by sam paul
We went to a Mexican market/store today and bought some interesting stuff including a liter of Coca-cola that is actually in a glass bottle. Talk about a sixties relic and conversation piece! I’m not going to drink it, I’m going to put it in the refrigerator to tempt my roommates and remind me of Mexico when I drowsily look for food on those otherwise bleak school days.
Unfortunately, Jenifer either got pick pocketed while we were in the store or left her pesos behind when we left and we had driven for half an hour before she realized her money was all gone. We drove at high speed all the way back to the store in an intense quiet fashion and of course all her dough had vanished. The clerk even acted like he wasn’t even sure he remembered us. I was kind of mad, well not mad exactly, I was just out of sorts because I didn’t want lack of money to ruin our vacation. I’m sure I acted like an asshole. I’m more pissed that I have to be solely responsible for our well being, as it relates to all things financial, for the rest of our trip. Jenifer is notorious for losing her losing her money and having some quirky twist of fate bring it back to her. Except for the one time in Europe when some Italian stud smooth talked her while he lifted her wallet and passport and caused her to miss her flight home, Jenifer has recounted lots of stories where she’s lost and got back all her cash while vacationing. The luck of the mostly innocent maybe? It was pretty obvious to both of us when everyone suddenly lost their knowledge of the English language that Jenifer wasn’t going to be getting her money back this time. Jenifer looked so sad and embarrassed that I felt like a fool for getting angry. No problem. We both brought a lot of money and I gave her half of mine, we went on our way and everything was cool. I still love her and her silly ways.
Random thought
Being an artist is seeing the world’s single file line and stepping out of place at the risk of losing rank. Then look inwards, backwards and finally forwards. Take a shortcut, but don’t get too far ahead of the pack lest ye be labeled a progressive madman AND don’t let too many people see you cutting in front of them in line lest ye be a fad.
Wow! We found the most spectacular beaches today, different but no less exciting or beautiful than the white sand beaches I saw in the Bahamas. Jenifer and I spent the day frolicking around the warm sand and because there wasn’t anybody around we were naked most of the time. We had sex and a picnic and we played in the massive sand dunes and collected seashells while drinking sodas and lukewarm Tecate beer. The water was very cold (it’s the Pacific, duh!) but I bodysurfed until my skin and lips were blue. I kept worrying that a big fish would come by and chomp on my dick, maybe thinking my cold shrinky penis was a minnow or something, but I stayed in the waves most of the time. I don’t know if staying in the waves makes any difference to fish that chomp, but it helped me not to worry. Hey I can worry about my penis if I want! It is also very relaxing to know that I could drown or get carried out to sea and nobody would be able to save my ass. When did I start thinking about stupid shit like that? Ever since I popped out of the womb I guess. Honestly the isolation made me get a peaceful feeling inside, partly because of the minute danger. The danger just reminded me how we were the only two people on Earth at that moment in time. The ONLY two people on Earth and it wasn’t scary, it wasn’t worrying about grades, it wasn’t having to go to a job or buying gas or dealing with our respective insane families it was just…nice. No that’s just the salt in my eyes really. It was a windy and tiring day but great. We found a couple of great beach spots, unfortunately a majority were spot marked with telltale litter. We just explored the oceanside with no particular agenda.
Today Jenifer and I drove down to the beach again in RedOne and just played in the sand off the coast. The water is still a little chilly, but the sunshine and the secluded embrace of the Pacific makes the wind and sand feel great. To stand and lean forward at a 45 degree angle while a sandy ocean breeze holds you aloft on top of giant dunes of Sahara-esque sand is incredible. We are still so alone out here and there are many more miles and miles of beaches to see. We had to alternate between warm clothes and total nudity, favoring warm clothes for the most part. It took forever to finally get warm again yesterday after swimming out in the Ocean. True to Mexico, a lot of the easier to reach beaches seem to have remnants of long forgotten parties; beer cans and used rubbers and the like, but for the most part it’s still an untapped desolate paradise. Each day we’ve explored a different path off the “road” in an effort to find the perfect beach but it’s all perfect for the most part.
