Blossoming with a head start to Spring in Escondido

... into the sun behind the horizon of the ocean.

Prologue

Back in October when I was in Monterrey, at the mere commencement of my voyage, I was recommended this particular part of southern Mexico in the state Oaxaca. It was called Puerto Escondido, 'Hidden Port', with several interesting beaches to hang out in. Descriptions such as 'hippy resort', 'laid-back', 'ganja paradise', 'cheap accommodation' and 'mass tourism free' contributed to my image of Mazunte. During my whole trip I picked up comments and recommendations from several people, arousing my interest in that mysterious beach town. So finally, after months of trotting Mexico's inland I would explore some of the country's most beautiful beaches. In San Jose del Pacifico I took another Suburban to Pochutla, the biggest town near Mazunte. The road was equally curvy as before, with astonishing landscapes and an interesting change of vegetation and climate. I could feel it in the air that I was heading towards water.

For accommodation I once again consulted Couchsurfing. To my surprise there was one couchsurfer in Mazunte (not bad for a population of about a 1000). His name is Pete, a 5o-year old yogi from the U.K., who accepted my request. He would later become a very important character in the story.

When I arrived to Pochutla it was already late and the colectivos had stopped circulating. I was forced to take a private cab since Mazunte is still about half an hour away and I had an 'appointment' with Pete. I was fearing that I'd end up in another random hotel room. The cab driver wanted to charge me a 100 pesos (= 6 EUR), so I said 'fuck it'. Pete's place was located somewhere slightly out of the ordinary: he resided at a yoga center where he had parked his RV, painted with colours and shapes reminiscent of sixties' heydays, with which he had been traveling for almost two years. As the taxi drove through Pochutla a different lifestyle, clothing habits and energy came across. At least, so I felt the change from inland to coastland. Suddenly I saw palmtrees, hammocks and women in short shorts. The latter I had rarely witnessed in male chauvinist, sexually repressed, prudish Mexico. And there not feminist ideals cause that change in apparel, but rather the pressuring hot-humid climate. Either way, I have to admit I enjoyed said tendency.

Continuing the cab ride, around 21:00-21:30 I finally arrived to the yoga center. I went up and what I found was a group of people chatting and playing percussion instruments underneath a small concrete dome with a very enjoyable decorative arrangement. I felt instantly comfortable, even though I'd just just walked into a totally strange environment. Luckily, Pete was still around. We conversed quickly after which he disappeared. So, I started socializing with the others who were around. What followed in the following hours, days and weeks was pure magic. All of a sudden I started meeting a whole lot of new people in a very short period of time. Those days were filled with anthropic dynamics of high intensity.


How it all started

One week had passed and I found myself still at the yoga center. Let me tell you when I had planned on going to Mazunte, I figured that I'd only stay for three, four days hanging out on the beach zoning out on ganja and simply relax. Quickly I learned that would not be the case. Of course, the aforementioned was also included in my experience, but it did not constitute exclusively. I started meeting a large amount of people in a very short time and it amazed me how easily people there would open their hearts and talk to you as if you had been long time friends. Somehow during that first week I stumbled into a clique of yoga students with whom I shared a number of wonderful moments that are sealed permanently in my memory. For instance, one day we walked to a tiny, bay-ish beach behind Punta Cometa, Mexico's most outstretched rock formation of the Pacific. To start with we were given the the beautiful gift of seeing a whale's tail crashing into the water, something I had never witnessed before. At that secluded beach we improvised a drum circle, played with the waves while the sun set down, held long, intense ganja conversations, elevated in an ohm meditation and gazed at the stars. During the whole time I tried to cease that moment as much as possible, to suck out all the marrow of that very instant, because I knew I was experiencing a true apogee. For a moment I thought that it couldn't get any better, but I was wrong. I was merely at the beginning of a wonderful journey that didn't seem to know any lows.

