it also went into detail on pregnancy and childbirth which was fascinating, so much so that things are still used now so they must work. I even had the pleasure of watching a video of a local Indian giving birth the traditional way - on her knees, with the midwife massaging her tummy, she in the arms of her husband - yuck!
Today I took a tour (the safest way to do it in these parts I am afraid to hear) and spent the morning visiting two Mayan villages in the mountains outside of San Cristobal. In fairness, our guide was fantastic, and explained the traditions and fiestas of these people, he told us about education, their religions etc etc. It was all very interesting and in one of the villages San Juan Chamula, I were able to visit the church. There religion is very closely linked with the Catholic religion that dominates this part of the world, but also mixed with Mayan which made it all the more interesting. The church floor was covered in pine needles, and as I had learned yesterday in the museum they’d burn different colored candles for different reasons and different saints or gods. The brujas carry eggs in bags that they would hold and rub over the person they are praying for, they drink the local drink POSH, and soft drinks - all for different reasons. This church has become known as the Coca Cola Church! For the reason being that as part of their rituals they use soft drinks, this is usually coca cola, but can be any soft drink containing sugar during these arcane proceedings. I witnessed a family sacrifice a chicken, which is still today a practiced ritual. Amazing.
I took the opportunity to walk around the village and the local market (unfortunately I could not take photos, these people like many others I have encountered around the world believe that by having their photo taken their soul/spirit is taken), so postcards will have to do in this case. They all wore the traditional dress of their village which was always colorful and stunning.
Visited the second village of Zintantulan (excuse spelling), there I saw a Mayan cemetery and visited a local weavers house. These kind and happy people prepared the most delicious tacos and I tasted the local firewater POSH. Brutal! At least they allowed me to take photos of them, as the guide explained the traditions, languages and culture of this particular village.
Headed back to hostel. San Crisobal is a bit of a strange place...full of western style shops, internet cafes and coffee shops. Very cute little buildings though...and quite a contrast with its perfectly straight roads, not unlike the American grid system. Hung around in the hostel....they were just lighting a barbeque when it started to rain...and man did it rain. The locals were gob smacked when it started to hailstone! It didn’t stop, but the locals managed to build a makeshift barbeque under shelter and rescue their charcoal, before the rain put it out. So I watched them cooking huge piles of thin cut steak and eating their way through a truck full of tortillas! They even gave me one and it was yummy! Had a beer then decided to go and find food.
I want to visit the stalls that have been set up in the Zocalo for a local fiesta weather permitting, and then tomorrow we shall head over to the ruins of Palenque - really looking forward to those ruins and the ones in Guatemala.
Addition: Was walking through the Zocalo after the downpour and met three local guys that are attending this evenings fiesta in the Zocalo. Juan, Peter, and Marcos. They are students and Zapatistan supporters - they think my meandering is quite funny. Will write a full report on the party and my new friends manana…

Oaxaca and fried grasshoppers.

