The Island of Flores

I cooked my brain crossing the border. In the town of Benque, where the bus line ends, I began what I thought was a short mile walk to the border. A mile beneath the Belizean sun feels like walking ten miles back home. I dragged myself into the immigration station light headed, dehydrated, tired and drenched in sweat; paid my $37.50 Belizean dollars exit fee and got my exit stamp. I could’ve walked straight into Guatemala and caught a bus to Flores without getting my entry stamp. But I didn’t want any trouble (see Mexican Jail story) so I walked over to their immigration booth and got my stamp. Foolishly, I passed the money changers on the Belizean side without paying them any attention — always better to change the currency in the actual country of the currency for better rates.

Of course all the taxi guys were trying to reel me in for an expensive trip to Flores. I denied them all and denied the money changers too. I walked away from the border scene and over a bridge into the town of Melchor de Campos, Guatemala. It was like a poor Mexico of the 1940’s. Dirt roads. Fruit and vegetable matter littered the streets. Trash littered the streets. The houses along the side of the road were old faded wood and dry pond frond thatched hut types. The people had Mayan faces, noses, foreheads, eyes, skin. Guatemala looked very old, like it hadn’t caught up to 2015.

I caught a Flores bound micro bus, which stopped at the top of a hill where I jumped out and exchanged my last $18 Belize for something like $54 Quetzales, jumped back in and we were off. We arrived in Santa Elena and I was so parched from that crazy mile walk to the Belizean border that I bought a can of coke and sat dripping sweat from my brow while I drank it, staring out at all the Guatemaltecos walking around. So different from Creole Belize.

I caught a tuk tuk (thook thook), which is a red little three wheel open air taxi type vehicle,

to the island of Flores; across the causeway, the bridge; up the bumpy cobblestone roads and hopped out giving my man his $10 Queztales payment. I dropped my bag at the Los Amigos hostel — nice place; dim and covered in greenery and little knick knacks and things hanging from everywhere; lively common area; pool table, foosball, bar — and went out looking for an atm, or, cajero, so that I could pay for my room. The first ATM I used charged my card and didn’t give me any money, $40 US dollars worth; got money out of a second ATM, paid up and laid around until sunset when I walked the lake malecon which was alive with people and vendors and noise and hand holding smoochers and families and all that great stuff; bought myself a few tamales and a pineapple drink and sat watching the sun set beneath the lake.

Then there was nighttime when I began to drink and play pool with an Aussie guy, Aussies — they rule the travel world — and stared at his eyes which were sad and sympathetic and reminded me exactly of Jack Kerouac’s eyes. But he wasn’t sad and sympathetic and he talked too much while I was concentrating on the game, which he won anyway. Had huge deep conversation with a cool 37 yr old Hollander named David about people watching and micro expression and gestures and anxiousness and how we are viewed through the eyes of the other and how we view ourselves and all that juicy stuff you never quite remember the next morning.

I caught a 430 AM micro bus to the Tikal ruins the next day. It was miserable to wake up at that time. It was still dark outside and I laid in bed and didn’t move until the last fifteen minutes when I did all my morning preparations with half open eyes. I laid back down after and a Canadian girl I’d met earlier poked me in the shoulder to wake me up when the bus came. I tried to sleep the whole way there. In fact the other 5 travelers on the bus all seemed groggy and they all slept too, or at least kept their eyes closed.

The ancient city of Tikal — set deep in the jungle — massive and atmospheric — foxes and spider monkeys and the roar of howler monkeys in the distance — toucans and agoutis and turkeys; and even a huge Mayan procession which I had to pass through — a thousand Mayans walking in an endless group, with babies on their backs and big containers of water — the women all colorful in their shawls and dresses — all I could do was look nervously at them, all their big brown ancient solemn watching eyes, and say, “buenas, buenas, buenas dias, hola, buenas” over and over — annual Mayan celebration day, what luck; I was leaving when I passed through the huge procession and decided to follow them back to see what was going on — they all formed in the center of the grand plaza and set incense and candles and strange coals and all kinds of unexplainable organic offerings ablaze; the black smoke rose up into the sky and all around me I heard the mysterious language of the Maya being spoken; all the different dialects — the women and their colorful dresses and shawls — the men and their deep eyed dark brown strong boned faces and straight shiny black hair — I was caught in the middle of a prayer ceremony of the Maya, no other tourists in the group — they all turned to face the main temple and got on their knees and put their heads to the ground and kissed it — I did the same, though didn’t kiss the ground; and at once they all began chanting separate prayers, some of the women crying; they did this for each cardinal direction, and I got up and did it with them, feeling very awkward like I wasn’t supposed to be there; I was just trying to get a closer look at what they burned in the fire, which later they began talking hard and fast and running circles around it; wild day.

