Sunday, February 28, 2010

Last Night


Well tonight is my last night.

I’ve certainly done some interesting things while here. Relaxed a bit too. Thought about stories and Margot and what the future will hold. Burned the living crap out of my chest today (as I forgot to put suntan lotion there.) Met a few people, even talked to a few. Ate a massive amount of food. Gained 20 pounds. Probably wrote between 15-20 pages a day, all told (blogs, my letters to Margot, story outlines and new novel writing.)

Coming back home, I have a lot to sort out. Physically. Emotionally. I need to get on cleaning the office so I can write again. I need to pick up the doggies. I need to resend more queries (0/6, unless there is something in the mail.) I probably need to throw away stuff in the fridge again.

I know I took a chance coming out here alone. I knew it would be hard.

Not sure I would do an all-inclusive if I had to choose all over again. It is a place for couples and groups. It is not set up for singletons. However, there was no way I could have gone to Europe, alone, that would have been far too hard. So, all things considered, it wasn’t the massive success it could have been (success defined as getting past the overwhelming sadness that lingers not far below the surface) but neither did I sit in my room and curl up into a ball. Not a massive failure either.

Likely when I get home, I’ll reconnect with all my friends, force them to tell me how wonderful my blog was and con at least one of them into seeing Avatar.

Life goes on. Tomorrow, I come home.

(goofy Joe picture - Mazatlan city tour, not far from the cliff divers, taken by a nice mexican couple.)

The Game



I have to say, I was pretty excited about The Game (and so very happy I didn’t have to go far to see it.) John and Leslie, however, had begun to outpace me on the drinking front. While I had a good head start, they quickly caught up but none of us were a match for a little Chinese girl who tanked down some sort of chocolate drink like it was a milkshake (you can see her later on top of the bar, cheering).

The puck was dropped, the bar cheered and The Game had begun. Not the best picture but what the hell. We all watched as Canada fought valiantly against the foul and sometimes dirty Americans. A few American supporters here chanted U-S-A but by far the majority of the crowd was Canadian. The Canadians sang hey-hey, goodbye, they chanted Can-A-Da and pounded on the table or clapped with surprisingly un-Canadian gusto.

It was amazing. The energy. The patriotism. The shouting. The fruity drinks.

Then, in the middle of the game, the Mexican station decided to take a commercial break. I kid you not. They didn’t wait for a stoppage in play, while the puck was being collected or coaches were talking to their players, no, they just cut to Telcel.

Had the Mexicans never seen a hockey game before?

It was weird but I didn’t worry, not much was likely to happen. I mean what are the chances Canada would score its first goal in those 30 seconds?

Well, the chance, as I should have known, was 100%.

While we all watched sexy girls holding cellphones, Canada scored their first goal.

Ever seen a bar erupt in anger? Frustration?

Me neither until today but that’s what happened. Holy hell, people jumped out of their seats, they threw things, they yelled obscenities and then a replay happened and it was like a baby getting the boob, everyone calmed down. Then they cheered.

The first period ended and when I looked around, the bar was nearly full. Many more had crept in while we watched the Game. I would guess the beaches were now empty. The new arrivals to the hotel had chosen to come here rather than go to their rooms and unpack.

Everyone stared at the screen, hoping and praying. It had been a great game so far. Both sides had chances, both goalies played well and I couldn’t help feeling a one goal lead was not going to be enough.

During the first intermission, two (shall we say, no longer young) women decided to get their picture taken with a young dude who, at the risk of sounding gay, had a great body. They took pictures of each other biting his nipples. I shit you not. If one was under 40, I would be surprised. I think he too was surprised and not quite sure how to react. I looked over to John and Leslie and we shook our heads.

Bar scenes, eh?

As more people continued to arrive, we all watched and cheered Canada through 2 more periods, and as the last minute began to count down, the US having pulled their goalie, the crowd chanted and cheered and roared and with anticipation of a gold medal.
50 seconds.
40 seconds.
The noise grew.
People were out of their seats.
I grabbed my camera and began to record what would likely be the winning moment, the last 30 seconds.

Then the US scored.

Even the Americans were stunned and didn’t start shouting USA at the top of their lungs for maybe 3 seconds. The Canadians stood in stunned silence. SHOCKED.

So much for me filming of us winning. I had recorded a room mostly full of shocked and silent Canadians (and a few cheering Americans.) I feared I had jinxed it.

Then the OT began and the noise rose once more as we all cheered on our team (could you hear us?) It was thunderous.

And then Canada scored.

The place went crazy. People leapt onto the bar or on their stools. There were hugs and high fives and dancing and cheering and then we all began to sing o-canada at the top of our lungs.

Ok, sure, not all of us knew the words but we hummed the hard bits with great pride.

anada had won! On a Sidney Crosby goal!

It was all I had hoped it would be and more.

Afterwards John and Leslie invited me to dinner with them, my first invitation, but I had to decline as I was pretty much socially exhausted. Introverts like me can only take so much before they need to recharge.

Last Day


Feb 28th 2010

Only one thing to do today. Only one thing mattered.

The Game.

I woke up and, for a wee while, struggled to get out of bed. It seemed like a lot of work to find a bar, get a taxi and head out to where ever the game would be. But I decided not to let that get in the way of my last real experience here.

I got up, grabbed breakfast and blogged. I had also come up with a plan. Get some sun from 10 to 12, then ask at the service desk where would be the best place to see The Game. I figured probably a 10 min taxi ride or maybe a 45 min walk as I had heard earlier that a bar existed to the north, one that played the Olympics.

Seemed like a good plan.

So I got my towel, my book, lathered up with lotion and headed out into the sun. There was a little dusting of clouds in the sky but it was otherwise a gorgeous day. I grabbed my chair and lay out in the sun until 12.

Plan going well.

Then I went back to my room before heading to the lunch buffet. There, in the elevator, I met a nice older fellow who asked if I was seeing The Game. I said I had hoped to but still wasn’t sure of a nearby bar. He said that the hotel would be showing the game in the sport lounges and on the TV in our room.

Say what?

Very good news. But was it true?

I went back down and confirmed, yes, yes indeed it was true. Oh frabjous day, Calooh Callay.

1:15 my time, The Game would start.

I ate and set up shop in the bar at 12:30. I want to say the beach had been emptied, that everyone in the hotel mobbed to the sports bar, but that was not the case. At 12:30, I was one of only 8 people there. Hmmm, I thought to myself, is this really going to happen?

I talked with one of the fellows who had arrived early and he still believed they would show The Game despite the fact that all TVs currently displayed a soccer game. By 1, same thing, only by now there were 15 people. Doubt began to creep into my doubting mind.

But a couple sat down beside me at about 12:40. John and Leslie. From Hamilton. Mid 50’s, I would guess.

We struck up a conversation immediately, and, very much like Bruce and Lil, we hit it off like we were old friends. Plus, I may have been drunk.

Hey, there wasn’t anything else to do while I was waiting and the fruity drinks were very yummy!

Still, John and Leslie and I shared two very important things in common. They both loved to travel and, when I told them why my wife wasn’t with me, John told me he had survived throat cancer himself.

They told me all about their trips to Thailand and Costa Rica. They had been to many of the same places in Europe that Margot and I had been but they had even ferried over to Morocco to bravely wander the markets there. I didn’t talk too much about myself as semi-drunk Joe seems to be pretty good at getting others to talk about themselves. Margot was the same. She was such an amazing listener. I tried to channel a little of that.

Costa Rica sounds incredible, a place Margot would have loved. They also did a good job of talking up the East Coast of Canada and, of all things, Columbia.

I found it odd that I was able to talk about what happened to Margot with them. It could be that was because they knew a little of what it was like. John’s cancer had been found by accident - he thought he just had a cough. Likely had he not gone in when he did, it would have spread too far for them to deal with but go in he did and, after being hammered by radiation and chemo, his cancer was in remission. He was very grateful.

As we talked, the clock ticked down and still no sign of The Game. However, one of the four guys who had come in to watch the game took matters into his own hands. He was a superfit dude, probably thirty, with a cool set of tattoos up one of his arms. On his tricep was the word God in strong letters. Below that was a flag. Italy. On his forearm were more delicate letters. Famalia. Nice.

Anyway, he grabbed the remote from behind the bar and began the difficult process of figuring out where The Game would be on Mexican TV. To my surprise, he succeed. And, one by one, he switched all the TVs over to the right channel.

By 1:15, the skiers had finished. A picture of a hockey rink came into view. There were 30 odd people in the bar and more coming. My 5th drink was parked in front of me. My new friends sat back in their chairs. The Game was about to begin.

(picture is of John and Leslie, good people.)

Tsumani Warning


Feb 27th 2010

When I woke up, I did something I don’t normally do. I turned on the news. And what did I see?

A earthquake in Chile and a tsunami warning for the pacific coast. It looked like a bad earthquake, 8.8 and they projected surge waters 7-18 feet. Good god.

Funny how of all the days here, this was the one when I turned on the news.

I watched the news to see when I should be worried or IF I should be worried. There was some talk of wavings hitting California at 12:08pm and a neat diagram showing how far the wave would travel from the epicentre in X hours. It would hit my area about 5 hours from the Chile but when did it start in Chile, local time, GMT, what?

