Remember the Bowline From the Mexican Rainforest Between Tepic and San Blas… My pal Juan and I, we’re going to guide the boss’s friends on a night hike. What could go wrong? Well, a hurricane is swirling over the Pacific. Surrounding storms have drenched this rainforest “resort” with its tin roofs, walls made out of chopped up RVs, and no-AC cabins. The corrugated roofs over the bar and reception rattle and ping under endless raindrops. Trails become mud. Guests vanish into their cabins. Dogs nap under tables. But the boss’s pals can’t be discouraged. They know the guy who owns this place, so everything, even severe weather, must be under control. Hiking up a rocky, muddy trail in the night, we step-stone across a stream that flows away then plunges down into a big double-decker waterfall. We’re taking them to an indigenous sweat lodge ceremony. A hut with wool walls over a bamboo frame with a pit full of stones from a fire pit in the middle. There will be chanting and drums while the guides dump buckets of water on the rocks to fill the hut with steam. We sat in the mud, in the lodge, in the dark, amid the steam from the rocks, and the smell of burning sage, sandalwood, and cinnamon bundles. It was quite lulling, but… While we were away…the heavens fed that same stream we crossed to get here, and it deepened, strengthened and swelled till it was waste high, both because the water rose, and because the rocky ground beneath it was rapidly eroding. The stepping stones we used to get here rolled away under a flood of chocolate milk-colored water, never to be seen again. Steamed, chilled out, and sleepy, we worked our way back to that stream to discover our path back was gone. Juan waded in, and the rolling rocks underfoot, the bark and branches that filled the water battering his legs, and the sheer ceaseless rushing power of the water told him that there was no chance of crossing. The middle-aged women, the boss’s pals, would be bowled over, swept downhill, and sent careening over the edge of the rockfalls. Our flashlights shined cones of light through the dashing rain. The river kept getting deeper. We had no cell service, Walky-Talky, radio, or plan of any kind. Juan and I conversed. The crew in our charge huddles in the rain with crossed-arms, all goose fleshed. Good sports, but for how long? They want answers, and here we are, implicitly on the hook for them. Bro, I tell Juan. It is really powerful, but I am 90% sure I can cross to get us all a rope. Really? Yeah. I mean, if you have other ideas I’m all ears, but it looks like our best bet. Ok. You know if you fall you won’t get back up, it’s just a ride down to the falls? I know, but I think I can make it. I felt it out. Played around in some rivers, forded one or two in my day. I want to do it. I pop off my sneakers and chuck them to the far side of the water. Ah, but what cockiness. In the early steps, so far so good, but the ground becomes soft mud, and soon I’m up to my hips in water. Smooth stones get swept downstream under foot. Any one of them could bend an ankle in half if you’re not careful. Now in the middle, the current rages stronger. Bark bits and branches floating in the water batter my legs. An underwater thorn vine rakes across my shin. I hold my breath, widen my stance, spread my hands out, and churn forward. It gets worse, but I can practically put my hands on the other bank by now. I do so, and exit the water in a bear crawl. Think we can all make it? Juan calls. I barely did. Let me get a rope, so we can be sure. Pop back on the shoes, and dead sprint to the large screen house for zip line and climbing gear. The rain gets meaner. Giant toad in front of the door – truly softball sized or larger. I’d ogle him, but the boss’s friends are waiting. He hops out of the way, I steal a white rope, hope it’s longer than two tree trunks and a small river, and sprint back to the water. Ah, but where is the tree I planned to anchor to? I’ll have to wade back in to get it. Juan is consoling the shivering crew in Spanish. I’m going to tie a bowline, a knot used for rescue harnesses because it absolutely will not untie on its own, no matter how hard it’s pulled. Juan’s flashlight beam strobes and spazzes over my fingers as I work the rope around the tree. I throw the knot together as more floating bark batters my legs, as more mud erodes under my feet. Give the rope a yank and horror – it unties. Wait a minute, this should’t happen. Sure, it’s been a minute since life asked me to tie a one, but what about all those camp challenges? Who can tie a bowline behind their back, blindfolded, or underwater while treading, which I did while sinking cinderblock anchors for floating docks? This shouldn’t happen, not after any number of years. Juan’s light is far from my work now, and it’s become a matter of pride. No, it’s a matter of life and death, of not letting the boss’s friends take a long wet plunge to dark oblivion. Eyes closed, going by feel this time, by instinct, tracing the loops of rope with my fingertips while a thin branch bends against my face, scratching it. The rabbit comes up out of the hole, goes around the tree, and dives back in the hole. I give the finished knot a yank, it holds fast, and I knew the trees themselves would wash away before it untied. I opened my eyes and saw that looping shape I knew to be a perfect bowline. Coil over my shoulder, I fight my way back to the other end and find an anchor tree there. Another bowline, this one in probably less than half a second. I twanged the rope over the water, and everyone understood what to do. Juan went first to act as a spotter. He is a big guy, but his knee ligaments were injured and torn a long time ago, so he’s a tad wobbly. First, we send across a blonde-haired