When I got back to Flores I ran into a Dallas Texas guy I met at a previous hostel in San Ignacio Belize named Brian. We went to some caves outside of town, outside of Santa Elena. We had two shitty flashlights and the cave was a cave — something dark and dank and dangerous enough to die in. Slippery. Bats flying right by our faces. I was immediately nervous (as I sit here in the jungle outside of Semuc Champey, the open air palapa where big huge flying insects crawl all over things and I realize I’m a big wimp for caves and bugs and creepy things). Fuckin Brian was a maniac. He explored every hallway and entrance that he could fit through, entrances we weren’t even supposed to go through — the whole time I remained outside of these secret hallways scared to follow, and scared to be alone in case my flashlight went out and left me in pitch black darkness — oh boy. I just sat there alone in the darkness calling out to him, “Brian? Everything good?” and sometimes he wouldn’t reply because he was so far into the maze and I got to panicking and wondering whether I should high tail it out. I thought it would be weird to leave him alone, so I just sat there hunched and sweating, listening to the occasional sound of him slipping and sliding somewhere deep and far off. And as I said, the cave was just a cave. It wasn’t set up for the traveler to be safe. It was just a cave. The only indication of a formal path through the crazy maze was the occasional wooden sign that said entrada or salida. Of course we paid a Mayan man an entry fee and he would go searching for us if we were gone for too long (and he was sitting outside the cave waiting for us to exit, to make sure we would exit, when we finally did). Wild day indeed.

The final story on Flores is short and it has to do with a girl named Pina — the Guatemalteca whose face and body I fell in love with for a night; her light brown face which melts my heart; the way she drunkenly closed her eyelids and looked up at me, her big coffee brown eyes; those full lips and wide set thick pear cheekbones; her thick head of dark chocolate hair and the way she moved in her cute black dress which had a short zipper coming down the neck; the round bulge of her breasts and the body that was hidden underneath (which she told me was delicious), the mystery of it, the dress not revealing at all; and jesus she was drunk and lusty and so sexual with her body it drove me wild; sitting all by herself, I could only melt; I couldn’t help but sit next to her and talk (A donde eres?, Come te llamas? Estas tomando sola?) (And the way you can talk to women in Latin America is so different and much more forward than the US — I could tell her straight that I thought she was gorgeous and it wasn’t any big deal. I could so openly flirt like it was the only way to be). She liked me but almost every time I asked her a question she would look into my eyes and say, “no importa” with a big smile and touch my face and close her eyes. If I was a caveman I would’ve dragged her away then.

As I said she was drunk and she wandered off and played beer pong and was getting close to any guy near her and I sat drinking on a couch with a pain in my heart watching her. All the Latin beauties in the world sink my heart, the more foreign looking, the more Indian looking, the better it hurts. Having already bought an 8 AM ticket to Lanquin the next day and not wanting to continue drinking and wake up feeling like hell on an 8 hour bus ride through the jungle, not wanting to continue torturing myself with beers while I watched her (I caught her looking around for me every so often and when she made eye contact she would nod and smile with drunken closed eyelids) I left. As I walked back to my room I heard the door to the upstairs bar shut and I looked back and saw a cute little black dress walking my way. Ooooof.

Nothing too exciting so don’t get your panties in a bunch. I told her I would walk her home to make sure she got there safe (only a half truth, quite obviously). I got as far as outside of the hostel door and I held her and gave her a kiss on the forehead, the cheekbone, the cheek, the jaw and so softly and wanting’ly on the neck beneath her ear before finally kissing her lips. She wanted it and she didn’t want it. I wanted her ever so badly. “Eres muy malo” she said with a smile as she kissed me back. I told her not to leave and she told me buenas noches and the last word which rung in my head while I watched her little black dress body walk down the street, rung in my head throughout the night and still as I type this — “cuidate”. Ahhh, Pina de Guatemala, my heart sunk to leave Flores.

Xunantunich and Actun Tunichil Muknal

I started to feel hungover on the bus to Belmopan. I put my head down against the brown vinyl seat in front of me the entire way. When we arrived at the Belmopan station I jumped right into the next bus about to leave for San Ignacio. I tried to pay and realized I was giving the man a very thin worn taped Belize two dollars and he said, “what is this?”. I told him that it was the change someone in Dangriga gave me and he said I’d have to give him something else. It was the change that Kendra gave and I’ll bet she gave it to me on purpose, knowing full well that it was a useless two dollar bill. I guess she probably pocketed the two dollar bill she should of gave me and instead gave me a piece of trash money. After awhile I thought it was pretty cute though, all the little ways that she or her friends would try to get things outta me or short me or hustle me. This was so common in Belize. They were still nice people, but they took what they could get to get by.

I arrived in San Ignacio — gritty place; small city, or, big town; less hollering at friends and commradery on the streets, less so than say Dangriga or Orange Walk; much less creole. San Ignacio itself didn’t invite me to stay longer than I had to to visit the few sites close by — Mayan burial caves, ruins, etc.

I asked a creole man who looked like he probably sold drugs and could get me guns, prostitutes, etc; named ICEMAN where to find such and such street and he walked me over to it. I wondered if he was going ask me for money after showing me the street to my hostel but along the way he said he didn’t care about money only making friends.

My head still feeling shitty from the two beers in the bar morning which kicked a very mild hangover into something less manageable, I dropped my things and sought out food and coconut water for the vitamins. I bought cigarettes and sat on a sidewalk watching the life go by, something I like to do in all the bustling cities that I visit. I finished the night drinking three beers at the hostel anyway with new friends — Jamie from New Zealand (who reminded me strongly of my friend Jason back home, the way he talked and moved his eyes, his energy and even similar facial features and body type; quite the doppelgänger) and his sweet girl Krissie from Germany — smoking too many cigarettes; smoking weed, passed the joint by an old thin Creole man and took slight hits so as not to get too high but to feel good. It made my headache go away and I slept well and the next morning I woke up feeling fresh and fine.