I am now are in Oaxaca (Wah-HAH-kah, for you gringos that are Spanish deficient) in the south of Mexico. The journey down took several hours and 2 chicken buses, the first like a freezer on springs and the second like an oven on springs. Mainly due to me having the last seats, right at the back of the bus - like a local and all. Loud tourist - some Brits - guffawed and yelped up front with the quiet locals behaving in the middle.
The scenery from Guanajuato to Oaxaca was amazing - vast rolling mountains, volcanoes, black and grey plateaus, fertile green valleys and beautiful forests rolling off into a quiet horizon all under that bright clear blue Mexican sky.
Ever since I saw Jack Black in Nacho Libre I’ve been looking forward to coming to Oaxaca. I pictured the place in my mind like it appears in the movie - a little dustbowl of a town with narrow streets, outdoors markets, and quirky locals. In reality its much bigger, although the streets are narrow, and trying to maneuver on them is like going through an obstacle course. There are people everywhere, and most of them are all on the hustle.
Oaxaca is much different to the other cities I have been to, there is a much larger indigenous Indian population, and no high rise buildings due a series of earthquakes, throughout its history. 70% of the city was destroyed 30 years ago, in the last big quake.
On the bus, I struck up a conversation with a thin lad named Eduardo. He was traveling from Mexico City back down to Oaxaca to stay with his family. He confided in me that he was living in Central California working the wine fields when immigration swooped in and deported him and his friends. Again - another hard worker, not breaking any laws, just staying long enough to send money back to his family. He grinned and said he will be back working in California the following month.
It was good that I met Eduardo, he knew the city well. I explained what I was doing and he agreed to hook me up with cheap digs and after returning home - to meet me later in the Zocalo to take me around town.
We took a taxi to the small hostel Eduardo recommended and luckily they still had a room available. He’d found me a nice little place called Hostel Santa Isabel - very laid back place with mostly Spanish speaking bohemian travelers. We checked in and chilled out for a while over coffee, noticing how much hotter and humid it was this further south. The hostel is really cool, small spartan furnished rooms set around a cobblestone courtyard just a short walk from the centre of the city.
I check out the room, threw my bag on the floor and did some sight seeing as Eduardo left to visit his family. He explained he would be looking for me in the Zocalo in a few hours.
My unguided and random tour round the city was enjoyable yet uncomfortable at times due to the searing heat of the sun. It was markedly warmer here (especially in the evenings) than in the previous cities I had visited, being 1000m closer to sea level and that bit closer to the Equator, I recon.
Sitting in the Zocalo, the charming flower and fountain filled main square of Oaxaca, despite the barricades and riot police negotiated at its entrances, you are surrounded by a wonderful sense of calm which is only enhanced by a plate of nuts, lime and an icy cold corona. It would be nice to say that I did something other than sit in a cafe around the Zocalo during my time in Oaxaca - but to do so would require me to lie. And as regular readers would know, this blog contains only complete truths.

Indeed, Oaxaca's Zocalo is magnetic - its tranquil presence conspiring with the forever closed museums and galleries to ensure your constant return. And so, as American writer sits in the Zocalo - his companion arrives inviting me to embark on the great Oaxaca Market Shop of the Devil of the Death - the words 'una mas cerveza' appearing frequently on his lips...
So, a little heady from the heat and booze, Eduardo and I headed to The Meat Market. The Meat Market?? Is he hitting on me? The meat market is an experience in itself. Let me explain... It’s a long steamy corridor in a huge indoor market with many butcher stalls lining the walls on both sides, all calling to you to buy their meat and whistling in some sort of code to each other.
Each stall has a BBQ, which they cook your meat on after buying it. You also pick some onions and chilies from another stall and place those on the coals to cook. Another stall brings Tortillas and you put all the food in a big wicket basket. Its a bit confusing, we had no idea who to pay for what and we hadn’t even got to the tables yet!
When your meat and vegetables are cooked you take the basket to the tables, stopping off on the way to pick up your sauces (Cactus Salsa, Guacamole, etc) then you snuggle in with the locals and tuck in. Great food in a amazing atmosphere, my best meal yet.
With our appetites generously satisfied, Eduardo and I had a hot chocolate, another specialty of Oaxaca. We exchanged stories and traveling plans - Eduardo was a very funny and sincere guy. He is the reason for this trip, to get away from the gloomy effects of America on the Tijuana locals and to seek out real Mexico and their people. This boy is so cool - not fake, pretentious, or out to swindle a buck. Just a friend for a friendship’s sake.
Eduardo told me, Oaxacans love their chocolate. A bowl of steaming hot chocolate and a sweet bread roll to dunk is the perfect warmer when the winter sets in at 1500m above sea level. The mix to which water or milk is added, typically contains cinnamon, almonds and lots of sugar as well as ground up cocoa beans. There are many chocolate shops here, where you can watch it being made, the smell is delicious. Decided to pass on the chapulines which are fried grasshoppers with chili powder, onion and garlic, high in protein and supposed to be good with a squeeze of lime, maybe manana.
We visited El Tule to see the biggest tree in the world which is over 2000 years old. Caught the local bus, leaves right beside the big market. The tree is the widest in the world, so don't expect the tallest. Worth a gander though.
Suitably adjusting to the Mexican lifestyle, we took a late afternoon siesta before venturing out for an evening of Guelaguetza entertainment. I was unfortunately visiting Oaxaca at the wrong time for the actual festival of dance, but Eduardo assured me, I would be witnessing the next best thing.
When we arrived at the venue, I felt a little disconcerted by the fact that Eduardo and I were the only ones there. I had anticipated some amount of audience participation, but had expected it to be shared around a much bigger crowd. No amount of Mezcal would prepare me to be dragged on stage for the duration.
Thankfully, a party of just over a dozen French tourists arrived, shortly followed by a separate family of three - my odds of surviving had just increased. That evidently turned out to be the sum of the audience, which was a real shame for the fantastic dancers, who took us through an amazingly colorful routine of regional dances. Eduardo was in his element, and I happily looked on. Until it was our turn to join in.
We were both gently 'persuaded' to partner up with a dancer of the opposite sex and perform The Ejuteco Dance, somewhat poetically, I thought, related to the celebration of home-made Mezcal! I was fine at the stomping part, but was seriously out of my depth with anything that required finesse, or in fact, co-ordination and rhythm. With my eyes searching pleadingly around the room, an overwhelming sense of gratitude filled my entire being as the music stopped and we were led back to our table.
Once we recovered, my new friend and I hit the town for a night of traditional drinking at a bar recommended by Eduardo, one of the men took a bit of a shine to me. Instead of defending my honor, Eduardo decided to take embarrassing pictures and videos of the incident on his cell phone with which to humiliate me at a future point. However, even the gays of Oaxaca - though still under the confining shroud of Mexico Machismo - are the most friendly people I have encountered in many a moon. Eduardo and I stood at the bar with other friends of his - drank, laughed, chatted. At the end of the night, I was so bushed, I just stumbled back to my room and fell into a fitful sleep.