Looked outside. Ir was early morning and the beach had the usual early morning crowd, dog walkers, joggers, surf walkers, a few families with children looking at waves. No one jumping up and down and shouting get away from the beach, get away from the beach. So nothing urgent then?

I went downstairs and looked up on the internet, did GMT calculations and figured the wave, if there was one, would arrive at 10:49 my time. I went to the desk and asked about the tsunami and they seemed blithely unconcerned. “We have been told that the surge will not reach us.”

Really?

Not that I doubted them. No, these were the guys who only took 9 calls to figure out a laundry order. I’m sure they had a handle on the tsunami.

I went upstairs, packed an emergency bag, put in 2 bottles of water, gathered all my documents and prepared to leave quickly, if I had to.

Then I went outside to watch. The beach continued to fill with people as the morning passed. Fuck me, I thought, if the resort got it wrong, a lot of people, children, golden retrievers would be dragged into the sea.

Good photo opportunity, sure, but something I was not even sure I could shoot if it happened. Can you imagine watching a wave come in a kill dozens of people?

I kept an eye on my watch, kept an eye out for someone running out and yelling IN-COMING! I kept the news on but they were pretty much useless at tracking the tsunami in this part of the world. Oh, CNN had a 30 second watch on Hawaii but nothing about their southern neighbour.

Typical.

But, thankfully, at 10:49, no big sucking back of the sea, no rising of the ocean like a great fist, no surge and counter surge. The threat had passed.

Whew.

I thought I would have been pretty safe up high on the 18th floor. But man, all those people down below, not so much.

Still, great that nothing happened. I celebrated by going down and having a beer at 12 - after I was sure nothing was going to happen. I generally don’t drink at all before noon, hell before 6, simply because it makes me sleepy. Middle-age, eh?

Truth is it doesn’t make me sleep as much as it makes me mellow. Too mellow to write or get things done or even want to write or get things done. But I guess, here in sunny Mazatlan, perhaps wanting to do things was a bit over-rated. So I gave in to the evil spirits and spent the rest of the afternoon reading. That’s it. No writing. No great adventures. Nada.

Boring, yes? Sorry about that. A good story would be leading towards a final great event. I don’t think that’s going to be the case here. The big event was the zip line.

Or was it? Margot would always point out that not every story had to have great battles or gunfire or zipping through trees. Maybe it’s more about that I can go down and do supper alone every night. Even tonight when all my instincts wanted me to stay in the room and avoid the empty chair and table-for-one crap. Maybe it’s about trying to find a way to live when half of your soul is gone. Maybe it’s regaining faith in something. A purpose.

Not sure I’ve managed to do any of those things, though. Not sure I even feel any better than when I left. A bit more burned on the knees perhaps. But better, sure doesn’t feel like it.

However, tomorrow is another day.

At the very least, I have to find a way to see the game, US vs Canada.

(the picture is the tsunami... or at least what hit us.)

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Another Day in Paradise


Feb 26th adventures


The little maids thought they had me today. When I got up, late and sore from horseback riding and ziplining, they had soaked the entire floor from my door to the elevator. Ah, clever but I am clever too and saw the sheen on the floor and gingerly walked to the elevator and didn’t fall. But they weren’t done yet. So clever were they that they knew where I would go, coffee, and had sabotaged the floor there as well.

Ha! I saw the slippery sign and walked with care. They would not get me, those little she-devils. No they wouldn’t.

Even though I got up at 8, I was still sleepy. Last night there was a huge fight that sounded like it was outside my door. Yelling and screaming and stomping. Not revelry, there is always plenty of that, but a good old fashioned couple’s fight. Ugly and loud. Last thing I really needed.

So, in the morning, got my coffee and started to work on catching up on the blog. Feeling not as overcome today as yesterday so I hoped it would be a good day for writing and reading. Nothing else planned.

After catching up, I went to sit in the sun. Without anything else to write about, I thought I would explain my beach experience.

I come from my room with towel under my arm, a book in my hand, sunglasses covering my eyes and I smell vaguely of suntan lotion. I go to the beach, pull out a chair to better take advantage of the sun and set myself up. Shoes off. Shirt off. lay back.

I dip my hand in the sand. The sand is very fine. It is sand colored and twinkles in the sun. It sticks to everything. It gets into everything. Sand is not my friend. I avoid the sand by lying on a lounge chair. I take my hand out of the sand (and spend the next 20 min getting every grain out of my knuckle wrinkles.)

My favourite place is not far from the volleyball sand-court and even closer to a little self-serve drink station they have set up. Not many people hang around my area, most of them are in the pool on the other side of the beach, drinking or splashing or just sunning.

I can close my eyes and listen to the music from the speaker near the pool as it drifts with the wind. I can hear the grind of the waves in and out, in and out. the sound is ever present and tranquil. Not far off, kids shout in glee, splash in the pool, giggle when being chased by mom or dad.

I open my eyes. Overhead, I see pelicans or gulls soar in the blue sky. Under the cover of shade, deep blue colored birds cry out and search for bugs. Along the surf, sandpipers race back and forth. Nearer the food tables, sparrows hop from chair to chair, keeping an eye out for crumbs.

Soon I feel the heat of the skin on my sun. With the wined, it takes a while for me to heat up. Oh sure the temperature has been high since last Friday but with the wind constantly blowing, it seems quite mild. An illusion as the sun still beats down and can burns my skin if I am not careful. But never does it feel nasty, sweaty hot. Good me for, might be bad for others.

Today, as most days, the vendors roam the beachline that has been roped off. My guess would be the rope defines private property vs state property. These poor buggers work from dawn to dusk, carrying their suitcases full of silver or wandering around with mountains of hats on their heads or heaps of blankets on their shoulders. There is one guy who sells sunglasses from a board. Another sells lace. A woman hawks handfuls of beads and ‘local’ jewellery.

None of them cross the rope barrier. They do, however, shout or whistle at anyone who even remotely comes near or looks their way. It works too. People do come, they do buy and so the vendors come back day after day. My guess is that they can make an ok living out in the scorching sun.

Behind the beach vendors are the walkers and swimmers. Every day, early in the morning, the local pats can be seen marching up and down the beach, tanned to a dark mocha and often walking dogs. It wouldn’t be a bad place to be though I can’t imagine finding enough people with which I shared common interests for me to stay in such a location. I might find a writer or two, even the odd travel nut but I suspect it’s really a community based on the sun and drinking and that isn’t quite my scene.

As for the swimmers, a few of them dare the going beyond their hips, but not many. A few surf the waves. Some ride boogie boards. Some use full length boards. None of them are any good, however and it's painful to watch them crash time and time again.

As with any day, there are great people watching opportunities.

Yesterday, I watched a family set up a tent for their child with a good half dozen chairs. They used blankets and towels and built quite an effective little home. Both parents could fit inside, lying down and they had set up drinks outside. Very cool. I thought it would be great to come to such a place like this with young kids. I would have taken a picture but the mom was dressed in a very skimpy bikini and my picture taking might have been misinterpreted.

I have to say, I like the beach. Sun or no sun. Full of people or half empty. It is a good place to spend a few hours and not have to worry about anything more than getting a little too burned or sand in strange places.


Not much else to report today. Started the next Brad Thor novel and this one is far superior to the one I read earlier. Ate nice burritos in the lunch restaurant. Blogged more. Snoozed in room. Then went down to supper at my usual grandpa time of 6.

I was sat at my yes-for-one-table and ate some very lovely lamb. I hope to explain more tomorrow about the buffet they had set up. However, tonight, I had a different experience from my normal one.

An older couple was seated a table away from me, and another gentleman beside them. I thought they were part of the same group but no, it turned out the single gentleman was, like me, all by himself. It wasn’t the first person I’d seen dine alone but so far, they had all been woman. Not this guy. He looked about 80, rumbled and dishevelled, his hair thin and white, his skin pale and untanned and sagging on his frame. He wore white shorts far too big for his legs and a blue polo shirt frayed at the neck.

The older couple asked if he was alone and he said yes. They asked if his wife was upstairs and he said no, she had passed away last spring. They had been married for 52 years.

52 years? Fuck me.

A year ago, I would have turned to Margot and said, that’s sad. Margot might have shed a tear, she often did when she heard that kind of stuff, but I would have just acknowledged the sadness of it and moved on. Now his loss, a wife of 52 years, seeped into me and I couldn't shake it. Big fat wet tears rolled down my face. It was like I had heard the saddest thing in the world.

Was that why his shirt was a little frayed, his hair dishevelled? Had she made sure he looked his best before she passed? Did he miss her as much as I miss Margot? Did 52 years mean he could look back and say, hey, we had a good life or was 52 years, like 30, not enough?

I actually had to leave or really lose it. Stupid ass emotions. Stupid ass old guy who looked completely lost without his wife.

Went up to my writing area in the internet zone, blew my nose, wiped away the tears and finished my blog up to the end of yesterday. Finished more when I went back to my room.