Headed out to the Xunantunich ruins in San Jose Succotz the next morning with Jamie and Krissie. Sweating in the sun as Jamie tried to negotiate taxi fares; the whole time I figured we should catch the next bus for $1.50 Belize (where as taxis were charging us three times that price, each) and that’s exactly what we ended up doing (though I get the feeling, and much like Jason, Jamie got some sort of kicks haggling with taxi drivers when it was almost clear he wasn’t going to take one; he believed he might take one though and wanted to see what kind of deals he could strike). Caught a bus from the city center, hopped off and crossed a river on a handcranked ferry; walked a mile up a dirt road hill in the jungle taking small drags off a joint that Jamie brought; sweating immediately, my tattoo covered up in a red bandana.

Xunantunich — El Castillo — the first thing we laid our eyes on. Beautiful tall sight. Ahhhh, ruins again. My first ruins since last year’s Mexico. They weren’t as impressive as say Palenque or Tulum but of course it was a feast to be back in the ancient weathered Mayan stone palaces. We walked all over, our peepers staring, feasting; climbed El Castillo, 130 feet; iguanas sun bathing, my first time seeing a monkey in the wild, spider monkey; talked with two Belizean army men with machine guns at the top, nice guys enjoying the day, with us, as we sat and stared out below and had our own private thoughts about what the place was like when it was alive, talked about it; Jamie snapping photos galore. We had the first rain of my Central American trip. It came down somewhat hard for an hour while we waited in the museum. We left as the sun started to come out and smoked a joint on the walk back down the hill, smelling the after rain smell, the new after rain smell that I’ve never smelled, the after rain jungle smell, earth and spices; crossed the river on the handcranked ferry, caught a school bus back into town, an actual school bus filled with school children who stared at us.

Before we caught the bus for Xunantunich we sat talking to a tour operator named Rudy from Hun Chi’ik tours. We sat talking to him for almost an hour while he waited. He was a short fierce muscular little Belizean, almost had a type of weasel face; but he wasn’t weasley at all; as I said he had a fierce look in his eyes and he even said, “what goes around comes around. I don’t fuck with no one man, I’m a good guy. But if you fuck with me, you’re fucking with the devil”. Anyway, you could tell he was a good guy and when we returned from the Xunantunich ruins, back at the hostel and I laid on my bed going over the pros and cons of spending the money for the Actun Tunichil Muknal cave tour, $80 US, a cave tour that I had been debating on taking since I arrived in San Ignacio when finally I shot up out of bed with a decision and knocked on Jamie and Krissie’s room door. Krissie said to come in, which I did and she’s sitting on her bed with her floral blouse unbuttoned, her breast full and exposed, though with bra on, and I had to avert my eyes immediately; I let her know that I made my decision, and no pressure but if they were going to take the cave tour they should do it before the end of the day. Jamie popped his wet shower head out of the restroom door and I told him the same thing I told Krissie. With that I closed their door and walked down the busy streets to Rudy’s little office and booked myself a tour.

I walked back to the hostel and finished the night drinking a few Guiness beers, getting high, playing Kings and Assholes. I was on such a great level high that I went downstairs and cut open a bunch of pink grapefruits I bought at the outdoor market; grabbed a banana, brought it all back up to the table and had everyone filling their stoned mouths with that sweet tart citrus juice and smiling.

The next morning, the morning of the cave tour, I rode in a truck with two girls from Georgia; one which I thought was the butch of the (what I then thought, but later found out they weren’t lesbians) lesbian couple; and one delicate and feminine and cute, and they were the only other two people on the tour. I mostly chatted with Amanda, the less feminine one, throughout the car ride. They weren’t backpackers. They weren’t lesbians. They were hungover. They worked as some sort of Arabic translators for the Navy or Army or something like that. They were on a little vacation in Belize for a week or two and just at the tail end of it. The more feminine was named Ashley (though I might have their names backward). She was quiet. A thin girl, 28, with a light complexion and curly brown hair braided into a pony tail and big brown eyes and nice skin. Almost a Natalie Portman type. By the end of the trip it was me and her talking the most.

Our guide was a 38 year old short stout Mayan, Lebanese, mixed guy (looked more Lebanese) named Edward who was very strange to talk with. He spoke slow and had a softness in his voice, sometimes like he was telling a mysterious story, like a mystic; or the way you lower and soften your voice when you’re telling a kid a scary story. His eye and mind seemed to be a separate thing from the person who was talking. For example the way he would look at my hat and tattoo and shift his eyes over to one of the girls and look them over and read them (flirting with them in his creepy way and grabbing only Ashley’s hand to help her during the hard parts of the cave) as he was talking all about the jungle, it was like his body and mouth were already trained to move and speak while his mind and eyes lived their own separate life at the same time. He was like two people. I don’t know, it’s really weird and weird to explain.

We walked through the jungle for 45 minutes to reach the cave entrance; crossed the river a few times; ate some termites that tasted like carrot; heard the bone chilling roar of howler monkeys in the distance; walked in the rain and finally reached Actun Tunichil Muknal: The Cave of the Crystal Sepulchre: Xibalba — the slippery stone steps leading down to the almost bright, yet opaque, blue pool of cool water leading into the mouth of the cave, we walked down them with our hardhats fixed with headlamps and jumped in. Ooooh the water was cool, cenote cool. There were tiny fish swimming in it. We had to swim through the first twenty feet of the cave entrance to get to a point where we could stand on the rocks beneath the water.