Oaxaca really is an amazing dream...

Accepting your Time/Space Location.

I've done pretty much all I want to do here. That is, except sit around and do nothing. Sitting in cafes, taking a lot of pictures, reading a book a day. It's fantastic. I may go to a couple more museums just so I don't feel too useless. But I'm having a great time.

Speaking of, met a delightful chatty old fuck named Epidio Simeon. Claims that he lived in Mexico City as a young boy and his neighbors were Jack Kerouac and Bill Gains - gains for the unwary was the old junky tat first gave William Burroughs his first taste of heroin in New York City. Gains relocated to Mexico City - to cool off from the narcs - and eventually died there. Senor Simeon used to run errands for Gains and Kerouac. Us sitting in an outside cafe people watching, he recalled that Kerouac was reserved but liked the booze, chased as much women as he could and had his fair share of the old morphine with Gains. With a distant smile, he also mentioned that Allen Ginsberg hit on him on more than one occasion. I smiled, "Old fruits."
Earlier today, I was on a bus that was stuck in traffic. Staring out the window and watching this woman setting up an impromptu vegetable stand on some stone stairs leading into a little alley. I watched as she engaged in a Sisyphus-like struggle with these bell peppers. She would place them on the top and they'd tumble down the few steps to the ground. She'd pick them up, place them on top of the pile, and they'd bounce down once again. Watching other's misfortune has never entertained me. I don't like watching people get kicked in the groin, or get beat up by cops, or any of the other sadism that entertains a lot of people. So watching this woman struggle with her vegetables didn't please me. Except that she wasn't at all bothered by it. In the minute I watched her, she never altered the way she placed the peppers back on the pile. She never made a special effort to keep this same result from happening again and again. I guess it was just a part of her day. Neither good nor bad. It's just something she does. And she'll continue to do it. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. She understands and has come to terms with her Time/Space location.