Romanian woman. She gets midway, stumbles in the water, and clutches the rope to stand up again. Juan lends her a hand up. The current has her horizontal. Without the rope, she would have been washed away in seconds. VIP after VIP we shepherd across that roaring rush of water, those treacherous ankle-rolling rocks, those mischievous underwater thorn vines, those mini boats of bark debris that flick and fleck the skin. They make you swat at your thighs (has a water snake slithered out in the darkness?) But a step at time, a held hand at a time, we get each VIP to safety. Finally, I untie the far end of the rope, haul myself through the water and untied the bowline on the other side. Next, we bring everyone back to that tin roof with the bar inside an RV. Get them towels, drinks, and pour ourselves a few celebration tequilas. For hours, we recap and re-recap the night away. The victory and hero endorphins flow for a while, but when I lay in my bed that night – wait! We should have had them on the other side of the rope, so it braced them against the current. Holding on was good but – there won’t be a next time but – they should have been on the other side of the rope. Then, it would have been perfect work. Then it would have been perfect. Thanks for reading! Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
All is Lost Let’s get out of here. It’s obviously friends and family night at the one nightclub in town, everyone else already has their people, we’re not going to meet anyone here, let’s go. We leave. Next stop is the beach at night. Lightning is visible but we can’t hear thunder as we stumble drunk and bored through this mosquito-bitten, quiet little town in Mexico. Anyway, we steal a couple plastic chairs from the abandoned, unguarded beach cafes and park them shoreside to watch the water and light show at night. Kinda want to swim. Me too, but I didn’t bring anything. Eh. Could skinny dip. Nobody is around. True. Well, anything sounds like a good idea after enough tequila. Soon, we’re letting the high waves absolutely demolish us. Hard enough to stand on land this drunk, forget surging waves, foam, and even barrels. Look at these waves. Look at this moonlight. I wish I had a surfboard. I’d surf right now. You’d get murked by a shark. The Lord’s will be done. Really? I mean, I hope not. But the thing about life is, you might be on a hero’s journey, and you might be a cautionary tale. It takes a long time before you find out which. Damn. Waves roll with ancient elemental power. I try a few messy backflips in the white water. They go OK. Ok, I’m good if you are. Let’s get out of here. Back on the sand, gut-wrenching horror. The chairs where we left our clothes and things are empty. Armrests and seats glint white in the moonlight and lightning flashes. No more shirts, pants, underwear, wallets, keys, phone, cash, passports, all gone. They stole our stuff. They stole everything. Bastards. We can’t get back inside! We’re trapped out here. We’ll get malaria with all the mosquitoes out here. Even worse, people will thing we’re gay. Priority one. Squash that rumor. Dude, look at the waterline. All of the other chairs are knocked over. The ocean took our stuff. Not thieves. I can’t believe God would do this to us. I can. He let the Holocaust happen. Juan goes into full panic. He dives in the ocean. He sprints in a look around the beach. Not a well gridded search pattern, but it’s something. Bad stuff like this doesn’t happen to me, he tells the night. He pile drives his head in the dirt. He’s cursed with being accident prone but charmed with being indestructible. If you must be one, it’s good to be the other. He sprints in the water and back. Bad stuff like this doesn’t happen to me, he screams at the sky. Ah, but it does happen to me, which is the source of my acceptance. I’m eying the same surf shop where I’ve rented boards by day. Ok. Game plan. We raid the lost and found bin, steal shorts, hoodies, whatever people left. Towels, if that’s all there is. Get covered up and trek home. Tell the land lady to call a locksmith if she truly doesn’t have a spare key, like she said she doesn’t when we moved in. Roof for the night, worry about the rest tomorrow. I start plodding towards the surf shop. Wind howls. Waves roar. Sand fleas bite and mosquitoes buzz. It’s a harsh world when you’re nude. What’s this? In the gloomy moonlight, through the gauzy clouds. Five other white plastic chairs. And … OUR STUFF! Dude! It’s all here! Those weren’t our chairs! We drifted more than we thought. Juan collapses in the sand in gratitude. Dude, if we had stolen clothes from there we would have left our stuff here all night. Then it would have been gone by morning. Can you imagine? How close we came to our lives being ruined? It’s a tiny town. People already gossip about us. For what? Just being Gringos. Dang. I told you, stuff like this doesn’t happen to me. Well. Not this time. Thanks for reading! Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