The reason why I experienced that first week so intensely was because I coincided with the last week of their yoga course. I had arrived at a moment when the students were filled with love and excitement. Some were going away, others stayed, cliques dissolved. And in spite of those social circles, at no point I felt excluded. Their open-heartedness made me feel I was part of their energy. That level of openness was truly inspiring, not to mention unprecedented. After most of the aspiring yogis left, I stuck around for another week. Suddenly the place was 'filled' with a major vacuum: the staff had disappeared or was on a break and only a few people remained. Also, by then my CS host Pete had left with his RV. With no one around questioning my presence and/or duty, I managed to find myself useful working in the kitchen, cleaning yoga mats and helping two hired masons building a new sewage disposal system. For this I was not alone, however. Suddenly (my apologies, I will use this word frequently) a 'crew' was formed comprising four members: Verdu - an eccentric Argentinian artisan who resembles very much to surrealist painter Dali because of his mustachio, Cristian - a Mexican young all-rounder who likes to occupy himself with anything ranging from teaching Spanish to selling home-baked pies, and Pier-Luc - a fiery ex-nationalist Quebecois turned stoic tolerant pacifist. Us four for some unexplained reason came together and kept ourselves busy with everyday tasks at the yoga center while no one actually required us to do so. This funny set of circumstances led to a beautiful micro working community where ideas, inspiration and friendship were exchanged.

During the second week I was still convinced that I would pick up my backpack quickly and proceed my way southwards. Verdu kept on trying to make me find a genuine reason to leave a place such as Mazunte. 'Making it all the way down to Buenos Aires', was my regular but mostly cloudy excuse. Until one day I finally came to the realization that I had been trapped in the town's addicting energy to which so many other travelers had succumbed to. After serving at the yoga center I went into town to find some inspiration on the six-string in front of the main beach El Rinconcito, 'The Little Corner'. I sat their practicing some compositions, a few bystanders listening with a smile, when all of sudden a dreadlocked accordionist wearing only a gamchha - a cotton towel from India - sits down by my side and listens attentively to what I'm playing. His friend with similar hairstyle follows with the clarinet. Then a crazy Canadian who I'd met before joins in with some Jethro Tull-style flute solos. A second clarinetist of French origin expands the impromptu orchestra. In a matter of minutes a group of musicians had come together to jam aloud while around them jugglers performed their complex tricks, which successively attracted more curious people. All of this happened without prior planning, although it seemed like a well-reahearsed performance with every character having a designated part. It was a pure explosive, instantaneous spur-of-the-moment loaded with thrilling synchronicity. A clear example of how energetic such extemporaneous gatherings can be. It's not surprising that I was overwhelmed with amazement. And that's not all. After we had finished an improvised tune, a Californian lady clearly impressed by the energy addressed us enthusiastically: 'That's amazing, you guys! Do you wanna play concert in our bar, like this Friday? We can pay you a small amount and dinner.' Suddenly out of that afternoon jam session a band was formed with a first gig scheduled in two days. At the end of the day I knew for sure, without doubt, that I would stay in Mazunte for an indefinite period of time. Just as many days in that curious, little coastal town, it was not a good day to leave. Oh, how wonderful the turns of life...


Building up a small life

Meanwhile, while those crazy moments took place, I had left the yoga center and found temporary accommodation at Cristian's place, who had left for Mexico City for a couple of days. While I expected to take some time alone to write and play the guitar by myself, I was met with a different situation. The landlady Doña Frida for some strange reason treated me like her grandchild/assistant right from the start. She asked me to rake the fallen leaves into a pile, go buy groceries for my lunch, clean out the bathroom, etc. She would not tell, nor offer, but order me to have a cup coffee, sit down and eat, wash my hands and so on. I didn't feel bothered at all, but rather I was amused by her peculiar kind of hospitality. Later on I would understand why she was all concerning despite the fact I stayed only for a couple of days. She lived her days lonely most of time, always trying to keep herself busy with something. Rarely she would receive visits from friends or family, according to the rumours because she had a difficult personality. On some days, when coming home late I'd find her sitting in the dark of the kitchen listening to the radio, leaning her head on her palm as in a contemplating posture. Besides that being scary, it was also very saddening. As Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger sang in 'Mother's Little Helper': 'What a drag it is getting old'.