Fear not it isn't all corpses in Guanajuanto. Met up with Mario and joined a gang of locals and tourist in one of the many street parties that pepper this wonderful city. Went on a magical mystery tour around the windy streets of the town centre with a bunch of mariachis who serenaded our wandering street party with Mexican love songs. Unfortunately we missed the kick off where they sell little flasks of red wine but the whole spectacle was amazing and made all the more amusing by the presence of a newly wed couple on their honeymoon. She was Mexican, hammered as all out and having a ball in a totally unselfconscious way. Unfortunately her husband was wearing his pants up to his armpits and could only do the jerky robot dance. Jeff Guberberg as we fondly called him. They were very sweet though. The whole thing was free, and loads of Mexicans were doing it which is always a good litmus test of authenticity.

Mario and I finished up in the Calle de Besos (Alley of the Kisses) where a smooch on the 13th step guaranteed continued happiness between myself and himself for the next 7 years. (Thank goodness for that.) Mario did surprise me with a quick smack on the lips under the giggling eyes of a food stall vendor.

Mario and I finished off at this crazily adorned bar before walking back to the hostel to pack for Oaxaca...

Guanajuato Junction

So, here I am flat on my ass in Guanajuato...

I heard of a really neat city that was only a few hours bus ride from San Miguel. Decided to check it out and stay for a few day or two. It is called Guanajuato. The name means place of frogs. It was originally built over the Guanajuato river which flowed through tunnels underneath the city. Later a dam was built and the water was redirected. The tunnels were lit and paved with cobblestone and today are used as an underground road network to navigate the city.

This is also where Miguel Hidalgo, the leader of the Mexican Independence movement, was caught and executed. Old Miguelito as well as three other revolutionary leaders had their heads hung with care from the corners of what is now a state museum. This was a warning to the residents of Guanajuato. I didn't really stress over it...

The teeming metropolis of Guanajuato is a charming colonial style city. Set in beautiful surroundings in midst of ravines and gullies. Its streets flow into steep twisting alleys. It was one of the richest cities in all of Mexico - once. The Valenciana silver mine once produced an astonishing 1/5 of the world's silver - and not the kind sold by streets vendors to the unwary tourist that turns black in an hour.

The innerestin hillsides are a spectacle for the eye. Loaded in hundreds of brightly candy colored colored houses. The city has a slogan of The Old City with a Young Heart. There is one of the oldest universities in Mexico located here. It has over 8000 students. It also boasts one of the largest places in Mexico for mathematical research. As with these teeming masses of squirrelly students - especially the guys, guess I had better mind my P's and Q's.

Hit a spot of confusion entering the city from a peaceful bus ride from San Miguel.
Not really having much of an idea where to get off the local bus from the central station as it seemed none of the roads were named, the passengers and I were driven through one of the quirky and numerous subterranean passages that Guanajuato is famed for. After witnessing most of the passengers disembark, thought it best to jump off at the next stop. Fortunately, the exit was near some crumbling flagstone stairs returning to the surface world and actually, not too far from the hotel I had chosen.

First things first: in my mindless wanderings in Guanajuato, I found a spot up a hill that certainly came close to the most perfect place for a cerveza Sol I’ve ever seen. You have to go up this touristy thing called the funicular - and the way was packed with flabby, petulant tourists, but a short walk away from where the big statue and viewing platforms and stuff are, there’s a little place called the Cafeteria Encantado, with 180 view of the whole town, run by a cute old couple who also sell really random souvenirs (you get the feeling some of it was just scrap and knick-knacks that were lying around their house). The sun was warm, the beers were cold, the snacks were salty - I sat and drank with indefatigable voracity.

Guanajuato was really interesting. Despite my earlier derogatory musings about museums, I realize now the exception for me is the presence of actual dead bodies. El Museo de Momias, in fact, is nothing but dead bodies. The story goes that a while ago they excavated some of the bodies in the cemetery in Guanajuato to make room for more (?!), and they discovered that something with the combination of soil type, mineral and pressure here had preserved the corpses. So they built a museum in which to exhibit the bodies to the public, I mean, wouldn't you?. I love this country! You pay your 25 pesos, and just walk in and see hundreds of dead bodies. Up to your arm pits in shriveled brown corpses - more than you can shake a stick at if one felt inclined.