Spice Heat. Sweat beads on every surface of my head, and runs in rivers down my temples. My mouth opens to pant like one of the skinny street dogs that scamper up and down the flooded mud roads, with their round rocks jammed together in ankle-rolling jumbles. On my plate are three tacos and a blistered chili pepper. We’re in a building that looks like a jail cell somewhere in San Blas, a largely forgotten, beat down coastal town in Mexico. My friend Juan covered his tacos in a creamy looking light orange salsa, an innocent looking green one, and only bothered to warn me about the third dark red, oily salsa. Assuming I was safe with two out of three sauces, I copied him and slathered them atop the taco happily. Bit a corner of the blistered chili, and half of a taco, admiring the fresh-baked tortilla made in the bakery across the street, the tender all-day stewed cut of cheap meat, the white cabbage and cactus salsa, but soon I got hit with the flamethrower. Every pore of mine opens, and chili oil floods out. Eyes dilate as if by a drug. It’s the type of spiciness that ignites your tongue, makes your ears pop; brings about a momentary deafness. In that spice induced tinnitus, Juan, whose perma-sweat stains the knees of his jeans chalky white with dry sodium deposits, garbles the praises of the food. For him, it is done just right. My American mind searches for a safe haven, but apparently real tacos aren’t served with sour cream, yogurt sauces, or even cheese. This place doesn’t have drinks, so I can’t ask for so much as a cardboard box of milk. There’s no air conditioning in this concrete box with black bars and no glass for windows. Fans blast hot air in my face, rattling and whirling. Sound returns, and outside, the night is frenetic with barking dogs, chattering street hawkers, babbling gossips, and the blaring horns of Ranchera music, and the pulsing speakers of boom boxes. The wings of billions of blood sucking insects beat. Smells of burning trash and coconut husks, which are set ablaze to keep the mosquitos away, float through the shop, brought in by the fan. There’s no wind. The warm water we’ve been brought makes everything worse. Tongue turns to red ember. Eyes melt away from their sockets. Shoe leather smolders around my feet. It’s more than a meal, it’s a right of passage, a diabolical transformation. I somehow finish the small tacos, and stumble out into the night, leaving hundreds of Pesos on the table. Juan follows me, mildly concerned, mildly amused. My head explodes in flames and I gape at him as a flaming skull. We pass a kid with a cart full of sour candies for sale, and- are you serious? Three bottle of different hot sauces to be poured into an open bag of candy. I run from the sight, smoke trailing from behind me. A woman sells popsicles, and tells us it’s two for one on lime with jalapeño, and pineapple chili. Juan is tempted. Those are his favorite flavors, but I breathe fire on him to voice my objection to peppered popsicle. He finally gets the point, and orders a coconut milk popsicle for me, and takes jalapeño lime for himself. One bite of the coconut ice and I realize, I just might make it, I just might survive. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.
What Brought Me to Mexico Where I’m living lately Though months of traveling across Europe and North Africa left me quite confident, Mexico City Airport is one of the most jumbled and chaotic I have ever seen. The layout forces you to retrace your steps across the entire airport to handle customs, your next boarding pass, get a bite, anything you need or want to do. The seats do not face the screens at the gates, so when the boards, the announcements and the alerts on my phone were all disagreeing over whether I was departing from gate C or D, I was basically forced to sprint between the two, ask a confused staff in broken Spanish, and triple check till I was finally on the bus that drove to the plane. From the airplane windows, I could see the patchwork of farms running up hillsides. After an hour in the air, I landed in Tepic. The plane touched down on a gleaming wet tarmac as the sun was setting yellow and orange behind rainforest mountains. The air was hot, humid, and oxygen-rich from all the greenery. Basically, an old friend, Juan recently quit a job we used to both work. He now markets for a jungle resort between Tepic and the coastal town of San Blas. In silver-tongued Spanish, he explained to his new boss that he knew how to get a few articles in English about what a great resort this was for free: put me up in cabin and show me around for a week or so. Soon we were seated in a seafood restaurant while Juan ordered oysters, marlin empanadas, and ceviches. We clinked micheladas, and reminisced about working for the same shrieking boss at the same rinky-dink agency, and bunkering down to weather the hurricanes of Miami. Jetlagged and worn out, I struggled to stay awake as we pulled off the mountain highway onto a washed out pebbly dirt road. Juan got out to unlock a giant wooden and iron gate under a white arc, and I watched as a procession of leaf cutter ants walked across the road. They looked like a sliding necklace of tiny green triangles as each ant carried a carefully-sliced piece of leaf across the road. Then it was into the grounds of the resort, arriving after dark. Though resort is a description that needs some clarifying. The true purpose of these some 170 acres of Mexican wilderness, with its five waterfalls, jackfruit, and mango farms, is to serve as a nature preserve. The money the cabins, concrete igloos, bar, cafe, and restaurant earn all go towards that aim. Though this means that no animals get killed on the land. Not the two types of venomous snakes, the poisonous spiders, the scorpions, or even the pumas and jaguars in the jungle. Though I am sludgy and draggy with jet lag, and want to collapse in the cabin bed, I have to flip the pillows and toss the sheets for scorpions and and spiders. Finding one this way would be a bummer. Finding one by plopping down and rolling up would be worse. The preserve has zip lines, hiking, kayaking, and mountain peaks. More to come on what it’s like here. There’s a spring that pours fresh water out of a tree trunk. But for now, the pillows and blankets are free of stingers, and it’s time to go to bed. Get my book Odd Jobs & After Hours in audio, hardcover, or paperback by clicking here. It’s about drifting down the east coast of the USA chasing one sketchy, so-called opportunity after another.