Today our expedition got waylaid slightly due to the low clearance threshold of RedOne’s tires and the soft sand. We were temporarily stranded out in the middle of nowhere by a patch of moist beach sand where our tires could not find any purchase. We tried digging and putting driftwood under the tires in the back but only ended up peeling more sand out from under the car. It wasn’t a big deal as far as survival goes, we had all our food and camping equipment in the car, but it seemed like it could be weeks before anyone might come along this area. Or so we thought. From out of nowhere, an entire family of yuppies—Dad, Mom and 2.5 kids in a brand-spanking-new Land Rover with all the trimmings—comes bumping along the same road. We were waving our arms like crazy intent on getting their attention while I could see the wife on the passenger side in her soccer mom sweater telling her husband that they should get out of there, as if we might be vicious “banditos” or something. I think they realized our predicament pretty quickly, and once they confirmed we were white people, they seemed glad to help. Besides there was no place they could have turned around on the sandy path before getting to our car.
The husband got out and the wife and children stayed in the car. I imagine their conversation went like this “Stay here honey, I’ll handle this. If they try anything funny, lock all the doors.” I love to see the traditional family roles in action that people feel like they should still play out. (Just like when I go to Home Depot I had to explain to the guy what the problem was, what’s not working and the logistics of the formulas I’ve tried to work everything out with.) Jen and I could almost get our tires out of the hole the rear tires of the car had dug with her driving, but in order to get the guy to help me push we had to go through the motion of turning on the car, letting the tire spin and putting wood und the tire and show him that it wasn’t working. I told him “Look, if she can drive the car the two of us can push it out of this hole pretty easily. The car is not that heavy.” This must have seemed too easy for him or he really wanted to use his new toy because it just so happened that ‘family man’ went for the extra-extra option package on the Land Rover and got a winch for the front. So this desk jockey goes off on his repressed manly parade, determined to show off his outdoor survival skills for the sake of his watchful family, who by now realized we actually needed help and felt it was OK to get out of the car and stare at us from a distance. The guy attaches his winch to our bumper and I should mention that the bumper on a Ford Escort is just a piece of plastic with about the same strength as a cheap Storm Trooper Halloween mask from the early Star Wars days. He’s very careful not to get his dry cleaned Eddie Bauer pressed flannel “outdoor” shirt dirty as he’s attaching the winch while we are trying to politely convince him to just help give us a little push out of the sand instead of ripping the bumper off our car. Our clothes have been slept in for many days and both of our hair is starting to ‘dred’ up so we look as comfortably grungy as any decent road trip adventurer should, but we’re not vocal enough to protest since he’s trying to help and we don’t appear observably smart enough for him to want to listen. We’re tired and finally just let him play out his manly role and finally, after he almost rips the back bumper off of the car he acknowledges that I am right and within minutes of our combined efforts to simply push the car, we have the hole cleared. We politely said our thanks and drove off quickly to another beach to spend the night.
It’s still bitterly cold here at night. The wind off the Pacific on both sides i
s pretty intrusive. I think the cold water in my ears is making me come down with a cold, but it might just be the inhalation of saltwater wreaking havoc on my sinuses and grinding against my skin. We both slept in the car (again), no biggie, and I lit a giant fire to cook some food and get little stinky warmth before we huddled in the car and listened to the great roar of the ocean.
Yes, I’m definitely getting a little bit of a cold, nothing major though. I am man, I am tough. GRRR! The drive is getting even more spectacular because the farther we go south, the more we see signs of a completely different culture becoming evident. The mountains are treacherous and the highway has huge potholes hidden in the black road. Especially ominous curves are often marked with shrines of the Virgin Mary or dotted with flowers and crosses to remember the people who died on particularly bad sections of this road. Sober reminders of the dead, but beautiful in an eerie way.