Wrote a good 25 pages today. Felt good to get caught up and, despite the old guy at supper, the day could be well declared a success. No great adventures but then every day cannot be a wild ride.

Tomorrow, it’s likely to be another slow day.

(picture is of a vendor selling lace table-clothes by the look of it.)

Friday, February 26, 2010

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly


Feb 25th 2:30pm

When we landed on the last platform, we found, a little to our shock, that there were no ladders down, no stairs, no elevators or escalators. We would have to rappel down.

Say what?

Jonathon-the-operator showed us what would happen, something about a figure 8 clip and someone holding the rope below and it was all safe and I swear, the 3 indo-canadian girls went as white as me. We all shifted nervously on the platform as the first one leapt off and, after a scream, landed without any problem. Must have been 40 feet. Looks far down from up top, not so far from the bottom.

The fearless guy was, yes, fearless. His girlfriend, brave. The goofs didn’t do anything goofy and the indo-Canadian girls were happy to go last, making sure no one died a hideous, shrieking death. I had no fear and rode down easily. I don’t think I would have been so unafraid if I had gone first but seeing how easy it really was, I managed to get down without shrieking.

When everyone was down safely, we sat in the sun for a bit then off to the factory. We marched through the sweltering heat past the more clever locals who sat in the shade, past guava farms which has the most amazing smell, our feet kicking up dust from the dry pathway. We got back on the bus and drove off to the factory.

It was a small factory, and the tour took very little time. Over here, the ‘pineapples’, the guava plants cut into round shapes, over there, the pulping, over here the fermenting, how stinky, over there the distilling, the aging, the bottling, all very hi-tech amigos, we do it by hand.

I was pretty bored, to be honest, and somewhere along that bus trip to the factory, my mood had shifted. I had gotten a little sad over Margot not being here and that turned into an utter intolerance of the world and everything in it.

Margot would have loved the tour, I’m sure, and asked all sorts of cool questions at the end and even loved the cheesy singer in front of the bar where they dispensed free tequila. I did not. Instead of cool and, like the bus, very Mexican, I saw only the poor mules who sweated in the heat and the vendors hawking their wares with wanton aggressiveness and the stupid kids who thought it was very cool to drink 6 shots of tequila (ages 15-18, there were 5 of them).

The no-neck guy shouted on about how great booze was in Canada (again, it might be true so dunno why him shouting it bugged me so much), the parents of the drinking kids did fuck all but bathe in the sun and there was a knot of people who kept talking throughout the whole tour of the factory (yes, you guessed it, fucking no-neck guy and his moronic clan of loudmouths.)

I got myself one drink and it was pretty darned good, considering I am not a big tequila drinker. It was smooth, didn’t make my throat burn or my eyes water. It was a gold medal winner. Double gold, in fact, and a completely organic drink. No preservatives. No chemicals in the process, all natural. Margot would have liked that.

Unfortunately, by the time I got back on the bus, I was in a horrible mood. What made it worse were the kids in the back of the bus, not far from me. To all parents out there, let me tell you the number of tequila shots your teenager takes is directly related the number of times he or she will tell you to shut up or fuck off on the bus ride home.

OMG they were such a pain in the ass, drunk and loud and suck-my-balls this and fuck-you that... and that was just the girls. At first, they all sat laughing, then they turned on each other and nearly came to blows, then when mom intervened, see the fuck you, comment. Ugly, ugly stuff and the parents did bugger all, (including the no-neck guy who had 2 kids back there and who I had thought would put a stop to all of that pretty quick, but no, he thought it was pretty funny when the son told him mom to fuck off.)

As well, my Mexican friend had apparently 12, yes 12, shots of tequila and if I thought he was chatty before, holy shit, I had no idea. He didn’t sit beside me but across the aisle and kept leaning over to say things to me. Sometimes he’d turn around and talk to the teenagers like they were his new best friends. Oddly, they seemed to like it. If I understood him right and he did his best to gesture as well as speak to me, he got loaded before getting on the bus and then got extra loaded at the factory. Dunno if he ever did the zip lines, I honestly don’t recall seeing him there at all.

*sigh*

It was a long ride back.

Strangely, when I got up to leave the bus, my amigo got up and shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder and smiled and fired away more machine-gun spanish. Somehow, I had made a friend. A drunked non-english speaking friend but beggars can't be choosers.

By the time I walked into my resort, I had a huge headache, (due to the bus ride? The lack of water? The lack of food? The tequila?), my mood was truly foul and had degenerated into a seething hatred for most, if not all, people, and I felt vaguely sick to my stomach.

Grabbed some food and my anger turned to sadness once again and I lost all interest in writing the blog or going for supper later or doing anything. I went back upstairs and sank into bed and didn’t get out until morning.

The day had started well but ended poorly. Funny how a day can turn around in my current state.

Tomorrow, I had to catch up on the blog and beat back the tide of unhappiness.

(the picture is of the bar at the tequila factory and includes the drinking teens and my favourite guy, no neck. See what I mean, no neck, right?)


Feb 25th 1-ish

The second line didn’t look as bad as the first one and since all of us had made it, a lot of the nerves had turned into triumphant jubilation. We’d done it. All of our group.

No one had fallen, no one had gotten stuck in the middle, no one had killed their handler by crashing into them a full speed (though I think I came close). The two guys talking crap had not gone upside down and kept their hands very firmly on the line to make sure that they didn’t get going too fast. One guy, however, had gone balls out. His wife had barely made it to the platform because she had been so afraid, but this guy, no fear at all, not on his face, not in his actions.

“Shit, man, you are fucking fearless,” I said to him as we waited for the next line. He had a shaved head like Gord and bullet shaped sunglasses. Like Gord, he was wide but not fat. He had the calm fearlessnes of someone who fought fires for a living or taught kindergarten.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” he said.
“Lot’s to be afraid of,” I said, “Getting stuck in the middle, not stopping in time, getting bugs in your mouth...”
His girlfriend laughed. She said, for her, the fear was speed. She wasn’t used to going so fast. He had no sympathy. I told her I understood. Joe-the-comforter.

The next line the fearless guy did without placing his hand behind him and gripped the line only at the last moment. Has he done this before, I asked his girlfriend. She shook her head but didn’t speak as the operator hooked her up and shot her off. Next up, me. Up on the step, rollers hooked up, safety line attached, lean back, all ok? Go!

This time, I leaned back and didn’t touch the damn line at all until the end. Unlike the fearless guy, my hand stayed near the line hissing on the flap protecting the palm. Wheeeeeeeeee. Then, as I got closer, I tightened my grip. Hard. And slowed, landing perfectly like a little angel on the platform. I beamed at the operator who said, better that time. I pointed out that the flap on my glove, the one that protected my palm, had come lose (or had been loose, not sure). He looked at it, shook his head. It will be fine, amigo. It may get a bit hot but no problem.

A bit hot?

Great.

The third one was the longest, extending as far as I could see, so far that the earth itself curved before the line ended. Ok, a bit of an exaggeration but it did look like a long way down. It started out above the trees then sank towards a hill on the other side.

Now make sure you do not grip the line, the operator, his name was Jonathon, said. If you do, you will not make it.

Anita, the fearless guy’s girlfriend, paled and looked around and shuffled back and forth on her feet. Her boyfriend leapt off the platform and roared down. She followed but, somewhere, her fear took over and she stopped about ¾ of the way. The operators on the end, came out and got her. Poor thing.

I had no problem and even managed to stabilize my spinning without really slowing down too much. As well, I nailed the landing, as they say. A 10. 8 from the Russian judge.

Feeling pretty confident now. Lines 4 and 5, no problem, good speed, good balance and good landings. Then came #6. The fastest one. A huge drop right through a tunnel of trees. Not a long run but an impressive one.

Fearless guy went balls out. His girlfriend did well and made it all the way. The 2 goofballs, despite a constant banter of one-upmanship, had yet to come close to the fearless guy. The 3 indo Canadian girls looked like they would have rather being doing pretty much anything else and their companion, flawless in his zipping.

Me, I came in hard and fast. I tried to stop too late again and my glove went furnace hot as I yanked down and tried to stop. The photographer leapt out of the way. The operator braced for impact. Wham! I hit the stopping foam on the line at nearly full speed. Feet went over my head, my helmet scraped on the platform but I had made it. I righted myself, laughed for some stupid reason and the operator shook his head again.

Amigo. Less speed.

I pointed at my glove and said, “not much protection,” but the truth was, I needed to slow down earlier not at the last possible moment. Also the truth, I really liked the speed. My only concern was if I began to spin but I thought I had that under control.

I went on the next one.

7 and 8 were fine, neither too steep nor too long. I had no problems as I slowed down a bit before landing. Judges said, 8’s on the landings. On the 8th run, the goofballs had finally leaned all the way back so they were nearly horizontal. Not quite upside down like our Jonathon the operator did but way more than I felt comfortable doing. The fearless guy looked bored but his girlfriend glowed with the satisfaction of overcoming one’s fears.

The last one was one of the best, not because of the zip line but because it began in a tree and ended in a tree. For the first time, it made sense we were tethered to a safety line as one misstep and we fell 30 feet to the ground, maybe more.
We all got to the last tree, the end of the line, without any problems but then came perhaps the hardest trick of all.