It was a three hour tour up and back, through ankle, knee, waist and chest high water; among sparkling milkbuttery stalactites and stalagmites; squeezing through crevices barely wide enough to fit through; climbing over rocks and crouching beneath them; beneath bats which hung upside down or flitted about any time our lights bothered them; darkness outside of the four headlamps illuminating the path in front of us; the sound of water flowing; into huge wide open cathedral like chambers, the formations forming silhouettes of ancient Mayan priests and old ladies against the wall when our lamps shone on them; lights out and it’s pitch black, the darkest black I’ve ever seen, you close your eyes you open your eyes and it isn’t any different and they never adapt to the darkness, you can’t see your hand right in front of your face and no matter how hard you try, how hard you stretch those pupils you never see light, shapes, forms, only darkness. That’s Xibalba, the Mayan portal to the underworld.

We pushed on to the finale where we took off our shoes and walked and climbed through the dry part of the cave barefoot, looking at shards of pottery and human bones, skulls; offerings and sacrifices; and the finally to the final resting place of a complete skeleton, the crystal maiden, a young girl calcified into the cave floor. The IDEA of the sacrifices and the offerings, the idea that Mayan high priests held court in that cave with flickering torches and chants and rituals and hallucinogens was bigger to me than actually seeing the artifacts and bones.

We left the way we came, me behind Ashley almost the entire way, her little waist and wet thin cream colored pants that revealed the panties underneath and clung so tight to her butt; her cold goosebumps shivering and poor balance that had me so badly wanting to help her and put my arms around her waist and pick her up over the hard parts (no different than creepy Edward I guess huh — though toward the end she was talking quite a bit to me, nice girl anyway). We swam out of the mouth of the cave much quicker than it took us to complete the journey in. We walked the jungle trail back to the parking lot and ate a simple meal (tortilla, deli slices, cheese, bell pepper, tomato, chili, chips) along with rum punch.

Back at the hostel, exhausted, at night time, I finished the night once again drinking and getting high playing cards (and I got a bit too high this time; though not too high that when this black Canadian guy Jamique that we’d been chumming with brought back a plate of stewed chicken rice and beans, I went out and bought a plate of my own, not even hungry either I just wanted the flavors). The next morning was the last I’d see of my good friends Jamie and Krissie until Flores Guatemala.

Hustled at the Border

I woke up with a throbbing pain in my arm. The same throbbing pain I had when I walked out of the tattoo studio. The outline of it didn’t hurt much. The shading had me clenching my jaw and squinting my eyes. I brushed and washed up and put cream on my arm and had a quick ham cheese sandwich fruit & coffee breakfast; chatted with a Korean lady (the hostel Rio Playa had plenty of Korean tourists the year before and it was no different this time) and split for the ADO station for a bus to Chetumal.

9 AM: walking outside of the hostel the streets still felt sleepy. No evidence of the animal night the night before.

Sitting in the station waiting for my bus — something odd about flying into a trip rather than the long begrimed greyhound hitchhiking journey to get there (as the big Mexico trip the year prior). It somehow feels like cheating. Something empty about it. But I don’t have the time and the money to do the month long thousand mile trek from Arizona across Mexico just to start the Central American leg of my journey.

The Chetumal bus ride was long and uneventful. 4.5 hours through dense monotonous vegetation on either side of the road and when we finally arrived, 2 PM, I decided I’d use the remaining hours of sunlight to push on forward into Belize.

I stepped out of the bus into the thick wet air and asked directions for the mercado (where I would find the Belize bound buses).

“Dos cuadras y dos cuadras direcho”

15 minute walk. As I strolled up to the line of brightly painted retired US school busses, one just starting to pull out, I asked a candy vendor where I could buy a bus ticket. He flagged the attention of the driver pulling out onto the street and told me to hurry up and get on. I ran out into the street and hopped in.

“Vas ir para Orange Walk?” (excuse the poor Spanish)
“Si”
“Cuanto cuesta?”
But he was busy negotiating a big turn on a busy street, smiled and told me to wait and have a seat.

In Chetumal you begin to see Creole faces and dreadlocks; more of that to come further south.

It was a quick fifteen minute bus ride and along the way a Creole girl collected my last $20 USD and gave me 35 dollars Belizean change. $2.50 USD for the bus ride. Belizean money is double American dollars.

We arrived at the border and I stepped off the bus, along with everybody else, and got in line at the immigration booth. When it was my turn to step up and hand the lady my passport and FMM, confident that everything would go smoothly, I was asked to pay an exit fee of 332 pesos.

This all in Spanish:

” I don’t have 332 pesos. I bought an airline ticket and the FMM was already paid for”
“No, it wasn’t paid for”
“Yes, it comes with the flight ticket”
“332 pesos please”
“I don’t have 332 pesos. How much is it in Belizean Dollars?”
“48 Belizean dollars”
“I don’t have 48 Belizean Dollars. Can I use my card?”
“No. You need to take money out at the atm”
“Where is the atm?”
“It is back in Chetumal”

I walked away with a head full of congested thoughts and frustrations. As everyone was boarding the Belize bound bus that I was just on, I stopped a travelling couple about to reboard and asked if they could give me 13 Belizean dollars (6.50 USD). I told them I would pay them when we got off the bus, that I would take out cash immediately and give them the money. They weren’t stopping at the same stop. They got on the bus and I watched it drive away.

