1976: California and Mexico

(link to photo album- coming soon)

"I'm gonna see the folks I dig, I'll even kiss a sunset pig, California, I'm coming home."
Joni Mitchell

LA Bound

I moved to Toronto in the fall of 1975, working in a famous Canadian record store on Yonge Street. I loved music and it was very good life. Since I worked the afternoon shift, even though I was only making minimum wage, it was difficult to spend money, especially as I had to labor on Saturdays. Toronto was an exciting city, just coming out of its insecure Anglo-influenced shell, sort of like a sleeping giant.

The long and the short of life in Toronto was my ability to save some cash for my next winter adventure. This time, the goal was California and Mexico. I had two friends who were very interested in just such a journey: Roland, one of two roommates in Toronto, and Walt, a neighbour near our cottage in Oxley on Lake Erie.

After Christmas, as the snows began to blow in earnest, we plotted strategy to decide how best to approach our migration. This time hitchhiking was out of the question; with three guys we would never make it to St-Louis, let alone LA. Instead, we could secure a “Drive-A-Way” vehicle to California, then make our way south of the border.

A Drive-A-Way car can be a great arrangement for travelers on the cheap. We would be provided with a brand new vehicle to deliver to someone in Los Angeles who didn’t want to drive it out west. The Drive-A-Way company was paid a fee, we were paid nothing but had the use of a brand new car to ride to the coast. It would be very inexpensive and a great way to see the country on our schedule.

It was amazingly easy to get a car from Detroit to LA. After we signed some forms and were fingerprinted by the agency (in case we had the audacity to keep the thing), my sister deposited us at a suburban Detroit address. We fired up the engine of a brand new Chrysler Cordoba (which I had ironically built a year earlier as a factory “ratchet head”), and headed south, out of the long cold toward the land of sunshine.

Our goal was to drive in shifts for as long as humanly possible before stopping. We had some food, a few amphetamines for the late night hours, and when we crossed the mighty Mississippi into St. Louis after midnight, we were riding high.

Interstate freeways are a joy in the USA. Although they generally pass through the least scenic regions of a state, they are very good for those in a hurry to be somewhere else. We wanted to make LA in 48 hours if possible; that would afford us five extra days to cruise around in a new car before we had to deliver it to its rightful owners (the agency gave us a week to arrive in LA from Detroit).

By daybreak, we’d made Oklahoma City, and all was proceeding as planned. When we rolled across the Texas Panhandle, we were quite delirious with exhaustion, and decided to stop for the night at a cheap highway motel in Amarillo, home of the 100 oz. steaks ("if you can eat it in one sitting, it's yours for free", professed billboards along the highway).

After a few drinks at a local bar, we crashed for the night, but were back on the highway at first light. We trekked across the desert of New Mexico and Arizona that day in our electric camel, passing towns I had heard in songs: "I been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tahatchapi to Tonnappa" from Little Feat and "I'm standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, and it's such a fine sight to see..." from Jackson Browne.

I remember seeing snow as we crossed over a mountain range near Flagstaff. Not surprising, considering it was January, and nearby Humphreys Peak topped off over 12,000 feet. The next instant, we were in the middle the desert and an ancient sea bed, surrounded by bare mountains. We took a pass on the Grand Canyon, that big hole in the ground, and Las Vegas (lost wages), even though these were easy side trips. We were in a hurry to get to the promised land, where the streets were paved with gold: Los Angeles, city of fallen angels.

We made excellent time across the desert, although it was pretty boring scenery to our untrained eyes- I would come to value desert landscapes until many more miles down the road. The desert is best appreciated by walking around, not from the view of a car window, which is much like watching a television program. At one point, we did stop and walk out into the desert, and we did appreciate the vastness of wide open spaces in this stereotypical cowboy country, albeit briefly. We thought of the pioneers who had first crossed these plains, and realized that travel in our air-conditioned camel was a pretty soft journey.

We fully expected that the scenery would immediately change as we crossed the California border, turning from desert into palm trees and pink stucco cottages. Imagine our surprise when desert was still in view outside our windows, all the way into LA! Still, it was very magical to drive across the southern California desert, with the sun setting in our eyes, all glorious 80 degrees of its temperature streaming in our rolled down windows at 100 miles an hour, all the while drinking Coors beer, only available at that time west of the Mississippi.

Welcome to the Hotel California

As we rode in to LA, the radio blared the latest smash hit song by the Eagles: Hotel California. We were off to our own special hotel in LA: a friend’s house in Hollywood, big brother Bill. We couldn't believe it when we snaked up the side of the hill towards his place, with a view of the city that was truly spectacular.

Of course, I had called in advance to warn of imminent arrival, but they had no way of knowing when we were due. Nobody was home at the time, but Bill and his gal Steph soon showed up. He was delighted to see us, and led us into his place, while we gasped at the layout and design of his pad.

The house was built into the Hollywood Hills overlooking LA, above Sunset Boulevard. We were in the heart of the Great American Fantasy known as Hollywood, and although we were pretty tired from the journey, we were ready to party the night away. Bill's place featured a solid wall of glass, and we literally hung over the edge of Hollywood.

As I said, it was party time, and Bill provided us with champagne so we could get into the Hollywood mood. We showered off the desert dust and Bill and the three of us drank, listened to tunes and chatted until the wee small hours of the morning.

The next day, it was time to explore the city. Stephanie decided to give us a tour of the region in our electric camel, and we spent the better part of the day cruising through canyons to the Malibu, and up the coast to Santa Barbara. It was all pretty amazing, and in 1976, there were still large areas that remained undeveloped. We stopped for drinks at a seaside bar, and watched the sun go down into the Pacific. We had to face it: we’d truly arrived in Hollywood!

The rest of our stay in Hollywood was a blur of drinking and partying at clubs, such as the Roxy, cruising up Sunset Blvd., taking in the sights, and generally goofing off. We were, after all on holidays, the weather was terrific, and our intention was to have many of them real good times. Consequently, I can't remember too much about what went down during my first stay in Hollywood.

After about a week of non-stop debauchery, we knew it was time for a little brain realignment. We ditched the electric camel at the last possible moment of the one-week drive-a-way period, and after some more celebrating, caught a bus south to San Diego.

San Diego's urban core was dominated by sailors, based in the nearby port. We grabbed a trashy motel room for the night, and bought a bus ticket for the border the next day. Our first stop in Mexico was the very famous and reputedly sleazy border town known as Tijuana.

Welcome to Mexico, Senor

"Mexico is different, like the tourists always said"
Ry Cooder

Our entry into Mexico was a bit of a pain, as we had our first encounter with the notorious Federales. With our backpacks and longhair, we were a stereotype of the kind of tourist that Mexico really didn't need. They knew we were coming to hang out on the beach for as cheap as possible, to drink tequila and cerveza, and to smoke the notorious cucaracha.

To get through the border, we were forced to bribe the Federales with some Yankee greenbacks. I don't believe it was all that expensive, and we really wanted to get into Mexico by this time. In other words, we were easy targets for a little payola.

Tijuana was completely different from the sleazy little town I had imagined. I actually enjoyed it a lot, because it was such a contrast from where we had been thus far. The USA is not a whole lot different culturally than Canada, and truthfully, the best part of Hollywood was the weather.

But in Tijuana, there was no questioning the fact that we had crossed into a different dimension. The taco and fruit stands greeted us as soon we crossed the border. People were everywhere, livestock including cattle, pigs and chicken were in evidence at the side of the road, and everywhere, signs of poverty. The garbage in the streets, the shit in the streams- and yet, for some reason I immediately felt right at home! No culture shock for this kid.

As we walked down the street to the bus depot to purchase tickets south, we were accosted by street hawkers handing out leaflets offering "free margueritas". Since we were not inclined to pass up anything free, we immediately entered one of these clubs for our libation gratis. Naturally, the bar was simply a come-on for hookers to ply their trade.