(picture is of me at the end of line #6. Not sure how the photographer got this one as he had lept off the platform screaming like a little girl when I came hurtling in. Oh and for the record, you can see the flap of my glove that should have been more attached to my glove.)

The First Test



Feb 25th about noonish.

Complete and utter panic was the first thing I felt as my feet left the platform and I zoomed forward along the zipline, feet dangling into the air. My hand behind me wanted to grip the line and slow me down. My other hand gripped the safety strap like my life depended on it.

It was a battle between my lizard brain and my higher reasoning.
Grip the line, dammit.
No, stay steady.
Grip the line, safe yourself.
No, it’ll all be ok.
I’m gonna grip that line.
No, no you won’t.

In the end, my fear of being the only one so far to stop in the middle (and that included mr 250lb no-neck), overrode my fear of heights and uncontrolled speed.

It took only seconds but in those long seconds, I gained control of myself and soared down the line...

Only to start to spin.

Fuck me.

The way to stop the spin, they’d told us is to use your back hand as a guide, to right yourself by pulling lightly on the line. But, zipping along at a great rate, turning slowly, how light is light? What if I pull too hard and stop all together?

I continued to spin.

I was now nearly facing the rear and had to do something or else risk coming in not only fast but with my ass first. Oh sure there are those who say I do a lot of that in real life but they mean that figuratively and here I was about to ass land on top of a small Mexican.

I tightened my grip on the line and tried to rebalance myself. I leaned backwards. I pivoted in my harness. I continued to pick up speed and tore past the half way point.

I hadn’t gripped too hard and I began to right myself but what I saw was a big ass platform coming up really fast and the operator pumping his hand up and down in rapid fashion. Slow the fuck down! I yanked on my line but it was almost too late. Like a rocket, I roared onto the platform, the hand gripping the line hot as hell from the friction. I pulled down with all my strength, the line dipped, my feet shot up and I hit the platform way faster than anyone my size should. But I landed on my feet, safe.

The operator shook his head, too fast, amigo, too fast. No shit, I said, laughing, pretty much happy to have made it.

I asked him how better to control the spinning and he said to lean back, leaning forward shifts the center of gravity to one large point. My ass, I quipped. He laughed but said, yes. If you spread out your weight, it is easy not to spin.

Would it work?


(2 pictures, 1 of the 1st zip line and the other of me on that first zip line, and yes, the harness did nothing to flatter my already large bum.)

We arrived at the site around 11:30. Hot, hot, hot. No wind off the ocean. Cactus, olive green shrubs, steel green guava plants and yellowed grass all around. The earth around here was reddish brown and speckled with rock, dry looking and dusty. At this point, all I have had to eat is a coffee and all I have had to drink is a coffee. I wasn’t thirsty or hungry yet but I had no idea how long this tour would take.

We all got off the bus, were fitted with harnesses and metal clips and ropes and straps. Sort of like a party at Sean’s. Everything was tightened up, then we were given gloves and a helmet secured atop our heads. We were told do not, repeat do NOT touch any of your equipment, get one of the qualified people to adjust anything.

I chatted with a nice couple from Calgary who were on a week vacation and offered to take pictures of couples who tried to do it alone and then we were all loaded into military style trucks,, all of us clinking and clanging as we sat down (though I think I was the only one who banged his helmet on the bar overhead.)

We were then driven along a narrow, deep rutted path of dirt up and down then UUUUP a steep hill to an area where we disembarked. I, being the photo goof, ran away from the group to get a picture of the next truck coming up but managed only a quick shot before I was politely yelled at to stop fucking around, amigo. Hahaha. Amazing what adding amigo will do to any sentence.

We all sat and listened to the specific instructions. Use one hand to hold onto the strap. Position the other hand behind you and rest your hand on the line but not too tight, just rest your hand on the line. Pull down when you want to slow. We will tell you when to pull down. If you pull down too soon or you grip the line too tight, you will not make it to the end. If that happens, you can pull yourself the rest of the way, or wave and yell and we will come to get you. Do not worry, amigos, it is all perfectly safe.

Very few faces registered relief at this.

We were then sorted into three groups. I was in the second.

To be honest, most of the people were not worried about the height or the zip line or falling off but getting stuck in the middle and looking like an idiot. Certainly that had ME worried. There was a lot of joking in the line-up before the first zip line, some bravado from a pair of guys who vowed to do the first one upside down and a woman in front of me who was actually shaking. Her husband tried to tell her it was safe but I think once we she saw the height and the distance, no amount of logic was going to convince her this was a good thing to do.

Not a single person backed out, though several joked they would. When I got to the landing, my heart was hammering in my chest. Fear of heights and fear of looking foolish can be powerful. But I was hooked up, my safety line secured, the operator asked if I was ok, and I said with as much confidence as I could muster, good to go!

And off I went.

Da Bus


9:50 Huana Cao Zip line tour.

Like a stupid Canadian (and I wasn’t the only one), I showed up at 9:45. Already waiting were 2 couples, one family of 5 and a group of indo-Canadians, three girls, one guy, mid twenties. Ha!

Bus came at 10:20.

Late, even by Mexican standards.

When the bus pulled up, I was the only one to smile. It was a regular bus, dirty white and green, with unwashed windows, some tinted, some not, and an engine that sounded like something you here in the WW2 movies when the big trucks grind their way uphill. Inside it was worse, with broken seats, darkened air conditioning vents that long ago had stopped working and odd lights that looked like nozzles to spray fire retardant or something. The seats were threadbare and already three quarters filled with people going on the tour.

I snagged a good seat while the rest of the my peps filed in. “What a piece of shit bus,” one said but I thought, yes, exactly, how cool is that? Welcome to the real Mexico. No A/C. No suspension as far as I could tell and windows so dirty, you couldn’t see out.

Way more fun. (Though it is odd to realize how Margot-positive I was in the beginning of this trip.)

The drive to the next resort was painful as the driver drove agonizingly slowly along the speed-bumped resort roads, each bump spine-jarring. I felt bad for the people who had to sit in broken seats but hey, I had to sit beside a swarthy fellow who kept trying to speak Spanish to me. Nice guy, probably nice as hell, but I kept having to turn, shrug and say, errr, no hablas that espagnol. It never stopped him though so I just did a lot of head bobbing and nodding and smiling. Later, I think I found out why he was so friendly.

Also on the bus was a fellow who had no neck. He sat in front of me, perhaps 5’6” tall, easily a good 250 pounds with neck fat rolled up onto the back of his shaved head.

Now I know I’ve written about guys with no neck but to actually see one was quite something. He had a HUGE head for one thing but at the jaw line, his neck was so thick and fat, it flowed into this shoulders seamlessly. 360. Front, back, sides. All flowed right into his torso. When he turned his head, his neck gathered up like a thick blanket but still it looked like his neck was part of his head.

Now, there are some people I take an instant liking to. Dunno why. Sean was one. Nissa. Bruce and Lil. Others. Then there are people I take an instant dislike to. Dunno why either. The no-neck guy I took an instant dislike to the moment he began complaining about fucking everything. Now he wasn’t the only one so why I decided to not like him is the mystery, why not dislike the kid behind me who said the same thing or the *nice* Mexican fellow beside me?

But dislike him I did. He had a big voice that filled the entire bus and he talked the whole way there, why truck drivers matter in the world, why he hates this and that, how he had been told one price for this tour and now they were trying to rip him off (again, which might have been true but drove me nuts). However, I am not one to confront a hefty no-neck and tell him to shut the fuck up so I leaned back, nodded at my Mexican friend who was trying to point out something on the side of the road and listened to other people.

Beside, me, one seat back on one of the broken seats, was a young boy, perhaps 12, who looked like he was on a bus to Dachau. After the operator explained what we were to expect and how safe it all was, he walked up and down the bus and asked if there were any questions. The boy raised his hand. The operator came over.

“What if something falls off?” the boy asked in a shaky voice.
“Like what, amigo? You?”
“No. No. Not me. What if, like, my sunglasses fall off?”
“Then they are gone.”
“Oh.”
“And what happens if you get stuck in the middle and you can’t get back?”
“Then we come and get you, amigo, don’t worry.”
“But what if it’s really far?”
“Then we go really far to get you. This is not our first time.”
The boy looked at the seat in front of him, then down. “Has anyone even fallen?”
“Not one person. Do not worry. Safety is very important to us. You will be fine.”
“Ok.” But it looked like the boy (Jesse) was not convinced. He chewed on his lower lip, turned to stare out the dirty window and, I think, imagined all the horrors awaiting him. Poor kid.

Thing is, he was not alone. After listening to all the safety issues we had to be aware of, a lot of us were rethinking the wisdom of this adventure.

(the picture is of the bus, looked worse the closer one got.)

The Tao of Margot



I think I could have talked Margot in going to the tequila tour but no way in hell she would have done the zip line.

“How cool would it be to soar above the trees?” I would have asked.
“Not interested.”
“But it’s perfectly safe. Here read all about it on-line.”
“I don’t think that’s something I want do to.”
“Don’t you even want to read about it?”
“No.”
“But it’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Then I think you should go.”
“Errr.”
“Have a great time. Take lots of pictures.”
“Urhm.”