We are now glimpsing views of long white sand beaches, straight out of a postcard, with crystal blue water that looks so inviting. We stopped to swim at one nice looking beach where there were a lot of parked RV’s and touristas everywhere, crazily thinking that maybe this crowded beach might be better than what we’ve already seen. It wasn’t anything special though, just crowded. We took a picture and left pretty quickly, I had a really weird feeling that someone might break into our car there.
We smoked the last of my pot and got into a deeply buoyant philosophical discussion about life, love, mountain shrines and all the rusted out remains of cars that are everywhere along the highway now. That’s a major difference between the U.S. and here; nobody gets their cars towed to a mechanic when they break down. Sometime during the night people rape cars parked along the highway of every usable part and by usable part, I mean that every tiny screw, knob or bolt is entirely stripped off the car until all that’s left is a crumbling skeleton of rust. The presence of so much symbolic death just serves to remind us we are alive. It’s poetically beautiful in a Morrissey sort of way. We stopped and took a picture of ourselves (auto timer!) leaning out the window and waving bottles of liquor in a decrepit VW van, pretending to be baracho. Why is it I know the word for “drunk” but can’t remember “salsa”? I have a feeling a car left on this highway overnight wouldn’t be much to speak of the next day.
I finally got to drive while Jenifer took a nap. I smoked the absolute last bit of my pot and drove about 90 miles an hour across the Mexican plains. You can’t see the water from the road in most places but I can always smell it and it was amazing to be driving through sunbeams as they pierced the thick dark clouds rolling in off the ocean. The visual beauty of the scenery, the thrill of letting Jenifer’s car open up full throttle without any fear of police and being able to reach and caress the sleeping beauty next to me gave me such a good feeling of fulfillment and happiness. I was alone with my brooding thoughts, feeling groovily stoned, listening to “Licensed to Ill” on the stereo, singing along, driving fast and free. Very pleasurable. Jenifer woke up after while and got mad that I was drivingso fast, which I can understand, but the damage was done. The appreciation of the moment uplifted my sprits and rejuvenated my love, maybe I can learn to share that. If I can absorb it, shouldn’t I also be able to project people’s energy?
After a rather unpleasant argument brought on by mutual fatigue, Jenifer and I finally got to the specific part of the coast where the grey whales swim in for the season.
We can both be very stubborn sometimes. We were all set to check into an expensive motel (no mud!) that would also provide the tourist boat out to the best sites to see the whales when Jenifer started talking to the clerk in Spanish and found out the whales are a week late this year. After 2000 miles of driving they’re late?! Dammit! The clerk specifically told us in broken English “The whales, they are slow” enunciating his words slowly as if to infer that when they are swimming by Mexico they just sort of go along with the whole lackadaisical Mexican siesta groove thing. I supposed when they pass by L.A. they put on dark sunglasses too.
I can respect the whales for being late, but it’s still disappointing and frustrating, especially after driving into town with clouds of anger around us. There were a bunch of fucking German families milling around with all their fancy German explorer clothes and German RV’s. Since we don’t have a week to mill around we said “fuck it” and burnt out of town, leaving any bad feeling with the krauts behind us.
I really wanted to see those whales. After seeing Star Trek IV, I though maybe they might have something to say if I was willing to listen.
“This we know: The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.”
—Chief Seattle (c. 1786-1866)
Skokemish leader
We realized that we didn’t want to drive all the way down the coast to Cabo after missing the whales so we’re heading back up through wonderful Mexico and enjoying the sights just as much the second time around. We stopped at an area where there were all sorts of huge smooth boulders interspersed with lots of tall, skinny cacti. My perverted side thought it looked like lots of giant boobs with little dark green penises between them. It would have made a perfect location for an old black & white western if not for the spray painted murals on the largest rocks facing the road professing generations of love for Maria and Paco, Hernandez and Vasquez, the PRI political party etc. etc. We took the time to climb around, explore and play. Jenifer got naked for a little while, stretching her lanky body across the top of a huge rock that curved upwards, gently lifting her up and making her back arch as if she was having a subtle continuing orgasm. I polished off some Tecates and took pictures but when I tried to take a sexy picture of Jenifer naked on the sun heated rock she was too sly and slick.