Since I had accepted the fact that I would stay longer than planned, I was in need of finding a fixed place to stay, preferably in exchange for labour. It didn't take long time to find what I was looking for. In fact, I was extremely lucky. One day while walking over the main avenue I bumped into Louisa at a restaurant. She was a 27-year old German single mom with seven years of traveling behind her who I had made acquaintance with. Upon telling her about my search she immediately offered to help out. She took me to the hostel where she was staying, called Posada Porfiria, and introduced me to Carmen, the person in charge and a very fine lady. She redirected me to the hostel's owner, 87-year old Doña Porfiria. I went up to her to ask if I could offer my hands in exchange for accommodation. At first, and she remained like this most of the time, she looked at me with great distrust. One of her questions including the job application was: 'Do you have the notion to fall into vice?' I answered that I had tried some things in the past but eventually I only liked to drink a couple of beers once in a while, which on occasion would result in abuse. Since getting drunk and the whole culture around it is generally accepted by westernized societies, as it is in Mexican society, she accepted my request. I was allowed to stay at the hostel's campsite but emphasized that I shouldn't expect any meals. And although back then I wasn't traveling with tent or hammock, several people had offered me theirs. Perfect! I was ready to settle down for a little while, and for all of this I had received a lot of help of people with great hearts. It was amazing how the people around me, having just barely met, were willing to give a hand on any occasion. The more I was conscious of this flow of energy, the more I realized I had simply arrived to the 'right spot' on this trip. 'A place to rest my bones', put dramatically.

By then that last-minute gig was coming up. The members of the band were Finn from Germany (accordion), Kansia from Wales (clarinet), Melchior from France (clarinet), Trevor from Canada (flute) and me on the guitar. This crossover of nationalities gave birth to a sound which could be categorized as balkan, Eastern European, French folkloric, jazzy, Arabic, all-round traditional music. A potpourri of different genres with main objective: getting the hips in motion. We baptized our collective Manouche De Mermejita. Manouche refers to the gypsy jazz genre, while the name Mermejita is taken from a widespread, secluded beach behind Punta Cometa where we would rehearse most of the time. Actually we only rehearsed about seven songs in one afternoon, the same day we were due to play. Right before the gig we skimmed a couple of restaurants, which served as rehearsal and extra money-income. Besides that, for me it was the first time I played in said locations. Eventually it was time to perform at the Colibri, the bar where we were invited to play. The gig was a success. With the little time we practiced we managed to fill an hour and a half. Starting out with a crowd of friends and a few people who had received our flyer, the bar ended up jam-packed with loads of people standing outside watching. It was beautiful to watch them dance, shout and sing along frantically. It seemed like our show was Mazunte's only nocturnal activity. Although that's not unsurprising considering the centric location of the bar and the town's small size, where inside the foreigners' community word goes around quickly.

After the whole event I tried to understand what was happening. I wasn't simply touristing around as I had done so much before arriving at Mazunte, rather I was discovering a new form of traveling. Especially the people of the international circle proved to be very inspiring for me. This idea popped into my mind that, if the right people are present in the same place, at the same time, magic occurs. As if the encounters between certain characters were written in the stars or resulted as an effect of a specific constellation. It could even be interpreted as an example of the law of attraction. Anyhow, I felt my presence was synchronized in time and place, almost perfectly intertwined with others' frequencies.