I can’t tell you the number of conversations I had with Margot like this. Wouldn’t it be cool to climb to the top of that ruined tower, yes the one with the sign that says dangerous, do not climb? Wouldn’t it be cool to drive down the gangsta part of the LA barrio in the Miata with the top down? Wouldn’t it be cool to see if I could shoot that apple off your head with this bow (ok, that one I made up but you get the idea.)

Margot would simply not do anything she did not want to do but she would be the sweetest angel about it. Her ‘no’s’ were never nasty or judgemental. She made it sound like you had offered her the nicest piece of cake but she was full but you go ahead and have fun. No way she would have gone on the zip line but she might have gone on the tequila tour.

The one thing Margot loved was learning how things were made. One of her favourite souvenirs was a shot glass from Ireland where we had watched Waterford crystal being made. One of our favourite things was to visit all manner of alcoholic manufacturers, from the Heinekin beer factory to the Glenfiddich distillery in Scotland to a wine museum in Burgundy that showed all aspects of wine making.

To her, there was magic in the creation of things.

Certainly one of our longest running in-jokes came from the cheese factory incident.

While we were driving down in Oregon, we drove past a sign that said, Tillimuk cheese factory 6 miles. “oh look, six miles to the cheese factory,” Margot noted.
“Cool.” We were trying to make good time to the motels along the beach.
Then another sign. “Next turn, Tillimuck cheese factory,” she said.
“Oh yeah, you can see the factory from here.”
“There is it, the cheese factory.”
“Pretty big.”
“A cheeeeeese factory.”
“The cheesiest.”
And on we drove.

Later I found out Margot wanted to go see the cheese factory and I had been, rather typically, clueless. But from then on, it became out cheese-factory-routine. “Look, a herd of mountain goats.” “Cheese factory?” “Nope, just cool.” We didn’t stop. “Look, a great view of Capri.” “Cheese factory?” “For sure.” We stopped.

It was our code. A little thing I miss in a very big way.

How could I go into a factory again without thinking about how Margot would have loved to be there with me?

But this was part of the tour and I thought what the hell?

(picture is of Margot 2008, ready to tour a rum factory in the Caribbean. Man, I miss that smile.)

Big Plans for the 25th


Feb 25th

Wonderful day yet again. Not a cloud in sight. Slept well but there were 2 things I had to do today and I feared one of them would be a big hassle. So I got up at 7 and began the fight on thing #1. My clothes.

The story of this one is simple. I had packed, quite cleverly I thought, only enough clothes for about 8 days. My plan had been to get the hotel to do a laundry run about ½ way through my adventure. Sure it would cost a bit of money but it would allow me to pack 15 books instead of 15 pairs of socks.

A great plan, eh?

So, on Monday, I bagged up everything in the resort laundry bag, filled out the official form (which was surprisingly long and detailed) and then phoned downstairs to ask them to please pick it up. Then off I went for food and blogging (my morning ritual in case I haven’t mentioned that yet). When I got back to my room at 10 to prepare for sun tanning, the bag was still there. I phoned again. No problemo, they would be up right away.

Cool. I went downstairs and came back after lunch. Bag was still there.

Politely, I phoned down and asked if there was a problem and, sure enough, I had not signed the damn thing (though, in my defence, there was one line that apparently was supposed to be signed by both the chambermaid and me – I only saw the chambermaid part). Anyway, it was too late for Monday so I asked them to send someone by to pick it up for tomorrow, then.

By 11pm, no one had come. Not a big surprise at this point to be honest.

So, next day, Tuesday, got up at 8 and phoned for a pick up. No problem. This time I made sure I signed the form. But did I trust them? No. Came back after breakfast and blogging and whoa, big shock, the bag was still there. Phoned again. We will be right there. Came back at noon and, oh yes, the bag was STILL there.

Phoned downstairs again, did I forget to sign something? Not sure the right ink? Not tick the little boxes with a big enough tick? No. Apparently no one had even come up though my room was made up so clearly someone had.

Please, I asked, por favor, send someone up in the next 5 min. No problem. 15 min later someone came. I was now down to my last unworn shirt and pair of socks and underwear. If I didn’t get it thurs morning , I would have to wear stinky second-days. Not my first choice.

Now it’s Thursday and no laundry had been delivered yesterday (which was not unexpected as the form listed a 48 hour turnaround). But I needed those clothes. Badly. So I phoned down at 7. Laundry not open but I would get a phonecall back.

Right.

8:15. No call. I phone down again. I need my clean clothes.
Oh, we will pick them up right away.
No. I dropped them off on Tuesday, they should be done today.
Oh, okay, I will phone you back.
10 min?
Yes.
9am, no call and I got dressed in stinkies and marched downstairs. I walked up to the service counter and said, “I need clothes.” The attendant looked at me with eyes wide like I had gone loco. “Sir?” “I need my clothes back. I put them in the laundry on Tuesday, I need them back now. I have no clean clothes.” “Ah, I will find out what happened. What room number are you?” “1836.” “I will phone you back.” “No, that hasn’t worked. I will wait here. Please phone now.”

And he did and I got my clothes back. Whoohooo. Being a spoiled Canadian I forgot how good clean clothes feel (compared to sweaty, dirty ones). I went downstairs, got a coffee and stopped by the guy who had helped me to thank him (it was something Margot always did, she rarely made a big effort to complain but she nearly always took the time to thank someone for helping her.)

Now for the big adventure. 9:50. The Huana Coa tour. Zip lines through the rugged Mexican hills and a tour of a tequila factory. Oh, my.

(picture is looking northish towards the next resort - to preserve good taste,there aren't any pictures of my dirty clothes)

Evening of the 24th



Not sure about the morality of going for a ride today. Maybe when I get back, I can get my horse-loving friends to advise me. The horses on the beach looked ok to me but they had to stand in the very hot sun and then walk up and down the beach in the very hot sun . Catherine from Ontario came back and gave the horses an apple. How sweet was that? But are these horses being abused? I know Margot would have been very, very concerned. Should I have been?

A few random things. Looks like some terrorist was assassinated in Dubai. Read a funny comment on who might have done it. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it is most like MI-6 dressed up as a duck.

Five things the new Joe Part 2 will not do.
1) I will not wear a big pirate earring. Saw a guy here with one, a big hooped silver one! Holy hell, even a good looking guy couldn't pull that off.
2) I will not have a soul patch, not now, not ever, even if I could grow a good one. Same guy with the hooped erring had one and I almost stopped him and thanked him for showing me what a complete moron looks like.
3) No cliff diving. I will never be that brave, drunk or stupid.
4) Will not drink before 9am (as it tends to fubar my whole day.)
5) Will never, ever wear a speedo no matter what shape I may eventually get into.


Everything had returned to normal today. No bed done up as a present, no activities on the beach, no massed waiter hordes, no 3 shrimp dishes. Also, no sign of my favourite waiter. Looks like he had the day off. No internet in the afternoon.

Good thing the sun was out.

Tomorrow, I’m off to do some zip lines. Yikes!

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Horsing Around




After paying for the horse ride, I was joined by a nice, middle-age lady who had ridden before. She leapt up and into the saddle like a veteran.

Now, I needed to do the same. I looked at the horse, he looked at me, I looked at the saddle and did what the lady had done, grip the pommel with one hand and the back of the saddle with the other. In all the westerns they only seem to grip the saddle pommel but fuck me, I needed all the help I could get.

I took a deep breath and yanked myself up and swung my meaty leg over the back of the horse and sat down in the saddle.

Easy!

I may have let out a pip of glee but let’s, for the moment, pretend I didn’t and just sat tall in the saddle like this was something I did all the time. Let’s also pretend that I didn’t beam like the village idiot.

Ok, so no instructions. No, pull on this, kick that, poke here, jerk there. Nothing. The guy who owned the horses, Joe was his name, made a clicking sound and off we went. Hey, it felt pretty good being up high, loping along, one hand on the reins, the other fishing in my pocket for my camera. Oh sure I didn’t have a cool white hat but I felt like I was king of the world.

I turned to my riding companion, Catherine from Ontario and, after the usual talk of where ya from, how long ya staying, I asked if she had ridden before (she had, a lot) and could she give me a few tips. Steer with the reins and your legs, she said, pull back hard if he bolts, don’t put any pressure if he’s doing fine. Seemed all very sensible. I turned my horsie a bit to the left to avoid running over a black family and horsie obeyed. I turned him right to stomp on some fresh sand and horsie obeyed.

Let’s pretend I didn’t let out a pip of pleasure. Let’s pretend I didn’t smile like the village idiot. It felt great to have control over such a large and powerful beast. Catherine, however, wanted to race her horse, have it charge across the dunes kicking up sand. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair and breeze on her face.

Problem was, her horse wouldn’t run. I had the running horse. At the first turnaround, we switch horses so she could get what she wanted and I, frankly, had no real desire to spoil my perfect record of horse-riding so far. I leapt off the saddle like a pro, landed on my feet like I knew what I was doing and, yes, probably pipped a little. Then I got on the other horse, a shaggier horse, and sat down in the saddle. No problem.