We were soon surrounded by several ladies, and agreed to buy them a drink at inflated prices. So much for the free drink. Fearing the dreaded venereal diseases, we vowed not to go too close to any hookers in Mexico (we didn't want to take any unwanted "souvenirs" back from south of the border).

An interesting development took place while we were sitting at the bar. The ladies of the night became enamoured with Roland, and two of them wanted to take him upstairs and have a few rounds with him for free! We found this rather amusing, and Roland decided to take a pass on the generous offer. The grim looking bouncers also didn't think this was such a red hot idea, and we got the idea it was time to vamoose, stage left.

Baja Bus

We used the excuse of having to catch our bus south as a way to escape from the bar. We walked the streets of Tijuana for a couple more hours, and explored the many shops filled with Mexican trinkets and artifacts. Of course, we had to purchase a few things, not clueing in that everything sold in Tijuana would be available throughout the country.

Soon, it was time to board the bus south. We wanted to go straight down the Baja Peninsula to La Paz, and then cross over by ferry to mainland Mexico. It was a different route than the preferred method of crossing over by train at Mexicali, but we thought it might be less touristic and more adventurous.

The Baja Bus to La Paz was a 24 hour demon, but at least we had enough sense to travel in the first-class express model, and not the slow buses that also ply the route. For the next day, we would get a very sore ass sitting for long stretches in between our all too infrequent stops for food and facilities (our first experience with the dreaded “caballeros” of Mexico).

I remember the spectacular scenery of the Baja, with beautiful cliffs along both coasts, the Pacific and the Gulf of California, and everywhere, the desert. At times, the scenery would be interrupted by vast green plains that had been irrigated, but generally, it was desert and more desert. Eventually, we arrived at La Paz, a very scenic coastal town not far from the tip of the Baja, some 1000 kms from Tijuana straight south. We had made a beeline for the south in a very rapid fashion!

The bus let us off on the bay in La Paz. The first thing we did was find a cafe and sat down to a fine meal of burritos and enchiladas Mexican-style (not the cheap imitation we'd munched on at Taco Bell in Amarillo, Texas!). A couple of cold beers, the whole meal cost less than 5 bucks for the three of us.

We asked some locals where we might pitch our tents for a couple of days. As there wasn’t an "official" campground around La Paz, they said it would probably be fine if we walked about a quarter of a mile south on the road toward Cabo San Lucas, to an isolated and deserted beach. This sounded too good to be true, but we threw our on overstuffed backpacks and trucked down the road.

It wasn't long before we spied the beach, and it was as described. It was set back off the road, we wouldn't be seen by locals. The beach itself was beautiful sand, but it wasn't exactly deserted. There was a bar, with a little cafe, and lots of palapas, the umbrella-shaped dried palm shelters designed for those who needed to escape the sun's deadly rays.

This was going to be the perfect place to recover from the notorious Baja bus journey. We set our bags down, pitched the tents, and watched the sun go down over the mountains behind us. The hillside was a spectacular riot of burnt orange, and the massive 30 foot segura cactus ran up the side of the hill like an army waiting for a signal. It was all pretty idyllic.

The Volcano Erupts

Some fisherman had a shack nearby, and came over to our little camp with some beer to meet the gringos. This was fine by us, so we sat around trying to communicate, enjoying the approaching night, sitting in a small shack by the Bay of California, eating fresh caught fish rolled into homemade tortillas.

We bunked down some time later, to the rhythm of the bay. This was an absolutely and totally peaceful setting, and we felt very secure here deep in the heart of the Baja. But later that night, a volcano erupted that would add a considerable sense of misery to my next few days.

Yes, the dreaded “Montezuma's Revenge” hit me with a vengeance. My guts felt like they were about to explode. I'll spare you details, but this one was the real deal. Many people who travel claim to get a case of dysentery, when in fact, all that is happening is there body is adjusting to the strange antibodies. But this one was big time, coming out of both ends (as it were), and featuring the hot spells that would drive me from my sleeping bag, and then as suddenly, cold chills that would have me scurrying back.

Even after all these years have passed, I can still remember that night on the beach at La Paz. I didn't sleep much, and couldn't believe it was humanly possible to have that much liquid substance pass out of one’s body. At sunrise, I headed for the shade to keep from burning up in the tropical heat, beneath the blessed palapas.

Movement was out the question that first day. The worst part of the turistas was that you literally couldn't walk anywhere without having an uncontrollable desire to go to the bathroom (which of course didn't exist anywhere in the region). So, I lay in the sand, weakened and received absolutely no sympathy from my two travelling partners.

Fortunately, I was able to buy some bottled water to keep from dehydrating, which is the biggest concern when one’s body is that ill. And then I looked around for something to blame it on. Was it the Mexican combo platter when we first came into town, or the fish from the local fishermen? I suspected the fish, because there was one that I ate that no one else had. Of course, there was no way to know, but it was necessary to blame my predicament on something.

On day 2 of the Turistas, I decided to try to venture into town. My hope was to get some money exchanged at the bank, and to see a doctor. One of the most embarrassing things that ever happened to me occurred as we walked into town. As we were going up a main street toward the commercial district (La Paz was a fairly small town), the volcano erupted.

This was going to make a really bad mess unless immediate action was taken. I only had time to dart down an alleyway before the force exploded. Luckily, I was able to quickly squat, but the damage to the immediate environment was done. Since there wasn't much I could do to clean it up, I decided to vamose out of there a.s.a.p., and was able thereafter to make my bank exchange. Real class act.

I was unable to find a doctor in town, and felt so weak that I simply returned to the beach and my trusted Palapa to recuperate. Meanwhile, my travel mates enjoyed baking out in the sun (who worried about the effects of the sun back then?), and spent the day swimming and generally having a real good time.

On Day 3 of turistas, we decided it might be a good idea to head out of La Paz and catch the ferry to Mazatlan and the mainland. I didn't know if I would have the strength to carry my pack, but thought it might be a good idea to get to a larger centre where I could receive some medical attention; I was still in very bad shape.

The boat was docked some two miles south of town, so we started up the road. Luckily, a Volkswagen van stopped and offered us a ride to the boat, which was perfect timing (later, while hitchhiking through Mexico, I would often think of that couple and their generosity).

The boat to Mazatlan, which transported people and vehicles. was an overnight affair, and it was a real beauty. It featured restaurants, bars, a nightclub, an amazing first-class lounge and staterooms, and best of all, a ship's doctor. I made a beeline for the medic's office, whereupon I was examined and given some drugs to help the healing process. He also gave a prescription to fill immediately upon my arrival in Mazatlan; pychologically, I felt a lot better.

In the morning, we passed several small islands and saw the great sweep of sand that lined Mazatlan. Coming into a new port by ship is always an exciting time for travelers, and Mazatlan fairly gleamed in the bright morning sun. The city boasted many tall buildings, and the general consensus among the group (which included the couple with the volks), was to get out of town. This couple knew of a secluded beach south of Mazatlan reputed to have free camping and great waves for surfing.

We did pass an afternoon in Mazatlan, mostly at the colourful market. I purchased a pair of the Mexican Huaraches, the leather Mexican sandals with rubber tires underneath. These lasted more than two years, and was all I ever wore on my feet in hot weather. And, I got my prescription filled, which was very expensive, but brought me back to 100% health in combination with the ship doctor's earlier prescriptions. After that I never got sick again in Mexico despite eating everything in sight.

On the Beach, In the Sand

We headed south about 30 miles out of town to a dirt road. Jim, the owner of the Volks van said: "This road looks as good as any, let's head for the beach!." We could see the coast as we drove south, but sometimes we'd also be quite a distance away from it.