A night at the circus

The folk band project eventually didn't last that long, since all of the members were travelers with each their own route. We played about four concerts in total. On one occasion someone who had seen us perform hired us to provide musical accompaniment for a marriage proposal, which is perhaps the most beautiful event I've been hired to play for. Imagine this: a table set for two with candlelight allover, on the beach under a star-studded sky and Manouche De Mermejita filling up the silence with subtle melodies. She said 'yes'. While we played some friends came over to watch who eventually participated with the show. Gradually our decorative function in the background turned into a more participative, energetic show wherein the couple joyfully danced along. Two girls who had come to watch us even put up a humourous mimical show for them. The evening ended with smiles on everybody's faces. Without doubt, musicianship is one of most beautiful professions around. Is it not nice making people happy and being paid for it? At least, I can come up with more jobs that create frustration, depression and other negative feelings.

During the third, fourth week or so Mazunte hosted its first contemporary circus meeting that offered daily acts and other activities a weeklong. The town was filled with artists of all kinds who would come together in a tiny plaza near the main beach to rehearse. During that week it exchanged its tranquility for a more dynamic energy. For a moment the international community had taken over the streets. In the meeting's agenda was also scheduled Manouche De Mermejita's last show with all original members (Trevor, the Canadian flutist, had already left the band to follow the umpteenth love of his life. They both eventually returned after their romance at short notice came to an end. The girl stuck around for some time, while Trevor returned broke to his homeland to start a beekeeping project with his sister). Our show was scheduled after a solo act in a pizzeria. Although technically it wasn't our best performance, it was definitely the most memorable. The whole scene with the band playing, people dancing freely, the restaurant's decoration had seemed to be taken from an Emir Kusturica movie. Wreaths of silk, trapezists and firebreathers would have made it a real night at the circus.

But the band kept playing. Although the pizzeria gig was the last one meaning the end of Manouche De Mermejita's short-lived career, a new proposal was about to reveil itself. One evening, sitting outside a corner store next to Pete with a fresh machete cut in my right big toe an appealing Quebecois/Canadian lady came up to me asking whether I was interested in joining her band to occupy the position of bass player. Mélanie said the original bassist was about to become a father and consequently couldn't fulfill his duty. After a few minutes talking about the subject it became clear that it wasn't just a fun, pass-time jamproject. The idea was to perform as much as possible especially during high season so to earn a little bit of money. Since all band members were travelers in one way or another that didn't seem like a bad idea. So, a few days later in an impulsive sway I acquired a cheap bass guitar and my time with Son De Mezcal could begin. The two months that followed we played at bars and restaurants in and around Mazunte, thereby gathering a couple of tell-worthy anecdotes. I was floating in a dreamlike reality. At first I found it hard to grasp the idea that I was actually combining two of my greatest passions: making music and traveling. In fact, before I undertook this intrepid journey I often dreamt of being hired as a musician in a traveling band. I could hardly believe that my dream then was becoming real. That's one of the reasons too why I decided to stick around a little longer. Because I knew, when Mélanie fired that proposal at me, that I couldn't ignore what life was presenting me what I had wished for. I was starting to believe that some dreams eventually do come out, but often elapse unnoticed.

Founder and undisputable leader of the band Mélanie discovered while traveling with a friend through Mexico that there were some artistic opportunities in Mazunte. She proved her organizing skills by forming the band after a spontaneous jam in the Colibri and scheduling a week-long agenda of performances. Those events took place in January, when I hadn't yet arrived to town. The idea was to continue the project in the months of March and April with all original participants. Eventually only Julian, the Argentinian drummer and soon-to-be lover of Mélanie, and Pablo, the Mexican lead guitarist and aficionado of hallucinogenics, stayed to realize Mélanie's project. The music isn't easily categorizable. The initial idea was to play mostly originals and a couple of covers, but eventually turned out vice versa. Our setlist consisted of danceable hits from the sixties till now and a few originals by Mélanie's hand. Blues, rock, reggae, afrobeat, funk, folk, pop, son cubano, soul, cumbia... Again a potpourri. Generally I'm not fond of playing versions of other artists' songs, but then I did not seem to mind. My duty was to extract juicy grooves and stay in line with Julian. Besides that, observing people dance was the second most fun part of the performance. No, not fun, but a true delight! How lovely it is to see a fossil loosen its hips and eventually setting aside his pudor, couples swinging sensually to latin grooves, solo dancers moving erratically all over the place or the flirting of lovebirds who disappear in the night or reject eachother as poles apart. Ah yes, music and dance are one of those things that bring people together and make them forget their worries.