"You want to run, amigo?" Joe asked.
"Errr."
"Run?"
"Urhm."
"Amigo?"
"Gack."

The owner gave instructions to Catherine, hola, bueno mexico taco, burrito hasta la vista hombre nombre siesta. We didn’t understand a word but she nodded and said she knew what she was doing. Cool I thought. Made me want to take lesson for sure, that way I could...

She kicked her horse in the sides, shouted something and whammo her horse took off in a spray of sand. Way cool thought I until my horse followed. With a jerk, it shot forward and into a gallop.

Fuck me.

My horse finally decided to run because the other horse had run.

I want to say it felt exhilarating, that I listened to the hooves thump into the sand as the wind whipped my face but instead, all I could hear was the owner shouting, pull, pull, pull and see him in my peripheral vision running behind me, waving his arms. Beneath me, the horse had turned slightly and galloped for the rope fence.

Fuck me.

In desperation, I pulled and the horse stopped and turned and stomped and the owner raced up to grab the reins.

Whew. We'd covered maybe 30 yards, not far, not that long but, boy, did that wake me up.

As my heart pounded, I thought on what happened. First, it was not really a gallop, the actual term might be a canter but it felt like a gallop to me. Second, we were near his resting spot and he wanted to get to it quickly, I guess. Third, he is, at his core, a herd animal if one of the herd runs, so too does the rest of the herd.

After that, the rest of the ride was pretty calm, my horse being a little grumpy, stopping suddenly (I swear, I did nothing) or trying to gallop again when the other one did but each time the horse looked like he was going to do something, Joe-the-owner was right there.

So, yes, I survived a long ride up and down the beach.

However, something no one tells you is your ass and your thighs hurt like mad. Imagine being spanked for an hour (and I know there are some of you who can do more than imagine) and you get the idea. Plus, heat, sweat and rubbing = chaffing.

But still, I had a great time and survived the runaway horse, who, I really suspect, knew what he was doing and would have stopped at his resting spot without me having to yank on his reins.

Got a picture of myself and then went inside to eat, drink and pip gleefully but quietly to myself.

Afterwards, I went and found the jet ski guy but he wanted $50 for ½ hour and though I tried to use my incredible bargaining skills, “hey, look, no one's in line up and you’ve not had any customers today, let’s say $35 for ½ hour.” “$50.” “Better to get $35 now than sit in the sun.” “$50.” “No, I think I’ll not go.” “$50.”

Now, in hindsight, not sure he even understood my masterful negotiation (or English) his repetition of $50 making him a moron or just a bad negotiator. But I really couldn’t see myself paying $50 for this experience.

It actually was a pretty big conflict. My need to do something cool vs my need not to pay $100 an hour for it. So, instead, went to catch up on my blog but horrors, of horrors, couldn’t get connected. *sigh*

Went outside to read in the sun. Warhammer 40K novel. Easy read. I’d read a few by this fellow and found them to be ok. But this one was actually pretty good. Pacing was better, he made his character suffer more and I found myself loving what he had written. Like Danielle Steele, it takes talent to write good military SF and this guy had found his grove.

Retired for naps around 3, had a great supper around 6, then back to the blog writing. Felt like a good day.

Horse Whisperer


Feb 24th

Completely lost track of what day it was, which, I suppose, is the whole point of vacations. Was it tues, wed, thurs? I had no idea.

All I knew is that I had to get up early and prepare for Stone Island and the horse ride. The weather was fantastic, though a bit windy as usual but nothing out of the ordinary. A perfect day for an excursion.

I woke up at 7, went down and had breakfast, since I wasn’t at all sure when we would be fed, and then returned upstairs to put in contacts, apply suntan lotion and pack everything that I would need (more suntan lotion, a towel, sunglasses, a book, and my camera.)

I was downstairs and ready as if this was Canadian time. 8:30. Ticket said we left at 8:30. Tour guide said be down in the lobby at 8:30. But 8:30, no tour bus.

No worries, this is Mexico. I wanted 5 min. 10 min. 15 min. It was a nice sunny day after all and except for my sore feet, it was no problem standing or pacing around. However, at 20min the tour guide came out and told us it had been cancelled due to weather.

Weather? Really? It was far from the most breezy day and this smelled a lot like bullshit to me but Joe Part 2 is surprisingly calm these days and I rebooked the tour for tomorrow. No big deal. I asked about the aquarium and the guide said it was ok.
Just ok?
Yes, just ok.
Ok... like I should take a taxi down to see it or ok like I should go suntan?
Hard to say.
Would you take a taxi to see it?
No.

Well that made up my mind. I went outside with my towel and my book and extra suntan lotion and camera and sat in the sun for a bit. Then I saw horses stop and their owners set up business. Hmmm. Maybe screw the Stone Island, I will get me a horse here, gawl darnit.

Went up to the owner. Thin, grizzled, he stood a head shorter than me with a lit cigarette in his mouth he seemed to chew more than he smoked. He wore a sweat-stained white cowboy hat (see! See! They all wear white hats!) and he had a tan so deep and dark, I’m not sure it would ever fade. I asked him how much, he said $25 and I thought why the hell not and said, ok amigo, sign me up. However he had a full tour and told me to come back in an hour.

Righto. I did just that.

Now I was a big nervous about this horse thing, to be completely honest. Oh I wasn’t worried about the horse eating me or attacking me - they don’t scare me, even if they are a lot taller looking when you get close to them. No, what worried me was that I would make an idiot out of myself.

I had two major concerns. First, could I get out without tipping the horse over or having someone have to push my bum up into the saddle? Two, would I lose control of the horse at some point and would it charge into a crowd of children, trampling them while I screamed, heel, horsie, heel?

It’s actually two very common things that scare me. Fear of the unknown, hell this would be my very first horse ride, and fear of loss of control, hell this thing had no gas or break peddle or steering wheel.

But I wasn’t going to let those fears stop me. In fact, as far as fears go, this didn’t even really get about mild anxiety. So I paid the hombre his money and readied myself for the ride.

Luckily only one of my two fears came to be.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

I Fear for the Future



While one child was hitting the piñata, a mob of other children had decided they were going to beat the stuffing out the gorilla. Except for stupid-ass sitcoms, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. At least ten kids leapt on the poor dude in the gorilla suit (and in this heat, you gotta know this was not a plumb job to begin with) and they were in no way gentle.

They jumped on the gorilla, punching him with full force and kicking him and one stupid ass kid with a camouflage shirt tore the gorilla’s head off. I couldn’t believe how violent the kids got or how their parents, Canadians mostly stood by and let this happen. I mean those kicks were real. Those punches, though delivered by small fists, were meant to hurt.

Holy hell.

Finally the poor guy fought to his feet, flailing his arms, and stood while the kids parted. The stupid ass kid in camouflage who stole the gorilla’s head, whacked the guy with it. I mean, wtf? The gorilla retreated as more staff intervened to make sure he got away. What a spectacle. What are the parents teaching their children?

Anyway, it wasn’t until that same stupid ass kid in camouflage (who was probably too old to be playing this game) beat the piñata senseless even though one of the staff tried to tell him his time was up. Good god, what a brat. All the kids then got to grab the candy and everyone was happy except the gorilla.

I finished my HUGE drink and forgot how to speak so I went back to my chair and fell down on it and rested for a while.

Later, stumbled into the restaurant for ice cream and cool A/C. Then up to my room to write a bit on the novel but instead ended up snoozing on the bed. When I awoke, I read on the balcony for a bit then went down for food.

Oh the gods of me losing any weight here had forsaken me. Three, count them, three dishes of shrimp, from buttery garlic shrimp to Cajun shrimp to shrimp pudding (well that’s what it looked like). Plus they were serving prime rib and garlic mash potatoes and cheesy spinach and tomatoes au gratin and I went nutso again.

Then, interestingly enough, and perhaps no coincidence, someone came around doing a survey of the resort. They had cunningly waited until I had finished my second glass of wine when they pounced. Feeling great, I gave them high marks, even writing buttery, garlic shrimp- never a bad thing. I dinged them for so-so service as it really was hit and miss, especially being by myself.

Still, smart eh? Best food ever, good entertainment today, then the survey. Very clever indeed.

Before I leave, a few people of note.

On the way down, the elevator stopped at 16 and a tall, good looking guy leapt on like he was fleeing the devil. He pounded on the door close button but before the doors could shut, a girl jumped in. Short, very pretty, hair done up in a bandana.
“You were trying to shut the doors on me,” she said, smiling.
“Nope, you know these resort elevators, they are all about efficiency. You snooze, you loose.”
She looked to me and I shrugged.
He looked at her and shook his head.
“What” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at my hair, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, Kirk Cobane called and wants his bandanna back.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Kirk Cobane wouldn’t like it.”
"Now I'm never taking it off."
The both laughed and locked arms. A fine couple. Nothing like a good teasing, all in fun.