Our foray down the dirt track led to a dead end, so we went back up to the highway to try again. The main highway itself was mostly a one-lane affair, and we had to take the shoulder whenever a lorry or bus came toward us. We tried two other dirt tracks to get to the sea, without success: they would either die out at some point, or were impassable, or both.

It was getting dark as we headed down another lane. One thing that is not recommended is driving in the Third World at night, especially if the area is unknown to the driver. The hazards are many, including animals straying from the compound, wild truck and bus drivers, hazardous turns with no markings, especially in the mountains, and the general poor state of the roads.
Bearing all that in mind, we headed toward the sea once more. It was quite a long lane, but at least it didn't die out, although sitting in the back of the Volks, it was quite a bumpy (no fun, given the state of my bottom). After dark, we saw a strange sight ahead. There was a glowing object with a surreal light that stood out in the pitch black moonless night.

We stopped the van at a distance and got out. I thought it was a flying saucer that had landed. We could hear the roar of the surf pounding on the sand, and it was very surreal experience, coming down a backroad in the middle of nowhere, and staring at this brightly lit object.

As we walked up to it, we could see that it was in fact a Volks Pop-Top Camper with a Coleman lamp shining through the canopy on top. We laughed at our paranoia, and decided to drive up next to the van, which was owned by two eccentric American brothers. Introductions were made and new friendships formed as we began the task of unloading gear and pitching our camp.
Arriving at a destination at night is always a strange experience, because you try to imagine what the surroundings are like. When we awoke in the morning, we were surprised at how barren the surrounding were. Lots of beach, which swept for miles in either direction, but a grey sand, reminiscent of Lake Erie. The waves broke beautifully by the shore, and the rumours of good surfing appeared to be true.

It was great to be feeling fit again, and the first thing we did was hit the water for a morning swim. Body surfing was a lot of fun, and we spent considerable time honing our skills with borrowed flippers. The object was to get inside a wave’s curl and kick out sideways into the wave. Later, I would perfect the art of body surfing in Hawaii, but never took up real wave surfing in all my travels, even though I frequented some of the best surfing beaches in the world, including the beach in Fiji where surfing is supposed to have been invented.

It was an odd dynamic that was replayed wherever I met beach bums around the world in the seventies. There were basically two types of travellers who congregated at these off-the-beaten-track locales: the laid-back group that wanted to lie in the sun, hang out and party, and the surfers, who wanted to do all the above but were totally devoted to surfing. These muscle-bound jocks would congregate in their own cafes in Morocco or Bali, while the freaks would hang in theirs, and the twain seldom met.

Meanwhile, back on the Pacific Coast of Mexico, life was good. We sat around on the beach and had a great time. We couldn't buy supplies anywhere, so we had to go back into Mazatlan to stock up. The group decided to stay on this beach for a few days and take it easy. It was free to camp, and with a good supply of cheap Mexican liquor, was quite comfortable.

An added bonus came in the form of a nearby commercial prawn factory, which we visited. The most amazing jumbo prawns could be had for $3 a kilo. We would boil the prawns in water, peel off the shell, dip them in the Mexican mayonnaise (which had a lime juice base and was delicious), sat on the sand and had a party. Cold drinks were provided by a local who would run beer to us from some stall from who knows where. Here we were, a million miles from anywhere (so it seemed), and we were having the time of our lives. I ate a lot of prawns, as my appetite had returned, and I was always hungry.

One day, as we were hanging out, another vehicle appeared with two surfers from, where else, but California. They were in search of the really big rollers, and were scouting beaches, much like us. They camped out for a few days with us, and would get up before sunrise and walk for miles down the beach to find the perfect wave. I went with them one day, and it was interesting to examine how they counted the breaks to decide if they were rolling right. There was the influence of the tides to consider, and these guys were real pros.

They'd head out into the water like a couple of madmen when they felt the time was right, with their boards over their heads. They paddled out beyond the break, and just sat for a long time. Suddenly, they'd begin a frenzied paddling action, jump into a wave and shoot up onto their board. A good ride could carry the surfer across the wave for quite a distance. It was fun just watching them, so I can imagine how they felt. Whenever I tried it, I failed miserably, so I decided to become a surf watcher.

The two brothers who we thought were in a UFO turned out to be real wild cards. One claimed to have been in Tibet with the Dalai Lama, and had a bunch of books by Lopsang Rampa. They were really into dining on giant prawns, and I would join them for feasts, because Roland and Walt lost interest in eating the delicacy after a couple of feeds.

They were headed up to Arizona and asked me if I wanted to come along. The other four, Roland, Walt and the Volks couple, were headed south to Puerto Vallarta. I guess I was getting tired of Roland and Walt's company, because I decided to go up to Arizona in the other Volks for a quick visit. This turned out to be largely a waste of time, but when you are travelling, time is your best friend.

Only a few things stand out on the journey to Tulsa and back down to Mexico. We went up to Mazatlan and sat at a great cafe, eating free Mexican treats (many bars would provide food if you drank in Mexico). The local beer was brewed into 5 ounce bottles, and they were served neck down in ice buckets. I sort of remember drinking ourselves into a stupor, and that we had a lot of fun.

The ride north was done quickly, and we seldom stopped. We travelled across some pretty wild desert terrain, the area made famous by the Carlos Castenada books, featuring Don Juan. The great part was that I began reading the first book of what was then a trilogy, so it really went with the territory. Soon enough I would be having my own real-life experience with the “Yaqui Way!”
I wasn't real thrilled with Arizona. In fact, I had a real sense of culture shock coming back into America, with the fast food restaurants and the riches of the environment, as opposed to the Mexican side with the omnipresent poverty. So, it was back down to Mexico after a very short stay in Tulsa.

The border posed no problem in Nogales, Arizona. I heard of the train headed south to Mazatlan, so I made tracks toward the station. A car stopped and offered me a ride, and a gentleman who spoke good English told me about the train, and deposited me at the station, which was quite a distance from the border.

The train was an overnight affair, but was much preferred over the bus. I sat with a group of dudes from Oregon (I know this because I had finally started to keep a diary). According to my notes, we drank a lot of Mexican beer and didn't get much sleep; this probably had an influence on my next travel decision.

Instead of staying in Mazatlan that morning, I decided to try to hitchhike toward Mexico City. I don't know why I wanted to go there, except it seemed like a good idea at the time. I never really had an itinerary in mind while travelling in Mexico that winter, nor did I have a travel guidebook; I simply let the road take me where it wanted to go.

The Mountain Shall Pass

As had previously been discussed in previous postings, I had great success with hitchhiking. And, my luck continued, because a truck stopped and before I could fully evaluate my plans, I was headed south. Of course, I couldn't understand a thing the driver said, but I discovered he was hauling sacks of potatoes to Guadalajara. Vamose...

This leg of the journey included several highlights, some laughable, others disturbing. At one truck stop, the road veered south to Puerto Vallarta and east to Mexico City. I almost jumped off and went to PV, but in those days, the road was a dead end- you couldn't continue south from PV and the thought of backtracking wasn’t appealing since I had just finished backtracking from Mazatlan to Arizona and back again. Oh how the brain rationalizes when tired!

At the truck stop, I realized we were in the middle of some really thick jungle. There were many cages filled with colourful, exotic birds and monkeys. It was pretty amazing, as I had not ever seen so much wildlife, except in zoos. I figured these animals were destined either for the States or to some rich Mexican's home.

On the road from the coast to Guadalajara, we began to climb into the mountains. The Mexicans have an intricate system for passing slow vehicles going up or down mountain passes. They flash their headlights at cars three or four turns ahead to let them know if the coast is clear. Then, they pass blind around a curve on a mountain road with no guard rails, extremely frightening.
Surprisingly, the system works fine – most of the time. As we rounded one curve, a truck had tipped over after colliding head-on with a car. The car was completely demolished, and the truck teetered over a precipice. Its load of watermelons had rolled down the side of the mountain, a drop of a few hundred feet. The driver in the car was mangled and dead, but the trucker was only shook up.