I began walking back the way I came when a taxi pulled up beside me and asked me where I was headed.

“The nearest ATM”
“It’s in Chetumal. Get in, I’ll take you”
“How much?”
“Not much, don’t worry. Get in I’ll take you”

I opened the door and got in. That was a mistake and I knew it as I sat down. We drove about 8 miles to an ATM and I pulled out 500 pesos, enough cash to pay the exit fee and ride. Throughout the ride I would casually ask how much it would cost. His reply was, “no mucho, no te precupes” (don’t worry). We drove back the way we came and I paid the lady. I received 150 pesos and some change. The cabbie drove me to Belizean border crossing and stopped right outside of it.
“250 pesos”

I was being hustled and I knew it, and I knew it the moment I got in the cab and it was one hundred and fifty percent my fault. I only had 150 pesos left so he took that and he took a Belizean 20. It was a $22 cab ride which is more than I pay for four hour rides on an ADO across the Yucatan. I had no choice but to give him the money. How could I argue? What could I do? Stupid move buster. So I was hustled at the border.

I walked into the immigration building to get my passport stamped and had to fill out some form full of questions that I somehow kept missing. The lady at the booth kept returning the form, “Please complete all!” I was still busy thinking about the hustle.

Finally complete I walked over to a Creole girl who spoke great English and asked me a handful of questions in a severe tone. Passing through that, I was officially and legally in Belize. I waited outside for another bus to Orange Walk. It wasn’t long before I hopped in with the rest of the Belizeans and Mexicans; sat there sweating, staring out at the jungle that flanked the narrow chalky road which along the way blew all kinds of grit into my eyes. The terrain was similar to everything I’d seen on the Yucatan peninsula, though in some way, maybe it was the old colorful mayan faced jam packed hard seat school bus blaring rhythmic Mexican music, it felt distinctly Central America. It was there and then on that bus that I felt it. Welcome to Central America.

We arrived in Orange Walk two hours later. It’s the grit I experienced in Northern Mexico at the beginning of last year’s trip. The grit to keep you alert. Sensory grit (and I there I was yesterday uncomfortable at the clean tourist ease and familiarity of Cancun, Playa. Now here I am at home — the alone time I prefer in a skeezy motel far from hostels and tourism ). It’s a very poor looking town. Chalky roads blind the eyes. Lotta traffic noise on the streets. English is spoken in Creole dialect. Spanish is spoken just as well by the Creole. You see Creole and Chinese, Mexicans, well Belizeans, mingling. School kids. Anybody. I have to abandon the idea of US white face black racism. It’s a different thing here. I think how strange to see it as in Los Angeles, or the US in general, we’re divided (mostly). Plenty of Asians and Chinese food joints. In fact I’m sitting in a cheap basic hostel run by Chinese off a busy street close to the bus station. The roar of traffic outside booms through my open black bar windows, curtains in front of them fluttering in the light breeze. Orange Walk has an eclectic flavor which grips me. I could spend another day watching the scene, the people, the everyday goings on.

Ahh, well, time to eat, drink, smoke, stare out at the night through the balcony window.

Throwback Thursday

Cruising over to Joseph Oregon again this June for a summer’s worth of work. Planning a trip to Belize Guatemala El Salvador Honduras Nicaragua Costa Rica and Panama for the fall/winter (and still not through writing up the tail end of the Mexico Trip – immigrant jail, blacking out in Cancun, the island of women and the ruins cenotes beaches and people along the way).

Island of Women

The Island of women:

We took a cheap taxi to Puerto Juarez – piled into two separate cabs – me and the two Aussie girls in one; Magda, Alex and Rodney in the other. Our driver was a native Yucateco Mayan. We spoke in Spanish throughout the ten, twelve minute drive. When we got out of our cabs we were approached by the captain of a lancha about to depart. 70 pesos for a one way boat trip to Isla Mujeres. We followed him to his skyblue boat already filled with people (all local), and stepped in. A young girl helper buckled life jackets on to each of us. I sat next to Magda, same as I’d done on all the rides we’d took since I met her.

We sat in the boat for twenty minutes waiting for a couple of passengers to come and fill the empty seats (same process as the collectivos – sitting and waiting till enough passengers are pulled off the street). A few people eventually came running up and we set off. We chugged through the water for half an hour. At times the water was a brilliant bluegreen and I’d lean over and let my hand feel the water. I didn’t feel as hungover as I should have.

When we arrived at the island (ahhh island life, and my first island indeed – yes I always feel at home in certain beach towns (Sayulita and Zihuatenejo for example) – there’s sand on the streets — bright colors — palm trees shhhhing in the wind — drinking barefoot, shirtless on the streets among round bikini tan flesh; among the salt cool breeze — go slow). We removed our life vests and stepped off the rocking boat. I asked a local where I could find Hostel Poc Na and we set off in the direction he pointed us in. The two Aussie girls set off for the beach and the rest of us went to the hostel so Magda and I could drop our things and get us a dorm for the night (which came with two free drink tickets, here we go). None of us had eaten yet so we stopped by the mercado and bought some food (torta for me extra habanero peppers, fish tacos for the other guys, and french fries for Magda). There was a little store across the street so I bought myself a caguama to soothe the day after blackout weird mind feeling (also to forget about my lost wallet and debit card woes — I had plans for another month of further travel back up Mexico to the Arizona border).