Somewhere in the beginning of April Son de Mezcal was coming to an end. High season had just come to an end and everyone continued with their respective routes. Pablo stayed in Mazunte with his Argentinian girlfriend to help his friends with the construction of a beach house - the original reason why he had come here. Mélanie and Julian had plans on going to Quebec together and I, felt the need to start walking again. Many of the 'gang' had already left, with only a couple of travelers installing themselves as residents. Three months had passed, suddenly, in that little coastal town. Three days of relaxing on the beach turned into three months of intense living. What I learned during that period is of invaluable importance, as are the moments shared with other people. Often I would say to myself: 'These are the days of our lives', 'These are the best of times' or similar euphoric catch phrases. Without doubt, the Mazunte chapter is one of most enjoyable, intense-lived experiences of the trip, which I recall far too often when I float in memories of last year's events.

But, the wind blew southwards to San Cristobal De Las Casas, the next route loyal stop on the road where eventually I met the same people. And that's interesting because a certain number of people moving over the same line creates connectivity.

Dialogue with our mother's skyscrapers

...and dive from the mountain...

I was told there was a little mountain village called San Jose del Pacifico on the way to the Pacific coast coming from Oaxaca. It's known for its staggering landscapes but most of all, it is known in travelers' circles as a mushroom hotspot. The Swiss guy from the eco-hostel in Lake Catemaco, Veracruz, had informed me that when he went there even little kids looked for strangers to offer them a portion of magic mushrooms. With that romantic image of easy accessibility I hopped on a Suburban (sort of a station wagon) to San Jose. Now, very often there seems to be something worth mentioning concerning the transportation from one point to another. These suburbans can fit, following the Latin American cram-up procedure, about 15 passengers. But that's not the major problem. The one-lane road consists of an eternal follow-up of nausea inducing curves past mountain flanks. Because of the vehicle's constant swinging motion there's not much you can do. I witnessed how quite a ew passengers pass their trip fighting that nauseating feeling aided with emergency plastic bags. Luckily I'm not too sensitive to intense motion and could I enjoy the amazing scenery of the Oaxacan sierra (mountain range) from out of my passenger-seat. Oh, of course! How could I forget? For some reason I've discovered that in this universe with all its constellations my person attracts the craziest, most bizarre and degenerate characters. I can't remember exactly his nomen, something like Jaibe. Let's call him that. Jaibe was seated in the back next to me in that Suburban destination San Jose del Pacifico. As I usually do, I asked this stranger how long more or less it would take to get there, just to be sure. 'About two-and-a-half, three hours', he replied. Quickly after: 'Aha, San Jose, hey? Mushrooms!' We started talking relaxedly, but soon I discovered he was a total maniac and he took over the conversation with astonishing dominance. The man was firing up, going completely berserk, as if he were declaiming a grand tragedy before a huge crowd. Eventually, his impassioned tirade took up absurdist proportions that caused more embarrassment by the other passengers than by himself. False, he knew no shame at all. After a while I'd just nod and occasionally repeat key words from his speech. What did he talk about all that time? Firstly, about his job as head-waiter in what he claims to be the best club of Oaxaca. Then, about his evangelistic wife and newly-born daughter. How he cheats on her with the hottest looking ladies that visit said club. His past as a member of the Mara Salvatrucha gang in Honduras. The bible classes he receives from his mother-in-law every wednesday. His preference for any kind of drugs and alcohol. The tragic fatal motorcycle-accident of his beloved friend, who's spirit he addressed with a loud, thundering voice inside the car (just imagine the reactions in the passengers' faces). How he fixes the best fish and seafood from the fishermen of the tiny town where he resides in exchange for pills, herbs and other snortables. The day his townsfolk supposedly wanted him to be major and how he proudly declined the offer of the common people. And so on and so on. Each one of those topics he related with much grandeur. Exaggerated, totally over-the-top, insane. Jaibe was a high-speed train out of control. Forcing the chauffeur to wait a bit longer during a pit stop so that we can chug a beer in less than a minute in a nearby bar, exemplifies his ultra extroverted personality. Finally, we split ways in San Jose del Pacifico. The last image I have of this odd character is of him with his head out of the window while driving off, shouting: 'Long live Belgium, my friend! Don't forget me: Jaibe! The best club in Oaxaca! Man!!!'. And so, this kind but slightly frantic fellow passenger disappeared with his shoutings succumbing to the Doppler effect. 'Why do I always attract those types?', I thought standing there at the side of the road. Well, at least that was a most entertaining trip.