We splurged in the evening and ate a great big Mexican feast at a restaurant with a jungle atmosphere in the small town. I ordered a margarita with my food, just because I could, but Jenifer and the waiter made fun of me in Spanish because there were two sizes of margarita, a “chica” and a “grande” or some shit, and I ordered the “chica” because I didn’t want to get plastered. Plus I drank all those beers earlier and I always forget how the rhyme goes. Is it “beer before liquor, never sicker” or “liquor after beer, never fear”, I can never remember? Anyway, I’m glad I got the small size because it was the worst fucking margarita I’ve ever had. I think the waiter just poured straight tequila in a glass and added some green food coloring, but I finished every drop, more because they made fun of me than anything. Yuck. The food turned out to be great but I think mine had some rogue Mexican parasite in it that didn’t agree with my stomach. Outside of town I made Jenifer stop the car and proceeded to projectile vomit all over the place, much to Jenifer’s delight. I got a sort of malicious sympathy from her with numerous references to the “chica” margarita, but I felt like I was going to die.
After numerous stops we wound up just sleeping in the car by the side of the road, fearful of banditos, but by then I was too sick to care.
“She told me and then I discovered it for myself’
—unknown
We are both exhausted but I can see from the gleam in our adventurous eyes that we are both spiritually more fulfilled. Mexico is behind us now, but the journey served to renew our limited communication with God. Even though Jenifer won’t admit to any metaphysical beliefs, she is too amazing of a person to be uninfluenced by the grace of a higher power. I’ve never really talked to her about my religious beliefs, at least any of my organized religious views that might qualify as classification. I’m drawn to how Jenifer can be so in touch with her soul without any practiced meditation. Is there such a thing as natural inner peace? There are just some things inside her that I look up to as if she’s a teacher, a prodigy or untrained genius. Somehow I always manage to attach myself to people I want to em
ulate and learn from, I just don’t know if it’s healthy to be that way in an equal relationship.
Right now, we are recuperating with a hot plate of greasy food and a cup of warm Joe at the same Denny’s restaurant we originally left behind, seemingly eons ago, in San Diego. Resting in traditional American surroundings, thankful to not have to live permanently off of street vendor tacos made with God-knows-what. We fucked around in Tijuana before we left Baja and had the chance to enjoy the city the way I originally wanted Jenifer to enjoy Juarez. I also bought a couple hip-flask sized bottles of liquor to drink on the way home since I don’t have any more weed. Drunk driving punk rock hard-core style, we defy you death! Still I would rather have the weed, it’s less dangerous by far, but the law is the law. I smuggled one of the flasks in my pocket and one in the igloo cooler in the back seat. Neither one of us is of legal drinking age yet so we smuggled booze just like back in prohibition days. We joined the mile long throng of cars waiting to cross the border and then crept along at a snails pace hindered by the border patrol keepers that periodically search cars for drugs and illegal aliens. I still can’t believe they even bother taking the trouble. I mean the ratio of people crossing into the U.S. compared to the number of cars they can actually search is astronomical. Any drug dealer worth his salt should know he can send twenty cars in a row filled with drugs and they’ll likely only stop 2 of them. A ninety percent rate of success is something any Fortune 500 company would be happy with. It took us about a ¡ hour to creep up to the actual U.S. boundary and of course as raggedy and strung out as we must have looked we got waved over to be one of the one in ten to be searched. Meanwhile ten cars got through filled with drugs I guess. No sweat, but it took another hour for “the man” to bring out their drug dogs, tap all the panels on the side of the car and yank out all our stuff along with ripping out some of the interior upholstery and checking all the tires. Ironically they went to all that trouble and never bothered to look in the cooler and didn’t even care about checking our ID for the liquor they found in the back seat. After we “passed” their inspection they told us to leave, without bothering to pick up all of our clothes that got tossed onto the oil stained parking area or fixing any of the interior panels that they pried off. It was just a quick fucking in the ass from the U.S. government thanks to our profile and shabby appearance.