After we finished up we headed to the beach to find the Aussie girls. A feast for the eyes, a feast for the spirit: white powder sand and swaying palm trees; slow lapping beautiful clear Caribbean blue water; endless sky; and women in bikinis as far as the eye could see. The ratio of men to women was skewed in the favor of men. 8 women for every 1 guy and every single woman attractive with a body to make your mind spin (though let me tell you this: this now being my fourth day in Isla Mujeres: neither my lips nor my hands touched a single girl. It blows my mind to think that I’ve been surrounded by women and haven’t had a single one to myself. Four days of that; and even boozed up women dancing at the beach party every night; and I even laid on a bed on the sand with four girls for three hours drinking in the dark, nothing)

Anyway we never did find the Aussie girls so we found a spot on the sand, dropped our things and walked into the water (Magda staying behind to lay around). You could walk close to a hundred yards and not have your head dip below the surface. There was a line of swim buoys out where the water was deep enough that you couldn’t touch the floor and behind that a line of yachts full of people hanging out and drinking. There wasn’t so many yachts that it took away from the scene.

There was one yacht full of beautiful Mexican women. Alex, who wasn’t hesitant to talk to girls, said, “Let’s swim over to them” and we did. Along the way he stopped swimming (“I don’t know what happened. I had trouble breathing and I panicked”) so I ended up swimming to them solo. Now if I was alone I would never swim up to a boat full of beautiful women, I don’t have the confidence for that; but I was already swimming their way so I continued onward hungover (mind blasted) and not caring anyway. Plus I always feel much more confident in the sun and especially so in the water.

As I got closer the women started to get in the water. They were very girly and hesitant and giggly over how cold the water was. I smiled at them and told them to jump right in, “it’s not so bad once you’re in”. They one by one dipped in holding their shoulders commenting on how cold it was. I asked them where they were from. They were from Merida. One of the girls was getting married and the bachelorette party was that night.

Alex caught up to me as I was asking questions and he smiled and tried talking a bit too, strangely shy. We didn’t talk to them like we were flirting but just curious to talk as we were all in the ocean anyway. They were pleasant in their responses but not interested in asking us questions or continuing conversation so we let them be and waded back to where we were. Rodney remained further back from the scene because, as he said he”couldn’t speak any Spanish”.

We hung out in the water for a long time before I decided to go drink the rest of my caguama. Rodney and Alex got out too and as we walked back to Magda we saw that she was sitting with the two Aussie girls. We all sat there chatting and laughing and feeling really good. The energy was glowing and I told everyone that it was one of the happiest moments of my life and I felt really really good to be there. I felt like a happy child. It was a pure happiness and it’s such a rare thing.

We watched the sunset — it was getting late and the last ferry was scheduled to leave at 7 pm. The Aussie girls decided to head back to Cancun. Rodney and Alex couldn’t bring themselves to leave and decided to head back to the hostel with us and get a dorm for themselves.

Back in my dorm room there were two Australian guys that I hadn’t met yet. I spoke to the first one in Spanish. I thought he was from Mexico but he had no idea what I was saying. “I’m from Australia mate” His name was Xavier. He reminded me of a pirate — thin brown skinned dark eyed (sometimes kept them slitted like a fox and other times you felt like he was judging you when he stared at you) jetblack goatee and long wavy haired, in a bun, with thin face and great cheekbones — something vaguely unlikable about him (or maybe just a reflection of something I don’t like about my own self and nothing really wrong with him at all)

He had a buddy with him named Phillip – photographer, a tan skinned short stout Asian Aussie with glasses, straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a plain black bandana over that. He didn’t have cheer in his conversation, no pep, no verve; it was very dry and I never felt like he was interested in a conversation so I didn’t say much to him ever.

I walked out of my room into the traveler hang out area next to the bar outside under a big palapa. It was bright and filled with people but I spotted Magda Rodney Alex Xavier Philip and a new guy called Fabian (adopted by the Cherokee nation, born in Switzerland – I was scared positive he was an alien. His strange greenblue eyes kept vibrating at random moments as we talked. He didn’t have a shirt on and there was a weird deep concave in the middle of his chest)(like a Men in Black alien I thought) (My mind was really starting to flip from drink); and a new girl called Nadia. Nadia was a cute light skinned slim brunette with brown eyes and a french accent (French Canadian). I traded my two drink tickets for a beer and mixed drink and sat at a big wooden table playing cards with the group (bullshit pyramid – bullshit to win and I never bullshitted because I’m usually a terrible liar).

I didn’t really speak to Nadia until later when we all walked to get Fish tacos and beer. Nadia was walking with Magda and the other four guys were walking together so I was walking and talking to no one. I decided to pick up the pace a little and talk with Magda so I could introduce myself to Nadia. I was also hoping that my taking an interest in Nadia might make Magda a little bit jealous (stupid now to think) but Magda was a tough nut to crack and I’m not sure she ever took any interest in me anyway because she spoke to most all guys like she was interested in them.

It was around 9 PM (on a Sunday) and all the little tiendas stopped selling alcohol at 6 PM (unbeknownst to us). We managed to get a little old Mexican man to sell us a twelve pack before closing up shop (though he nervously told us to hurry so he wouldn’t get in trouble with the police). We drank on the malecon next to a statue of mermaids or a pescador, I can’t remember exactly; chatting in all different directions (I was feeling alright from the early beach caguama and drinks at the hostel). The beer went quick among the seven of us, and we headed back to the hostel for the 11 PM beach party and further drinking (chugging down those tracks boy).