As we inspected the carnage, I noticed a placard by the side of the road. It featured an icon of the Virgin Mary, a candle, and a list of names. At the spot where I stood, a car had gone off the edge, killing all aboard; this marker was left by relatives to remember the dead.
As if these events weren’t disturbing enough, I soon noticed these markers at regular intervals as we continued into the mountains. Often, the driver would make the sign of the cross as we passed specific markers. This was very eerie and didn't instill much confidence in the gringo passenger.

This was my first experience with the truism that there no atheists on a Third World mountain highway.

Later that evening, we took a break from the journey, at a Mexican truck stop. The driver paid for dinner, which featured regional cooking. By now, I was really appreciating the diversity of Mexican cuisine, enjoying the range of meats, chicken and the ubiquitous beans at every opportunity. A taco stand seemed to be on every corner throughout the country, and one could eat a fine meal for about 50 cents, including a refreshing fresh fruit drink. I stop worrying about catching any diseases after my battle with Montezuma; in fact, I never felt stronger in my life!

We drove on for a few more hours, and finally, the amigo pulled over. He said we could sleep in the back of the truck on top of the potato sacks. This was a motel for truck drivers, Mexican-style. I climbed into my sleeping bag, but the driver lay on top the sacks in his underwear, hitting on a bottle of Tequila. I noticed he was fondling his member, and kept looking over at me.

"Great", I thought, "of all the truck drivers in Mexico, I get stuck with one who is gay!"

I pretended to pull the sleeping bag over my head, but I heard him saying something. By now, he had his noodle out, and kept saying "Amiga, amiga" to me. I took this to mean he thought I could be his girlfriend. I forcefully said no, and casually reached into my travel bag for my big hunting knife I carried for just such an occasion. Fortunately, that was the end of the conversation, as he passed out after drinking a few more slugs of the booze.

I awoke the early the next morning to an incredible racket. It was daylight, and we were rolling down the highway. Since there was no muffler on the truck, the noise was unbearable. I tried to yell into the front, and pounded on the wall, but it made no difference. I travelled this way for about an hour, bumping and trying to block out the noise. Soon enough, he stopped the truck and with a giant grin let me climb back into the cab.

We were now on a huge plateau, an agricultural region featured giant pulque plants, neatly lined in rows like fields of corn. Only these plants were future Tequila cocktails, as the juice of the pulque plant is extracted to make pulque, a rich milky substance that is the base for Tequila. These fields went on mile after a mile, and I kept thinking, "Man, they sure must drink a lot of Tequila in this country!"

Eventually, we came to the outskirts of Guadalajara. Since I was on my way to Mexico City, I decided to give it a miss. This is one of the great pitfalls of travel: you get into such a hurry to go one place that you miss many interesting places in between. Later I discovered that Guadalajara is extremely popular with foreigners and is a beautiful place.

It was a Sunday morning, bright beautiful Mexican sunshine. I was standing by the side of the road, thinking how easy it had been to hitchhike this far so fast. Big mistake.

For the next couple of hours, no cars stopped. Mind you, it was still pretty early in the day, but one of the great hazards of hitchhiking is sooner or later a waiting game must be played.

I was feeling totally burnt out. I hadn't had any decent sleep for over three days (one night on the train partying with the Americans, another with the gay Mexican truck driver). I was also road weary, having travelled non-stop for 3 full days and nights since leaving Tulsa, not to mention the consumption of much liquor on the train down from Mazatlan.

So there I was, standing on the side of the highway on a Sunday morning, post-toasty. Cars were whizzing back at about 80 miles an hour (the normal speed limit for Mexicans). After a couple of hours, I became quite despondent, and wondered what in the hell I was doing in the middle of no-man's land when I could easily be sitting by the sea in Puerto Vallarta.

I came to a realization: I was in Mexico, enjoying my adventures, and after all, what was the rush? I didn't care if I had to walk to Mexico City- I didn't have a schedule to keep, after all.
Out of nowhere, a very tall Mexican-Indian walked up to me. He started rambling on at about 80 miles an hour in Spanish (whereas my vocabulary consisted of how to say "beer", "washroom", "water" and "thanks"). He had the wildest eyes, a special fire seemed to burned inside of them. I felt like the pages of Don Juan and Carlos Castenada were coming to life!

Well, try as I might to communicate, it was to no avail. I did catch on that he thought the hitchhiking would be better down the road a piece. So I flipped the huge pack on my back and started trucking. I walked for about a mile, and it was getting pretty hot, since it was now about high noon.

Suddenly, a car stopped about a quarter mile up the road. I figured they would take off as soon as I ran toward it, an old hitchhiking joke some drivers like to pull. But they backed up the car, and I got in, a more grateful passenger they had not met.

It was a pretty small car, and there were already four young Mexicans males inside. I had to put the pack on my lap, but didn't care, because I was moving again. The great affair is to move, according to the old traveller's yarn.

Communicating was difficult at first, until one of them tried his Latin English on. It wasn't too bad, so we started a half Mexican-half English conversation. It seemed they had just come from Puerto Vallarta, which he described as fantastic. And the good news was that they were going to Mexico City; in fact, they all lived there.

One of the guys handed me a cigarette. "I don't smoke", I said, casually handing it back.

They all started to laugh, and of course, I didn't get the joke. As it turned out, it wasn't a cigarette at all, but a joint that had been cleverly rolled in papers that had fake cigarette filters printed on them to look like cigarettes.

"This is to fool the Federales", said Alfredo, the one who could speak some English.

Of course, this wasn't your average cucaracha these guys were smoking. Oh no, this was the notorious Acapulco Gold, Panama Red or some such brand. After a few puffs, it was goodby John, my head's gone. Hell with it, I thought, I'm on vacation in Mexico, and it's only polite to do what the locals do. After all, I'm an ambassador representing my country, and whoever I meet gives them insights into what Canadians are all about.

We sped on through the countryside, and in my reefer enhanced vision, I found the landscape most peculiar. Maybe it was the smoke, but it seemed to me that the hills were shaped like pyramids. They weren't really round, they were more pointed. Maybe these hills were really ancient pyramids? This was, after all, Aztec country, and the possibilities seemed endless. Reading Carlos Casteneda and Don Juan provided fertile ground for metaphysical thinking, and who was I to argue with the Yaqui Way of Knowledge?

Onward we drove all afternoon, through Mexican villages and towns. Soon, I could tell we were on the outskirts of a great city. The road became a four-lane freeway, and we climbed up a huge mountain pass. Since Mexico City is situated on an old lake bed, we came over the pass and down to the city.

As we neared the top of the road, there was a delay in the traffic. Ahead, a car was ablaze, and as we passed by, it looked pretty grim for the driver. This seemed to quiet the car, and we drove into the great city after sunset, in silence.

And a great city it is. In 1975, Mexico City was fairly bursting at the seams. I was fortunate to arrive on a Sunday, when the city was relatively calm. Since Mexicans are Catholic, Sunday is a holy day, a day of rest.

I didn't have a clue where I was going to stay in town (no itinerary or plans, remember). I asked Alfredo about a hotel, and he just laughed and said something in Spanish. We pulled up to a great 5 story building, which I presumed was a hotel. As we got out of the car, there was a brief firework display over the city below. It was all pretty surreal, in light of all the travelling I'd done of late. After smoking weed all day, my brain had switched toauto-pilot, and I was having a difficult time processing information.