The second almost renewed my faith in people. A woman sat a few tables from me, alone. She was given wine, went to get her plate and, just as she was about to sit down, someone else from behind me, asked if the woman wanted to join her. Seems her husband was sick and she would love the company.
The first woman moved her plate and glass of wine and the two seemed to hit if off like old friends, which they weren’t until that very moment. What a nice gesture, thought I, alone with my sunburnt knees.

Now I’m going to see if I can find the hockey game (assuming I have the right day).

(Pic of parents watching their kids beat a gorilla to death)

Lazy Days



Feb 23rd, 2010

Yesterday should have been a clue. At supper, there were as many waiters as patrons. I had my wine filled as soon as I had a sip, my plate whisked away as soon as I ate my last morsel and put my fork down. At least 3 waiters came by to see if I was doing ok. then, later at night, a party (with dancers and singers and bongos and horns).

Then today, events were happening, drink carts deployed, horses parked out on the beach ready to go and happy-faced staff zipping around everywhere. My towels were moulded into cute animals. My bed was made up like a present. The first sheet of my toilet paper had been folded into a triangle.

Dunno why this started all of a sudden but, in one day, the resort changed.

And I was very happy. It was like a whole different resort.

Unfortunately, I slept in too late to get up and go off to Stone Island and play with horses so I booked that for tomorrow. As well, being middle aged and somewhat out of shape, my legs ached from yesterday’s sandy walk so I didn’t really feel like marching around town and seeing the aquarium.

Ok, dammit, I had an attack of lazy.

Not a bad thing for a vacation in the sun but not massively uninteresting for blog readers.

Ate a sandwich and selection of fruit for breakfast, then caught up on all things internetie before finally heading outside to sit in the sun for a bit. Hot, hot, hot outside.

I read and sat in the sun from 10 to Noon, then shuffled over to where something was happening. The air smelled of BBQ smoke. A table had been set up where staff hacked at coconuts. More staff manned a huge outdoor grill sheltered by a colourful tent. Waiters stood with platters topped with glasses of beer (including Sheila’s favourite waiter).

Beyond the food tents a piñata had been set up and a mob of wee little kids gathered, waiting for their chance to whack at it. Most of the kids were between 3 and 5. Cute as hell.

Now this was more like it!

I put my towel and book down, got myself a burger and a huge coconut fruit drink (not sure what the drink was but it tasted of coconut, for obvious reasons, and strong but flavourless alcohol,) and I waited for the piñata whacking to begin.

By the time I had finished the drink, my vision was blurry and the beach was pitching up and down and one of the staff had given the first child a big stick. The child was just a wee thing, the stick half again his height but he went after that piñata like his life depended on it. Yet, despite his swings, he failed to bash open the piñata.

More kids stepped forth, one so young, I swear she could barely walk. With her big hat pulled down nearly over her eyes, she did her best to swing the stick but missed more often than not. And with each miss, she stumbled and fell with great gusto. Still, she got back up, looked at her dad, then whacked away again. Very cute. I loved that little girl for not quitting.

As further entertainment, one of the staff had dressed up like a gorilla. He leapt and danced around the kids, making all sorts of apish sounds and playfully pawing at them. Then one of the staff decided it would be a good idea to tackle the gorilla in a playful manner.

The gorilla went down. Then it got ugly.

(pictures are of what my world looks like after drinking a coconut drink the size of my head, and a pinata girl.)

Monday, February 22, 2010

Oh Belly of Mine

They were setting up for some sort of party downstairs and outside but I had no clue what it was all about, cluelessness being my default state in the resort.

Managed to get restocked on 7-11, my default drink and then wrote the blog, added a bit to the outline of the PI novel and read a bit in the fading sun. A bank of heavy clouds had moved in and greyed out the beach but I hoped it would clear enough for me to see a great sunset. Alas. No.

Went for supper and, bravely, took a picture of the cool waiter so Sheila wouldn’t hit me when I got back.

Firs t time I overate, though.

I had been wondering why on earth the city known for its HUGE shrimp fleet hadn’t managed to get any shrimp into the resort.

Well, tonight they did and I dined in shrimpy hell. I spooned myself a huge, heaping plate of fresh shrimp cooked in butter and a tasty variety of vegetables. There were so many shrimp, in fact, that it took me 20 min to de-skin or de-shell or whatever you do to the crackly outside coating. But man, the shrimp, oh my goodness yummy. I ate the plate with cauliflower and rice with beans. And 2 glasses of wine.

Now that should have been enough but no, there were plates of shrimp and spaghetti waiting for me and so I gave in to the evils of overindulgence and piled it on. Plus another 2 glasses of wine.

So good. So very good. Plus, after 4 glasses of wine, I was feeling no pain. Amazingly, I can now sit across from that empty chair and not have to fight back tears. It had become normal. Not acceptable, perhaps, but normal. A first for me here.

Maybe now I will be able to do things that I have been avoiding back home. I’ve been putting off doing things like getting rid of Margot’s clothes or her medications or even her pooh shoes because I greatly fear that, inch by inch, she is being erased from this world.

The feeling started when I was getting some of the paperwork done, credit cards in my name, bank accounts sorted out, government ID cancelled. No one cared that she had died. My lovie. My sweetie. To them, they just hit delete and she was gone. All her information. Gone.

And I fucking hated it,

Therefore, to begin to donate Margot things seemed to be like erasing her existence. Not logical perhaps, but a powerful feeling nevertheless. She deserves not to be forgotten, not to be deleted like her life meant nothing.

Now, however, I hope that when I get back, I can start this process without it being about removing Margot from my life any more than has already happened. Oh, my, it won’t be easy but if I can sit and look at an empty chair, take a walk by myself along the beach, hell, go on an all-inclusive vacation alone, maybe, just maybe, I can get this done as well

I may need a bit of help, though.

So, not a bad day today, even if the jet ski guys never showed. Tomorrow, I will either go back into town to see the aquarium and chance a walk around the old town again or try and track down those jet ski dudes then go for a horse ride on stone island. I think learning to ride a horse might be something cool to do when I get back. You never know when that’ll come in handy.

nite

The Big Beach




Feb 22nd Marching Day

It’s early, 8am, but there is no sign of the seadoos and it’s windy and cloudy mixed with sun. It occurs to me that the wind may be more of a function than the weather for the seadoos. Big waves make it hard to launch those things. Could be I was being teased yesterday when I was told there were no seadoos because it was Sunday. Maybe Mexican humor.

Well, knees doing better but still giving off heat. Will go for a nice long walk for sure, today. Seadoo if I can do.

My room, by the way, is about as good as I could have hoped for. Room 1836. That’s on the 18th floor. No one is above me though there is the main tower beside me which has another 4 floors. The huge advantage of not having another room above you is that I can get sun nearly all day long (except for early morning and pretty much all of the night).

I have 3 ‘spaces’ or rooms. The door opens into an entrance way nearly as big as the main room. Opposite the door is the closet with room for about 1000 pieces of clothing and a nice sized safe at the bottom to secure valuables (wallets, keys, passports, and, in my case, flashdrives.) But the safe is also big enough for my laptop which allows me to leave it in the room and not have constant worries that someone has broken in and started to use it to download porn.

To the right of the door is the mini bar, 4 bottles of hard liquor hanging upside down, waiting to be used. Gin. Vodka. Tequila. Rum. A beige plastic ice container sits atop the bar and, in the fridge are bottles of beer, pop and water. Apparently the fridge is restocked every 2 days but my experience has been about every 3 or so. Or when I ask.

To the left of the entrance is a huge tiled bathroom built to accommodate a small family. Big shower/tub combo. 2 sinks set in what is probably fake marble. Lots of heavy, thick towels the color of deep mocha. The fixtures all shine and the floor is spotless.

The mainroom, or the bedroom, isn’t that much larger than the entrance way or the bathroom. White walls, dark blue accenting trim, a bright picture on the wall, a king-sized bed that dominates the space. There are 3 pillows, a thin blue cover and crisp white sheets on the bed. Across from the bed is a low dresser with a black and thin and modern TV on it. Beyond the bed is the balcony, cramped for two, but fine for one. Plastic white chairs and table gleam in the sunlight. A blue curtain is parted to either side.

There is, of course, air conditioning. And a fan. The A/C doesn’t hum, it growls and, when turned to full, can put a layer of frost on my nipples faster than being in the arctic. Add the fan whirring away and it can be quite a shock coming from the heat and the sun. There is no smell of mould in the room, the cleaning agents they use are supposedly ‘green’ and leave no smell, and it is attended to religiously by those sneaky little maids who are out to get me.

So now you know where I live. Oh, I know I should have defined location earlier, but better late than never.

On to the walk. Put on suntan lotion. Lots of it. Secreted money in my pocket. Put on my walking runners and cushioned socks and new sunglasses and marched out onto the sand vaguely aware that I had forgotten something.


(pictures are, the hotel from where I left, the end of the beach, looking back and the Vegas-like dog)

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Oh the Burn

Ok, decided not to go out in the sun again. Got burned. Not all areas, mind you, only one. My knees. I mean, who gets their knees burned? Who?

The way I found out was sitting on the bed taking off my shoes and my knee itched, so I did what I do when things itch, I scratched it. Scratchy-scratch-scratch-scraaaatch. This was followed by a lot of swear words I will not repeat. (Note to self, do not scratch sunburns). Man, did that wake me up. Ouch.