The hostel connected with the sand and the sea and the beach party was held right there on the sand each night. There were lounge chairs and hammocks and palm trees all around. Everybody flocked to the palapa bar in the center of the sand to buy their booze and yell at each other over booming dance, Latin and reggae music — the dance floor full of people and connected to the bar. The night is mostly hazy in my mind at this point. I mostly chummed with a very drunk Alex who was chasing tail and offending people; and I floated around asking people for cigarettes. I can’t remember about the others in the group that night and I can’t remember anything significant about the night or how it ended. I didn’t drink hard. I wanted to wake up feeling fresh the next day, but the train was already in motion. This was the third night of my bender and the next day I woke up feeling weird in the head from withdrawl and had to continue drinking throughout my trip to feel steady minded.

I got out of bed and walked over to kitchen for the free breakfast (toast, fruit and coffee). Most of last night’s group was already having breakfast so I joined them. Alex Magda and Rodney were headed back to Cancun and I tried to persuade them to stay another night to no avail. It was a sorry-to-see-them-go goodbye with hugs and smiles. I was left with the pirate, the indifferent buddy of his and Nadia (therefore alone).

I went to the beach with this new trio of minor characters who I held no real connection with (though minor early connection with X where we grabbed handfuls of sand from beneath the water and exfoliated our faces; and N who I sat chatting with alone on the sand while drinking a beer). After a few hours of walking from our spot on the sand — where an extremely kooky old redheaded white American gushed over my looks, right next to her husband, “like a young Keanu Reeves”, to my amusement and really quite a dear to talk to; ran into her everyday on the island and she was always happy to see me — walking from our spot on the sand to the water and back again I split from the group (only with them because of Nadia’s body; thinking on that body right now from my chair at my table in my Studio out here in the country in Enterprise Oregon, mmmmm mm); but Xavier was interested in Nadia too, I think, and there was a weird vibe I felt and I wasn’t looking to compete so that’s the last of them.

I went back to the hostel to grab my empty bottle. I was always walking around with big empty bottles of beer to cash in at the corner store. I ran into Breone, the Aussie girl who I spent the day snorkeling with at Akumal and Cenote Dos Ojos back in Tulum, back at the hostel. I didn’t even remember why I recognized her. My mind was foggy. She had such a cute personality and started talking about the day we spent in Tulum and I slowly began to remember. She was a little baffled that I didn’t remember her at first. She was hungry so I told her to follow me to the food square. I cashed in my bottle and bought another bottle and sat at a table with Breone. I ordered myself a torta and she ordered herself seafood. I cracked my bottle and we got to chatting. She was asking me all kinds of questions and I was going into tangents and trailing off and forgetting to answer the questions she asked in the first place. I couldn’t stop fidgeting and I couldn’t look her square in the eye, but she was sweet and didn’t really comment on any of it except to tell me that I should take a break from drinking.

I finished my bottle at the table and we both walked back to the hostel (barefoot and shirtless). She went back to her dorm room and I walked over to the sand behind the hostel to lay in a hammock. I laid there listening to the waves crash and shhhh of palm fronds in the breeze when a pretty middle aged woman asked if I knew how to set up a slack line. I didn’t but I told her I’d take a look and see if I could figure it out.

Well, I figured it out, after some time; and she was happy and quite a chatterbox. Linda from Denmark (or I just made that up, tough to know) — curly haired light brown haired fair skinned lady with an agreeable middle aged body. And as I said, quite a chatterbox. We spent the afternoon together trying to walk the slack line. I caught on quick enough to walk the entirety of it, from palm tree to palm tree; graceful I was not. She took little steps and her arms and legs didn’t flail, but it took her some time to walk the entire line. Cute to watch.

(That night still flipping – listening to a one man band play a weird slow droning music, really distorted and repetitive brainwashing type, and almost sounding like a record played backward – I felt like I, I thought I was dead and was now in hell and everyone around me was in hell with me and it was just the way it was. I really believed that. The same way you believe strange things when you’re high to the max, and the next day it seems so foolish.)

Lets fast forward and arrive at the night scene dance scene bar scene on the sand back of the hostel where all the pretty little hostel goers boozed up began dancing. Me, Linda, a Finnish girl named Ninja, Breone, and another Aussie girl all sort of laid and sat on a bed on the sand watching the scene. Hours we sat like that commenting on the drunk lusty dynamics unfolding in front of us (the girls all commenting on how suave I must appear to be in bed with four other girls; that or gay I said).

As the night wore on people stole away to their secret hideouts or bed. The Aussie girl snuck off with a guy at some point. Breone went to bed. Linda, Ninja and I laid there through the end of the party at 2 AM (and even got up to dance at my suggestion, I was feeling so good and groovy and didn’t feel uncomfortable at all moving to the music).

I wondered which one of the two I was going to lay (that’s honesty)(and hubris), and I didn’t lay either (I’m so terrible at these things. They were both waiting each other out, to see which one would disappear first, I think). Finally it was Linda that went to bed and me and Ninja sat there. I wasn’t attracted to Ninja but I felt like she wanted to get physical and I suppose I was willing enough though I never made a move and that’s exactly what she was waiting for. She finally left and I laid there alone watching the fading remains of the scene when she walked back over to me fifteen minutes later and lay back down. Again, no move on my part, and finally she left for good and I left for good and thus ended the night.