Alfredo grabbed my pack and I asked if this was a hotel. He laughed again and said: "Esta mi casa", or some such thing. I knew casa meant home (I actually was picking up Spanish quite easily, given the fact I am fluent in French). So, it appeared I would be the guest of Alfredo in this luxurious palace on the foothills overlooking the city. My only thought, in my frazzled state of mind, was: "I hope he's not gay!"

Ciudad di Mexico: Life in the Fast Lane

I was shown through the mansion that would be my home for the next two weeks. But since I was in a near delirious state of mind, I still couldn't process what I was seeing very well. I was soon shown to my room, which was really posh. I had it all to myself, complete with traditional furniture and Mexican crafts as wall hangings. It had an ensuite bath, with a toilet that was reputed to be the best one in the house, and a hot shower. For a rod weary traveler, this was another side of paradise.

I awoke the next morning feeling quite refreshed, considering I spent about 12 hours sleeping. Alfredo came in and led me to the kitchen, which was the main gathering place for the family. Alfredo had four sisters and two brothers; his father was a wealthy industrialist who operated a furniture factory. Alfredo's job was to hustle around for his father, making deliveries and picking up documents.

Alfredo led me to the kitchen, which was the center of life in the house. A giant table on one side of the large room for eating. A big stove where pots of something delicious always seemed to be bubbling. I was a little late for breakfast, but Alfredo's step mother cooked me up something anyhow. I ate some righteous meals in that kitchen, real Mexican food, and there was always something to eat, even when we came in at two in the morning after partying half the night. Often, Alfredo's step mom would join us in the kitchen when we came home late, buzzed to the bone.

Thus began my time in the big city in this very comfortable mansion. I was given another tour of the five story building. It had quite a lot of rooms, and in the basement, two squash courts. On the roof, a garden terrace featured a swimming pool with a great view of the city, which could only be seen on clear days (probably about one quarter of the time).

Mexico City is a bustling place, full of activity. Driving around town with Alfredo was always an adventure. This was my first real experience of driving in a Third World capital, where the rule of the road seems to be: no rules. A two lane street always expanded to fit at least three cars and about five motorcycles. The roundabouts which spin you off in any direction can be especially invigorating, and we came within inches of cars on all sides. No wonder they don't have many amusement parks; driving is exciting enough.

I was able to see quite a lot of the city as Alfredo made his rounds. I convinced him I was interested in archaeology, so he took me to the great Museum of Archaeology. It featured a waterfall in the middle courtyard, and more Aztec, Mayan and other native artifacts than I could imagine. This piqued my curiosity about the Maya, the Indian group who built pyramids more fantastic than those in Egypt. On this and later adventures, I would visit the great temples of Palenque, Tikal and Uxmal, which convinced me the Maya were one of the great races mankind has spawned.

Mexico City had its share of problems, and I shudder to think what it must be like today. There was abject poverty, which I seemed to become immune to. It is so overwhelming that it is quite easy to become cynical about dealing with the problem. When you drive through mile after mile of barrios, as I have done in many cities, the problems of the Third World seem far remove from ours in developed nations.

We did many other interesting things, including climbing a volcano high above the city. At the top, we looked down into its heart, like a bed of a great lake. I believe we were about 13,000 ft above sea level, and at twilight, Alfredo, his companions and I gazed down upon the lights of the great city. I remember thinking how vast LA seemed from high above the city after dark, as the lights seem to go forever. Mexico City made LA look like a small borough, however, from the top of the volcano. I can't imagine how they fit more people in, but still they come from the countryside, to try to strike it rich in the big smoke.

We also visited the great Aztec pyramids of Teotihuacán, also above the city. We made sure to visit at full moon, which really added to the special effects sound and light show. To the east stood the pyramid of the Sun; to the west, the pyramid of the moon. In between were the remnants of a great city, decimated by the conquistadors. I was very astonished by the sight of the pyramids, and although I had not seen the great pyramids of Cheops in Egypt, thought these must be at least as impressive.

Alfredo was the perfect host, taking me out into the countryside and really going out of his way to show the gringo what the region had to offer. One Sunday, we drove down to the stunning city of Cuernavaca, capital of the ancient Kings. This city was in full bloom, flowers everywhere, and beautiful cafes in the city centre. We visited his friends in a very swank home surrounded by walls (in the Third World, walls are a sign of wealth, used for privacy and to keep the vermin out). Cuernavaca was one of the most beautiful places I visited in Mexico, and is favoured by city dwellers as it is at a higher elevation, a bit cooler and a lot quieter, On that Sunday, it was very crowded, but also, quite exotic.

Searching for Don Juan

I had been doing some research on where to go next in Mexico. Although I was welcome to stay with Alfredo and his family as long as I pleased, (they adopted me as one of the family), the city was starting to close in on me. Like LA, thick clouds of pollution, mostly from cars, obscured the skyline. This cannot be a healthy environment, I thought. And while lounging by the pool reading Carlos Castenada was fairly pleasing to the senses, it wasn't quite the same action as being on a beach.

Of course, the possibilities for beach lounging are endless in Mexico. But my desire was to get back to the Caribbean, and my mind kept playing back scenes from the beaches of Jamaica. Checking my map, I noticed the Yucatan Peninsula was actually on the Caribbean coast. And lo and behold, the island of Jamaica was the nearest land mass due east. This has got to be the place, I decided, so I made plans to head out of the city to Merida, capital of the Yucatan.
I asked Alfredo to call the train station to see when trains departed for Merida. He said the train left everyday at seven, and stated I could buy my ticket at the station, no problem. Famous last words...

Finally, it was time for me to go. The family cooked up a special meal in my honour, which was really touching. Hugs and kisses all around, and soon my bag was packed into Alfredo's Volks van. A couple of his sidekicks who I met on the journey from Guadalajara decided to accompany me to the station. I felt like I had made some very good friends in a short two week span, and was sad at the thought of my departure- sweet sorrow indeed. But I was determined to get to the beach, and kept my resolve as we entered the train station.

Well, as fate would have it, the attendant at the ticket counter said the train was long gone, and the next one tomorrow was at six, not seven. So much for Mexican time, but of course, the main saying in Mexico is manana, so I wasn't really worried.

It was then that Alfredo announced that he and his three companions were headed south to the state of Puebla that night to pick up a supply of motta, or marijuana. I really wasn't given any choice in the matter, for they were quite literally leaving from the train station. The journey was about six hours into a very remote region of Mexico.

Well, I figured these guys knew what they were about, so onward we go. They suggested I take some amphetamines to keep me up through the long drive. I don't normally like to indulge in chemicals, and even when we cruised from Detroit to LA, I resisted taking the speeders, and stayed up all night without difficulty.

However, they were pretty insistent that I eat a couple of their pills. I later realized I had actually been drugged with a sedative, probably to keep me from knowing the route south. So, after about an hour, I passed out in the back of the volks, and slept like a log.

I awoke some hours later, and the van was still. The door opened, and we were greeted by a very old Indian, straight out the pages of the Don Juan book I had been reading. He had long straight white hair, wore a cowboy hat, and had a gunbelt on that would do Wyatt Earp proud. To top it off, we were in the bottom of a very deep canyon, on the edge of a babbling brook.

After the customary greetings, I was introduced to our host. He spoke very softly in Spanish, and was glad I was Canadian and not American. Mexicans seemed to really love Canadians, but are cool to indifferent about Americans. The moon was rising over the canyon wall; it was very surreal. I was supposed to be on a train headed to Merida, and now, I was starring in a western movie!

The old Indian took a pearl-handled gun out of its holster and fired two rounds into the air. The blast reverberated through the canyon, and when it calmed down, the silence was deafening. We walked along the river toward a small hut. All the while, my head was splitting from a nasty migraine headache, probably as a result of the "speed pill" I had taken earlier.

Inside the hut, we sat in a circle and waited as the Indian stoked a small fire on a primitive stove. This was our only source of light along with the full moon streaking in the front door, and a small flashlight one of the guys brought along.