Went downstairs and purchased Aloe for my burns. Oh soothing goodness, oh, lovely coolness. But man, ten minutes later, the heat was back. What is up with that, I wondered. Why does the heat stay? And all that pain? When I cook a piece of beef all to hell, it cools down rather quickly. But not me, I seem to be a knee oven at the moment. You could cook hotdogs off my skin. I will have to talk to Bill about this when I get back.

So with skin burnt, I decided to look at my PI novel and remind myself what had been written. Found myself quite caught up in the story though I will have to remember to ask Mark about planes. I hope Mark will be my go-to guy about planes as my character loves them.

However, I reached a point where I needed to do better, a part that I had been thinking about in the sun. In the old days, I would have talked this whole idea over with Margot and she would have surely given me some great advice about how my character would react and what would have more emotional impact. Well, now I have to figure that stuff out myself, even if I do think, gee what would Margot think about my character and his actions and motivations?

Ate supper downstairs but chickened out about getting my photo of my waiter (mostly due to the fact he was on the other end of the room). But he was still doing what he does, god bless him. I was attended by a very pretty girl about 5 feet tall, if that. Big eyes, big smile, kept filling my glass with wine. She will make a good wife to someone some day.

That left me thinking about how I am coping, when I am coping. No bravery involved, though. It’s sheer avoidance. Don’t think about how much you miss her. Don’t think about all the amazing things you did together but will never do again. Don’t think about how cute she was and how, for some very strange reason, she seemed to love you unconditionally. Think about your novel or the sunburn or your blog or what you will do tomorrow or anything that does not cause you pain. Buck up, old boy, clear your mind, wipe away those tears and get on with things. Just do it.

Easier, of course, said than done.

Tomorrow, I will try and hunt down the elusive seado and see if I can’t blast through a few waves. Failing that, I will definitely go for that long walk and maybe get some PI writing done. Thanks again to everyone who has read this blog and continues to encourage me. Lub ya.

Happy Blogger


Feb 21st 2010

Sunday. Had I only spent a week here, I would be going home tomorrow. That would seem ridiculous. Not only was I as pale as when I left, it seemed like I was just getting into the rhythm of things down here. A slower pace. Relaxed. I was also finding time to write, which was good, so what good could come of me being uprooted and sent packing back to the Olympic City?

However, I was not going home so I thought, why not get one of the seadoo thingees and take it for a ride. The weather was brilliant and it looked like fun so as long as I didn’t fall into the jellyfish infested waters, I should be fine. It could be fun even.

Unfortunately, they do not run on Sunday. Seems odd as the parasailing boat was out but no seados today, amigo, so sorry. Ah well, that defined what my day would be like then. No action. Reading and writing and rest.

So, I did my usual thing of downloading the blog in the morning. I found I had 10 readers. Whoohooo. I can’t tell you how rewarding that was (and how the comments really meant a lot to me.) A few even had pictures. How cool is that? But there was one picture that spooked me. Lisa’s eye. Staring at me. Judging me. Telling me I had better writer faster, that I had better write more, that I had better be funnier, that I better not mock her in any of my blogs. Yikes.

After blogging, I skipped breakfast and went upstairs to roller on the suntan lotion. Amongst all the HUGE things I miss about not having Margot around is a small one. She is not there to put lotion on my back. So I am left with a huge gap where my apish arms cannot reach.

Oh sure, I could walk up to someone and say, “hey nice speedo, dude, would you mind putting suntan lotion on my back?” but that kind of thing would only work for Lisa (or Sean). I could try something similar with a nice woman but not sure that “hey grandma, care to lather me up,?“ would work either. So I am left with a gap in my defences, a hole in my protection.

Undeterred, I carefully walked out of my room.

Why carefully?

I think the cleaning staff are out to get me. Nothing personal, I think, but I am sure they have some sort of running bet. It started back in my room a few days ago when I skidded half way across my room without falling. Very impressive. But then, two days ago, I go roaring out of my room and whammo, they have iced the floor again and woooohooooshit I go again, slipping, sliding, flailing but somehow remaining upright.

And sure enough, there they were, the teeny little cleaning ladies, looking around the corner at me. I think money exchanged hands and my Spanish may not be that good, but it wouldn’t be surprised they said, oh yes, senora, you win today but tomorrow, see what I do with a lot more soap on the floor.

Sure enough, last night, (NIGHT!!!!), I had come back from supper and writing and came out of the elevator and just as I saw the yellow cone that said, slippery floors, I did my iceskidding dance of death again, with my feet spinning like fred flintstone starting his car.

Yet again, I kept upright though, while, far in the distance, more money exchanged hands.

But I am on to them now. Cone or no cone, I walk like I am on ice at all times.

I should be safe. Right?

Anyway, back to the day. Sat in the sun for 2 hours, though clouds came and went a bit. Arms started to freckle though to the best of my knowledge, my arms never freckled before. Started to get reddish in spots but, again, no real even coverage. Not sure what the hell is going on with my skin. I may come back looking like I was been dosed by a massive exposure to radiation rather than a cool tan.

Read more of Vince Flynn’s high concept thriller and, frankly, he is light years ahead of Brad Thor. The big difference, something Sean does so well now, is that VF does not tell us everything but leaves us guessing or wanting to know more. Oh sure, both heroes will not take out a gun but rather a compact glock 30, 45 ATC (and I have no clue what that is) but VF has honed his craft as a writer while Brad merely mines the headlines. Neither write great prose (like what is in The Road) but then again, at the end of each of their books, the good guys win, the bad guys are all shot in the head and the world is just fine, thank you very much.

When I wasn’t reading, I decided to work on my novel my head. Ok, so what does my hero see when he pulls up to the house? Empty SUV where once there had been federal agents. Why does he walk into the house, why not call 911? What does he see, what makes him draw his gun, what distracts him, what surprise does he find, how best to I end it, a gun to his ear?

I have to say it was easier than I thought and, maybe because my head is a little clearer today, the ideas seemed to flow. From his capture to his release to his evasion to his next steps of investigation to what the villains were up to all came quite quickly. Not sure if I will get time to write them all down today but at least the thought process is going in the right direction for the first time in 4 months or so.

At about 1, went to get some food, found the ice cream machine was working and dispensed a swirlie stack of chocolatie goodness about as tall as some of the children still here. Yums.

Then went backup stairs to do the blog writing (not posting), catch a quick snooze, then ready myself for a walk to the north end of the beach. Not that far but should make for some nice sunset pix.

Final Thoughts Before Bed

After supper, I tried to access the internet but it wasn’t working. My first clue should have been that there was no one lurking over their laptops in the internet zone. However, I caught up on the day’s adventure, drank another lovely Americano, and took it easy.

Then, with no internet, I went back to my room to sit on my balcony, the crescent moon overhead, the sea whooshing below. Warm wind blew off the water, a happy group chanted drinking challenges near the pool and I thought, my, this is nice indeed.

A few observations before I go to bed.

I may be the only person to ever return from Mexico without a tan. I simply don’t have the patience for it. I thought I may be able to get a bit of sun wandering around downtown today but we must have spent 20 minutes outside (ok, maybe a full hour all told) but nowhere near enough for me to start to turn a golden brown. At best, parts of me are lobster red (and not a nice, even lobster red at that). *sigh*

An all-inclusive that is not full is an odd place to be at. A place like this thrives on the energy of all the people. Sure, it’s loud. Sure there are line-ups. Sure there are more people who will walk around without looking where they are going while carrying a plate of food in their hands. But, all this aside, a quiet resort is not a happy resort.

I have done about 15 -20 pages of writing on most days. This is pretty good for me. Takes between 2 and 3 hours due to my slow speed. Takes longer when I have to find photos and put the two in a blog. But it’s good to get some writing done and, hey, most of the time, I’m having fun.

As well, for fun, started a new novel. Just an outline for now but it keeps my brain occupied. It’s a high concept thriiler involving Castro’s last, dying wish, the complete destruction of the US, not planes flown into buildings, not bombers with explosives in their shoes or underwear, but a plan that strikes at the giant’s jugular, one that will bring it to its knees.

Haven’t done any writing on the PI novel, though. I still hold out hope that I will get something done to restart this project.

Lost my sunglasses yesterday and they have not turned up. I half expected the gift store to be selling them but no luck. (See, the staff pinch your glasses and then resell them to you over and over and over.. clever, eh?) Nor did I have any luck at the lost and found. I would have thought someone would turn them in, but apparently not. Hey, I said they were cool sunglasses. Clearly someone else thought that as well.

This morning I also found out what the exchange rate was. Oh, I know it’s something I should have had a handle on far earlier but every time I remembered, I wasn’t near an internet to find out. Turns out the rate is about 100 pesos to $8 can. So, my big taxi ride, $16. My big tip, $4.

Makes ya think.

However, oddly, condos are priced pretty similar to what you would see back home. $158,000 USD for 1 BR. $230,000 USD for 2 BR. Not sure if they take dogs.

Time for bed, now. Not sure how I will make tomorrow interesting.