I didn’t do much of anything the last two days but lay in bed. The weather turned very poor and windy and grey. Nobody was at the beach. I was flipping from the binge (and kept drinking to stabilize my mind). I grew anxious any time I walked out of my dorm room into the palapa surrounded by tables of travelers in conversation, drinking laughing smiling. I felt like I had a black cloud around me, nervous, and of course people could read that. I had trouble scanning the crowd for my group of girls because I knew my eyes would dart quickly (like Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing). So I mostly stayed in my room. And when I did force myself out it was to eat 25 peso tortas (twice a day all four days on the island).

My last day, fourth day:

I don’t even know how I spent the day. Mostly alone me thinks; though I vaguely remember playing on the slackline with Ninja and Linda, and trying to do handstands with them; eating fish tacos later in the night with them; and slowly starting to feel sick, starting with the handstands.

Onward,

I had a new bunk mate. A young wild Mexican cat named Alain from my Grandfather’s birthplace, San Luis Potosi. He had that easy smile puro party face, open mouth slack tongue head back heavy lid everything is gonna be alright eyes tranquil with a slight smile. There was always a vague smile on his face. Always ready for a good time he went out and bought a twelve pack at the corner store and snuck it back into our room. We cracked our beers and he put music on his phone, real low so as not to disturb the sleeping Aussie babe (so many traveling Aussies in the hostel world) in the bed next to mine; though she was out cold and didn’t wake until the beach party and only for the beach party.

He pulled a pipe and some weed out of his backpack and packed his pipe and lit up. He had a huge bag full of condoms (he was planning on living and working in Isla Mujeres which maybe stands for “women abound”) and showed me some acid wrapped in foil paper. Always ready for a good time. He smoked and offered me the pipe but I was beginning to feel feverish and hoarse. I even had a hard time putting down the beers and keeping up the conversation. He talked all about the desert in San Luis Potosi and taking peyote and mushrooms and ecstasy and music and women and invited a friend of his over to drink with us and talk employment.

I got worse and worse as the night wore on and the guys just kept on plying me with booze and conversation. Finally I said to hell with it and told them I was going to put my head under the covers. I was so sweaty and cold and hot and phlegmy and weak. All the boozing and lack of vegetables (outside of onions and cilantro) and my immune system was shot. I heard the dance music start to blare and heard the Aussie girl wake up and get ready and I heard Alain leave (his friend had left well before the music). I had the place to myself to die a slow death.

Sleep was shit. Broken. Damp and tangled in the sheets. Boom, bass booming and boozetime funtime voices outside. Crazy dreams. I woke up the next morning and split without having breakfast or saying goodbye to anybody (which was weird because I really chummed with Breone Linda and Ninja); though I passed Alain on the way out, who already knew I was leaving that morning and said goodbye to him.

I cut down the street, hacking and sick eyed, straight to the opposite side of the island where I caught a cheap ferry back to Cancun. Back on the mainland I caught a cab to the Cancun Ado with a pretty and lovely spirited short septum pierced girl. She was headed to Guatemala via Belize. I wanted to know her and spend time knowing her (such a sucker for tattooed women with septum piercings and warm hearts; and I’m really only talking about my sad lost love jo koala) but my yearning was as short lived as a ten minute cab ride and a farewell in a loud bus station (the heart aches for all the passing beauties that you’ll never know) (and also the ones you knew but they were too bright to handle). I bought my ticket back to Playa del Carmen (thinking I was going to get better and bus back up through middle Mexico back home, ha). Ha.

Back at Playa, at the same hostel as the week prior, hostel rio playa, which was empty as ever, I tried to recoup. The lovely hostel manager lady remembered me and welcomed me warmly, glowing woman (in that great way that only women can shine so warmly bright and womb’y); along with a guatemalteco who was a real buddha, the feeling you got from him, so genuinely warm and happy in his patient friendly smile, the smile in his eyes (also, the only hostel I visited with such a high number of Asian visitors at once, and I love them so; though they seem to keep to themselves mostly. They really remind me of home in the San Gabriel Valley).

I unloaded my things and hit the beach hoping I’d be able to kill the virus with ocean power, no dice. But to my surprise sitting not too far from me was brown skinned tattooed smiley goateed almost nappy haired Alex, and next to him good ol Rodney and always babe body Magda. I walked over and everybody was surprised smiles and hellos. We caught up a bit. Alex and Rodney were headed home the next day and Magda was continuing onward through Central America. They were just finishing up at the beach and invited me for drinks at Hostel Che where they were staying. I was clearly not well and told them I’d visit them without knowing for sure if I had it in me.

I rested at the hostel for a few hours before I walked over to hostel che, dragged myself over the sidewalk as the sun set past tattoo shops, hostels, pedestrians, bike riders, food places of all types. I need to revisit Playa. There was definitely something about the place that I really liked. I walked up to Hostel Che through the front door, reception and up the stairs. I wanted to be gone as soon as I got there and nobody really seemed to care too much that I was there. What was the point. I was in no shape to be out of bed with another drink in my hand; non conversational and slow eyed; so had my one drink and split; telling them I’d be back later and never seeing any of them again.