What happened next was pretty incredible. The old Indian brought out a hundred kilo burlap flour sack and deposited the contents on the little shack’s floor in front of us. The bag was filled to the brim with high-grade Mexican Puebla reefer. My eyes bugged out as the giant buds were spread out before me; it made my eyes red just lookin' at it!

The boys quickly moved into action to pack the weed. They used water to make it more malleable, and proceeded to manufacture about five bricks, with the aid of a homemade press. When this was accomplished, we walked back to the van by moonlight, and they proceeded to remove the panelling in the roof and sides; the van was then stuffed to the rafters with the contraband.

I felt more than a little uncomfortable about being in a Third World country with a reputation for locking gringos away, participating in this clandestine mission, and hoped the boys knew their business. After all, I rationalized, they all came from prominent backgrounds, and as the elite get special treatment in Mexico, what me worry?

Soon, we said our goodbyes to the Indian-Don Juan lookalike, who had been paid the ridiculous sum of $100 for his crop. Of course, this was much more than he would have received if he grew corn or some other product, but I still felt that the deal was too one-sided, with the guys coming out miles ahead in the deal.

Now, I was wide awake for the journey back. We bumped our way along the canyon, and a couple of hours later, came down out of the mountains. When we reached the main highway some time later, we were forced to stop at a military check-point. Security was no tighter in this region than anywhere else in Mexico, and military checks were a common phenomenon throughout the country.

I decided to pretend I was asleep, and was given a shove to wake up by a rifle-wielding soldier. I sat up on a bench at the back of the van, and watched as two soldiers checked out the van. Of course, the boys weren't very careful when they packed the motta into the van. The soldiers found seeds on the floor of the van, and held them up for their cronies to see. They asked me about them, but I pretended to be very sleepy, and merely shrugged, like I didn't know what they were on about.

Behind the blasé veneer my mind was racing: busted in Mexico, tossed in jail for life, all because I missed the train to Merida! One of the guys got out the van and put his arm around the soldier. They walked around to the back of the van and whispered in quiet tones; he re-emerged and said we had to pay a "duty" on the spot.

This is going to be a big shakedown, I thought, as I prepared to sign over my meagre supply of travellers checks. But amazingly, all the soldiers wanted was 100 pesos, or 20 pesos per; this was the equivalent of less than two dollars! I quickly got my money out, we paid, and were on our way.

We all breathed a sigh of relief, and drove on into the dawn toward Mexico City. There were no more stops by soldiers, and at daybreak, I jumped in the front seat to co-pilot into the city. We arrived back at Alfredo's, and the whole family came out to see the sight. Here was the Canadian who was supposed to be gone, returning somewhat bleary-eyed back to the ranch.

Alfredo concocted some story about the train and staying out all night to party. So it was back up to the room I had recently departed, for a nap. Alfredo, however, was gone, as he had to divvy up the quarry with the guys.

That afternoon, we had a final reunion before I was set to catch the train (this time, I would get there early). The guys were pretty excited about how the deal went done, and were happy with the role I had played. I realized that they were actually pretty scared about the encounter with the soldiers, that it was a pretty close shave after all for all of us. This didn’t make me feel great, but at least it was over and done with. As a parting gift, they provided me with the best buds of the crop- enough to last a few weeks in the Yucatan.

Finally, I boarded the train, first-class, to Merida, and as we pulled out of the station, I breathed a sigh of relief that i wasn't sitting in some dark Mexican jail, waiting for the bribe money from home to come to get me out. "Sends lawyers, guns and money, the shit has hit the fan…"

Sporting a Yuca-Tan

Somewhere along the Mexican trail, I lost sight of my main mission: to be on a beach with bright, azure waters, while my friends at home froze their behinds off. The mission to Yucatan was to get back to the Caribbean, maybe do some snorkeling, hang on the beach, bikinis, the whole nine yards.

Due west from Jamaica, over the horizon from Rick's Cafe sunset party in Negril, was a small island called Isla Mujeres, literally the Island of Woman. This seemed like an intriguing destination, even though I didn't have a clue what it was like. There was one backpacker guidebook at that time on Mexico by Moon Publications, but I didn’t see a copy of it until much later; Lonely Planet had yet to be born.

The train ride was quite brutal, and in retrospect, it would have been worth getting off at Palenque, about halfway to Merida. If I had done so I probably would’ve run into Roland and Walt, who were hanging there around that time. So for thirty-six hours, I sat in a very primitive first-class car, thanking my stars I hadn't been cheap and bought a lower, "cattle-car" class ticket.

There was three other gringo travellers in the car, and the first night, we sat around drinking pulque, the milky juice that is the base for Tequila. It was quite a jovial group, and we passed the night away telling travellers' tales of Mexico. Sleep was rather difficult, as there was no sleeper car, so we slept fittingly on our wooden benches.

We awoke in the jungle, and it was incredibly hot and humid. Thankfully, there was plenty of refreshments available, so we didn't dehydrate. The train stpped at regular intervals, and kids would climb aboard hawking food and drink. They would stay onboard for a stop, then walk or ride back on the local train coming from Merida.

The second night on the train was pretty painful, but the time passed and eventually, we arrived in Merida about 7 am. Even though I was extremely burnt out, I decided to catch a five-hour bus from Merida to Punta Juarez, and cross over to the Isla Mujeres by ferry.

After a few hours, we arrived near the port, and we had to walk about a mile with our gear. I was walking and talking to a fellow French Canadian, when a van pulled up and a nice couple offered us a ride to the port.

The port itself was tiny, and we saw our ferry boat crossing the channel between the mainland and the island. And there, in the distance, like a jewel in the sea, was Mujeres. It looked a little like Gilligan's Island (a thought I've often had with isolated islands).

The crossing was serene, as the sun setting behind us and the light was superb. The island was ringed by reefs, and the multi-coloured blue shades informed me that this was in fact the Caribbean, and that I had made a wise choice by picking Mujeres.

The island was quite small, and was shaped almost exactly like a fish. It was still almost undiscovered as a tourist site, so there was little in the way of all the usual tacky tourist trappings. Most westerners who came to the island were off-the-beaten-track travelers: Canadians, Americans and some Europeans, or Mexicans from Merida who came for week-ends.

There was one small town, which could be toured in its entirety in about a half an hour. At the north of the island, there was a splendid beach and small bay, which featured a coral reef. There were lots taquerias and restaurants, nothing fancy and a few charming little hotels.

In short, an undiscovered tropical paradise.

As I walked around looking for place to stay, I caught sight of Los Hamacas, a real “hang out” for gringos. This was the place to stay on Mujeres, so I checked in. I could rent a hammock and stay inside tin huts, with floor consisted of flour white Caribbean sand, or I could pitch my tent under the shelter of a tin roof. This I did, and also had my hammock next to the tent.

I walked down to the beach, even though it was dark, and was surprised to see about 80 gringo (gringa?) women partying around a bonfire. I couldn't believe my eyes, as I hadn't seen that many women in my travels in Mexico. As it happened, these were students at an American medical school in Guadalajara, and it was there last night of vacation on Mujeres. No false advertising here I thought; this island sure lives up to its name!

We did some serious partying on the beach that night, under the stars, while the waves gently lapped at the shore. It was so peaceful, so mellow, and I was rundown after two and half days of travel, that I grabbed my sleeping bag and slept right out on the beach.

My vision of paradise was complete.

I spent about two weeks on Mujeres, mostly lying on the beach, drinking cheap Bacardi Rum with fruit juices. Another favourite pastime was hanging out in the fishermen's bar, where the beer was the cheapest on the island. There was always free plates of ceviche, seafood marinated in lime juice and smothered in hot sauce.