However, even this morbid sicko Yours Truly was a little perturbed by tourists laughing and taking photos of dead baby mummies. Also, they’re still putting bodies in there, but only when families can’t afford the ongoing costs of a plot in the cemetery. Can you imagine something like that ever, ever being allowed in States? Whatever your ethical objections to the whole concept (Like I would care), it was really fascinating stuff. Step right up, folks and bring little Timmy and Suzy! The grotesque facial expressions! The still-intact boots! The pregnant mummy! Nothing like viewing 300 dead bodies to remind you of your own mortality, though, and the best argument for cremation I can think of.
This town was also the birthplace of Diego Rivera, the Mexican artist who had the tempestuous relationship with that diva about town, Frida Kahlo. Shrugged off my reluctance to be indoors, and went to his family home, which is now a museum (sadly lacking in actual corpses), and an art gallery of his work.
Saw my first Mexican Emo here too, ha haa. I don’t even want to know what kind of quantity of product it took to tame that Latino mane into a dead straight asymmetrical fringe, but I’m sure whatever it was it was worth it to him. Emo isn’t just another fashion fad, it’s a serious lifestyle choice, okay? And though a little frail for my tastes - he was quite a looker.
Stayed in a hostel conveniently located near the entertainment precinct, however when choosing it I didn’t really think through the implications, given the Mexican propensity for late nights and louder than shit ranchero music. I bet you didn’t know that every Latin pop song has EXACTLY the same beat, learnt this through the muffled throbbing coming through the pillows I was squeezing my head between till 4am. Eventually drifted to sleep to the gentle lullaby of 100 drunk Mexicans having a shout-along to Man, I Feel Like a Woman.

Woke up this morning with the feeling I’d been gargling shards of glass all night, and with throat glands practically the size of tennis balls. Oh no, my outrageous good fortune runs out! Going to take it eeasssy today, with a long bus ride to Guadalajara, five hours south-west. To be honest I’m getting a bit antsy to hit some laid-back coastal fishing towns, but we’ll see how it goes. Guadalajara is only an hour from the actual town of Tequila - too dangerous...

The downtown center is a great place to wander on foot. Vehicles are prohibited, so it makes for a nice atmosphere. The main Jardin ( a park in the center) is the place to hang out. There are lots of trees for shade, and pretty gardens to sit and relax in. Mariachi bands are in abundance, especially at night. There are lots of cafes with outside seating around the park.

Sitting in a outside cafe table, I stuck up a conversation with a student named Mario - he was funny and kind. I explained to Mario what i was doing and where I was headed - he, like so many others haha - decided to be my unofficial guide and show me some of the Guanajuato night life.

The first place we hit was a bar called La Botellita - This restaurant/cantina is colorfully eclectic, with the bar area looking something like a Mexican wrestling ring. The decor is eye-catching and gives off a casual, yet elegant feel. It's located next to the Jardin Union, an easy walk from anywhere in the downtown area. If you're looking for a great eating experience with a little people-watching included, this is the place for you. Mario and I sat and swapped stories. Unfortunately he was helplessly heterosexual - so, I didn't drop the fag bomb on him.

So, on that note - a little drunk we staggered over cobblestone streets to Capitolio Disco - Capitolio is one of the best clubs you will find in Guanajuato, its tradition and music makes it a firm favorite with the locals. Music here is as varied as the clientele, however predominately playing techno, dance and house. I drank so many Long Island Ice Teas - I even...okay, you ready for this? I even danced with this girl! It was a friend of Mario's and we boogied all together for a few songs.

2am rolled around and after the three of us munched on some tacos - three as Gaby, Mario's friend, came with us - we said our goodnights and I blearily staggered back to the hostel...