There was a lobster and shrimp processing factory on the outskirts of town, were I bought inexpensive lobster and shrimp. Usually, a group of westerners would get together to buy a bunch of food and drink and partied it up under the stars in front of a big fire; there were no problems with the local officials whatsoever.

Most of the locals on Mujeres were quite poor. Some of the shanties were a bit disturbing to look at, and usually, the dogs were quite territorial; some beach mutts would chase you down the lane at two in the morning.

One pastime on Mujeres was renting a bike and then pedalling seven miles across the island. I made the requisite pilgrimage to the Turtle Farm, where turtles were bred for their meat (before I found out they’re an endangered species). Turtle soup was a delicacy all over the island, and it was very delicious, as was most of the food on Mujeres.

Eventually, the seven mile journey led to a Mayan temple at the end of the road. It was not a major temple, but was perched out over the cliffs looking south toward Tulum, an ancient Mayan port. And at Garrafon, the little coke stand stop, it was possible to rent snorkeling equipment. This part of the island had a reef ten feet offshore that was like swimming in an aquarium, one of the most amazing snorkel dives I've ever made.

As I snorkeled around, I was surrounded by two hundred pound grouper, and many varieties of bright coloured fish, including the bright blue parrot fish. Nearby, a manta ray swam into view, and it was awesome. It's giant wings would propel it gracefully through the water, and I followed it was best I could for over fifteen minutes. I must have spent over four hours in the very warm waters at Garrafon, and the fish were so friendly and fearless, it was too good to be true.

The key to Garrafon snorkeling was to arrive very early in the morning. Otherwise the tour boats would cross over from the then new resort of Cancun, and there would be a hundred snorkelers jumping in to view the fish, which would disappear. It would be a rush hour of snorkelers, and the Mujeres expats would hang out in the cafes watching the spectacle, smug in the knowledge we weren't trying to vacation in one or two weeks or as Jimmy Buffett said: "trying to cram lost years in five or six days."

The locals were extremely friendly, always greeting me on my many walks around the port with a lively “Ola.” I was fascinated with their hammocks, which they slept in, and generally hung around in during the hot part of the day. Some of the Yucatan hammocks could hold an entire family of four, and at night, I'd walk past open doors and see whole families lying peacefully together.

The days of sunbaking and nights of partying soon became a big blur. Mujeres wove its magic over me, and it almost became too much of a good thing. After a few weeks, I started feeling restless, as I wanted to explore more of Mexico. I had recovered from my journey from the city, was feeling pretty relaxed, and decided it was time to head south to Tulum, where there was reputed to be a great beach and even more peace and quiet- if that was possible.

So, with some trepidation and not a little remorse, I stuffed my bag together and made tracks south to Tulum. Since I had been having such great luck hitchhiking in Mexico, I decided I'd save a little money (it probably cost less than $5 to bus it to Tulum) by hitching. This was a very big mistake, but of course, it took a little time to figure out.

First, the road south from Cancun to Tulum in 1976 was still pretty deserted. Not many tourists had discovered the pristine beaches of the Yucatan, except in isolated pockets; the Mayan Riviera had yet to be named. Consequently, there weren't many cars that could provide a lift.
Naturally, it was pretty easy to hitch out of Cancun to the airport. But from then on, there were few cars and no rides. I couldn't accept the fact that I would be stuck all day by the airport, but after several hours, it seemed like it might be a good idea to flag a bus down. Just as I came to this conclusion, I naturally got a small ride, which really dropped me off exactly in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, it was dreadfully hot, the sun was beating down and I felt like one of those "mad dogs and Englishmen in the noon day sun.” I kept getting these small rides of about 5 or 10 miles, and by the end of the day, I must have travelled no more than halfway to Tulum (which was only about 90 miles south of Cancun). It got to the point where even the buses wouldn't stop because they were going too fast and I wasn't at an accepted bus stop, surprising considering buses generally stop anywhere in Mexico!

As dusk approached, I decided it probably wasn't a good idea to hitch in the dark. I thought I stood a better chance of getting run over rather than being picked up, so I strode down a nearby lane to see if I could make it to the beach. The route south paralleled the coast for most of the way, but usually, the coast was out of sight.

The path led to an idyllic little bay, half moon shaped, with palm trees hanging over the water. I was thoroughly exhausted from the heat and the incessant waiting game and looked for a place to pitch either my tent or my hammock. There was a little cantina nearby, but they didn't serve anything but lukewarm cokes. That was it for this beach: one small cantina with some unfriendly locals.

I walked down to the far end of the beach and decided to pitch my hammock between two palms. It certainly was a resplendent location, with the Caribbean lapping up to the shore. The sky was filled with a million stars, and even though I totally bushed, I did enjoy the magnificent scenery (there's nothing worse than becoming so caught up in getting to destination that you forget to enjoy the scenes along the way).

I built a small fire, and managed to prepare a small meal with the food I had purchased in Cancun (I heard provisions were scarce in Tulum). Then, after eating, I crawled into my hammock, got inside my sleeping bag, and faded out as the stars danced across the sky. I woke up many times during the night, hearing strange rustlings in the trees from the wind, and looking out across the sea to menacing clouds offshore that thankfully stayed there.).

A spectacular sunrise greeted me at dawn. The crimson sky burst across the Caribbean Sea, an amazing sight. I soon got out of my sleeping bag and packed my meager belongings together and vamosed out of the area. Soon, I was able to flag down a bus, and somewhat bleary-eyed, landed at Tulum.

Castles in the Sand

And so castles in the sand, melt into the sea, eventually.
Jimi Hendrix

Tulum was a very popular place for off-the-beaten track adventurers in the seventies.

Camping was free in those days on the beach, and most amenities were either non-existent or very primitive. The beach stretched out in a long path for at least a mile of uninterrupted white sand.

At the north end, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, stood the Mayan ruins of Tulum. These ruins are very famous, because they reveal the Mayans as navigators, something that remains quite a mystery to archaeologists (as does the Mayan language, among many other things).

From the ruins to the far end of the beach, a superb coral reef jutted out into the sea. At one end, the reef was a short swim from shore; at the other, it was almost a quarter mile away from land. There was an excellent grove of salt water pines to camp in, and I found a place to pitch my tent, sheltered from the wind, with little difficulty.

The first thing I did upon arriving in Tulum was to deposit my pack with a group of very friendly travellers, rip off most of my clothes, and jump into the clear blue sea. It felt so refreshing after the past 28 hour journey from Mujeres to Tulum. Then I set up camp, and settled into life at Tulum for about a 19 day stay.

My campsite was one of the best on the beach; the previous tenants had constructed a table, a beautiful fire pit complete with a grill and I found an excellent shelter for my tent. Living like a beach gypsy, I cooked all my meals and lived cheaply, but with style.

A few days after I arrived, three travellers from France asked if they could share my campsite, since it was so large. I was agreeable to this, and to my delight, for the next 10 days we ate French cooking, including lobster and the camp specialty: fresh pineapple crepes. What a life!
We had to hike up to a building housing officials, who maintained the Tulum ruins, to get fresh water. And the town, if you could call it that, was a walk through the jungle. Along the way, there was a natural fresh water pool in a cave, known as a sonote, and we'd often stop for a refreshing bath to wash off the salt water from excessive snorkeling.

One of the highlights of Tulum was the full moon party. The tribe of Tulumians gathered around a huge bonfire, there was the requisite guitar playing and singing, bottles of rum and beer were passed around. The moon was so bright, the sand so white, that a guy from Quebec was heard to comment that: "The sand looks like snow, it's so white. But if this is snow, I'll gladly take it over Quebec's version any day."

There really wasn't much nightlife at Tulum, besides sitting around the fire. We fell into a pattern of waking early, lying on the beach all day, snorkeling, playing frisbee and of course, taking an afternoon siesta. Tulum was a laid-back place, and there was nothing to think about but sun and fun.

One morning, I awoke before dawn and walked through the dark with two guys from Minnesota to the ruins. We slipped through the gate, as the guards were sound asleep, and sat on one of ruined walls. Tulum is actually a very small site compared to its more famous cousins of Uxmal or Chichen-Itza. But the evidence of Mayan architecture was unmistakeable.

Light broke across the horizon, as the sea pounded against the cliffs below. We could imagine the Maya, waiting for a ship to come in from Cozumel, bringing unknown treasures. It seemed like we were caught between the land of the living and the dead, sort of like the experiences Carlos Castenada was always on about in his books. Gazing at the sunrise from our perch within these ancient Mayan ruins was definitely an out-of-this-world experience.

“There are entities which are in the world, and which act on people. They are here, around us at all times. In daylight, however, it is more difficult to perceive them, simply because the world is familiar to us, and that which is familiar takes precedence. In the darkness, on the other hand, everything is equally strange and very few things take precedence, so we are more susceptible to those entities at night.” Carlos Castenada, Journey to Ixtlan

The two lads from Minnesota were on their way south to Belize, and then, the Bay Islands in Honduras. My funds were becoming a bit thin by this time, but I really wanted to go further south into Central America. However, I didn't know how easy it would be to have money sent down. The guys said they'd cover my expenses until I got money wired, but I had my reservations about the journey (mostly financial). I had money in an account in Canada, but in the seventies, having money wired was a risky affair (I'd heard a lot of horror stories, and was about to live a couple myself very soon).

Then, I departed fabled Tulum, and at the last moment, as we reached the border at Chetumal, I chickened out. I guess I still wasn't as fearless a traveller as I was to become later on. Eight years later, I stood at the main intersection in Belize City, Belize’s capital city. On one corner, standing as it had for years, was The Royal Bank of Canada, at that time my exact bank in Canada. On the other side of the street was the Bank of Nova Scotia, another Canadian bank. Obviously, had I proceeded on to Belize with the Americans, I could have had money wired overnight. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty vision, they say.
Another fork in the road…

Of Mayans, Mushrooms and Pyramids

Such are the choices travellers face who have no itinerary.

Remember, I was travelling around Mexico with a very poor map and no guidebook whatsoever. Travellers coming from the other direction usually. But not always, provided the best information, but as we really discovered when we went around the world, a lot of this is quite subjective. One person's definition of paradise could be another's hell.

Still, my options were pretty good. I could head west across the Yucatan and arrive at Palenque, site of one of the most impressive Mayan ruins in Mexico. Still hurting from my last bout of hitchhiking, I decided to take a bus. The route was not regularly serviced, so I had to make a series of connections. I ran in with an American expat who was moving from the Yucatan to Palenque for a while.

We managed to get as far as Zapata, a small town near Palenque, before darkness and a lack of transport forced us to stop for the night. There wasn't any place to stay in Zapata, but we convinced a family to set up some cots in their bathroom for about .50 cents!

One advantage that Zapata did have, as we soon discovered, was a bar with a pool table. At this phase in my life, I was quite a pool shark, one benefit of my wasted youth, and I started playing the locals for Tecate beers (they were only 10 cents each!). The locals were very diplomatic despite their inability to beat us at pool.

Eventually we purchased a round of Tequila and Tecates for the whole place and became local heroes. We had a rip roaring time, drank ourselves into a stupor on beer an tequila, with the ceremonial lime squeezed and dropped inside the beer, to become so popular in N. America some years later.

The next day, sporting a professional hangover, we caught a ride on the pack of a produce truck, and were unceremoniously deposited into Palenque, then a sleepy town on the edge of the jungle. I enquired as to the possibilities of having money wired from Canada, and the word was that the phones worked only about an hour a day. The best place to get money wired was reputed to be San Cristobal de Las Casas, a brutal eight hour bus ride through dense jungle.

I was starting to get a little concerned about my financial status at this point. But Palenque had a beautiful campground outside of town, complete with a waterfall and river. It cost about 25 cents a day to camp, so this did not impact on my finances whatsoever. The farther off the beaten track, the cheaper everything became in Mexico.

Despite everything I’d heard, I was unprepared for the ruins. Palenque is a very important Mayan site, because it was the first pyramid ever discovered by archaeologists that actually contained a sarcophagus. Until its discovery, the conventional wisdom was that the Mayans did not bury their dead in pyramids as did the Egyptians.

To get to the ruins, the road wound through the jungle to the top of a hill. Below, the valley floor spread out, very lush with vegetation. Wild monkeys jumped from limb to limb, and at night, they would roar like lions. Suddenly, the city came into view. On the left, the pyramid, unmistakably shaped; then, the city itself, with the observation tower for studying the stars. The Maya were so advanced in their understanding of the stars that one school of thought posits that they were in actually in contact with extra-terrestials.

Well, there were a few strange creatures from this planet hanging out in the Palenque district. Many of these expats consumed the magical psilocybin mushrooms that sprang up in the morning from the dung of African cattle transplanted to Palenque. Then , they would sneak into the ruins at Palenque before dawn, and watch the sun rise over the pyramids.

I never indulged in this pastime, probably because my campground was some distance away from the ruins. Besides, I was always of the opinion that being in the Third World was often wild enough, and to combine hallucinogens with the local environment was too strong a mix for me.
The ruins were simply stunning and spectacular. I had no idea the Maya were so advanced, and had constructed pyramids at least as spectacular as those in Egypt. As I was to discover later on while traveling in Guatemala, the Maya had an empire that rivaled any culture on the planet for city planning and construction.

The ruins at Palenque are also interesting for the vistas they provide. As you climb the observatory tower, which was used to gaze at the stars, there is a terrific view of the plains below. The fields spread out ever so green, and the environment seemed so pristine.
Behind the ruins, there was a set of waterfalls with small pools. It was great to go for a cool dip in these waters, after touring the ruins. It always seems that we westerners want to visit historical sites set off from towns during the heat of the day. The most ideal time to visit ruins would seem to be early morning or late afternoon. But the logistics of getting to these sights means the tour buses usually arrive at midday. I made it a point later on to visit tourist sites before or after the crowds left.

So it went on for a week or so in Palenque. Going into town to try to arrange some money to be transferred from Canada became a real adventure in and of itself. As it turned out, the nearest bank that accepted money transfers was in San Cristobal de Las Casas, through the jungle by bus.

For some strange reason that I can't understand today, I turned down a generous offer to travel to San Cristobal. Two Canadians were headed there, and offered to pay my bus fare. But I think there is a tendency to become too independent when traveling on the cheap. They went on to San Cristobal, and I decided to head north towards the border of Texas.

Guatemala had just been hit by a devastating earthquake in 1976, with over 25,000 people dead and many more displaced. I had planned to travel south from San Cristobal, but once we heard about the death and destruction surrounding the quake, I figured it was safer to head north back to Canada. Besides, spring was coming soon, and that usually meant hanging out at my cottage by the lake.

I eventually made my way north through the kindness of strangers,hitchhiking from Palenque to Brownsville Texas with less than $5 in my pocket, where a Western Union Telegram was waiting with enough money to get me back home.

The term "gringos" would be the subject of lots of speculation while I travelled through Mexico. One version had it that it came from the Americans, who invaded Mexico for a time. They would sing a song called "Green Grows the Grass of Home"; l hence, green-gos. That was my favourite version, because it fairly reeked of bullshit.

AKA Turista, Aztec Two Step, The Shits, The Trots etc... in fact, I think there are many descriptors for a mild or severe case of food poisoning all over the world- the bond that links all travellers together who journey off the beaten track- at least, sooner or later.

Later, I would spy human excrement on many a side street in Mexico, so I didn't feel so bad about my earlier transgression in La Paz.