It was already past five in the afternoon, so I didn't bother scanning the town for the cheapest accommodation and went for the first one I found. That's an example of my laziness that sometimes costs me a bit more money. I only stayed for a day and half in that charming little mountain community. I didn't find any mushrooms, unfortunately. I didn't really ask for it, either. I felt a bit embarrassed with the idea of going around asking for hongos. Honestly, I was kind of hoping it would come to me universally provided as did the peyote. For that to happen I should have stayed longer. That way other people's paths would have crossed with mine, and that's how magic starts working. So, instead finding the gateway to another dimension I simply hiked through a mountain pass. And man, how amazing it is to be immersed in the beauty of Mother Earth's hip joints. Walking for hours and then suddenly hear the subtle sound of a river's rippling water, that grows louder and more impressive with each step closer to the riverbank. Then actually seeing the stream and touching the cool, refreshing water is like discovering a hidden treasure, except it's always been there. Without doubt, I'm a mountain. Or at least I feel like a mountain, I feel connected to them. When I stand on top, I feel I'm at my place. This is no justification for any kind of blown-up grandiosity, but rather a manifestation of my love for these earthly skyscrapers.

I was totally convinced of my monogamic connection with the mountains, until the next day I took another Suburban towards Mazunte, a tiny coastal town at the Pacific Ocean. My chapter there is a booklong, and so far the one I enjoy telling the most. So that's why I'll dedicate a post on Mazunte alone because it deserves a complete exposition, at least I opine.

Digging into the past (continued)

Run-up on pavement...

Next stop after Veracruz was Oaxaca (wah-ha-cah), the capital of the state of Oaxaca. A beautiful colonial city where the heritage of the Spanish conquest and French occupation is visible in its architecture, arts and people. A very pleasant city to walk through. The first thing I noticed, however, was the huge presence of foreigners. Before arriving to the city I had rarely met fellow travelers firstly because of the Couchsurfing project, secondly because I visited unpopular Lonely Planet destinations. Oaxaca was definitely a LP highlight. It was strange to see so many güeros (caucasians) all of a sudden. It became to clear to me why Mexicans love to make fun of light-skinned, blond-haired people: they do in fact look funny. And this is without offensive connotation; I've discovered that I myself am subject to mockery coming mainly from Mexicans. Anyway, I wasn't sure whether I felt comfortable being around a tourist hotspot. I guess that's a detail one as a traveler has to accept in popular destinations that are actually worth visiting.

My host Pedro lived about 12 kilometers from town, which means I had to take one of those collective cabs to go to-and-fro. Those weren't vans but regular four-passenger cars. Generally they cram up to six people inside: two in front (that explains the little cushion between both front seats) and four in the back. That goes fine, unless some of your fellow passengers are slightly overweight. Now, Pedro is the kind of Mexican who's had the opportunity to travel elsewhere than the U.S., which has given him a broader perspective on cultural differences, etc. Also, he is a fiery Couchsurfer. Each weekend he converts his house into a CS hostel by trying to host as many travelers as possible (I hadn't thought of doing that actually. Usually CS hosts only allow a couple of people in, but he sees things bigger.). So, that means he receives a lot different nationalities and personalities each with their own habits, ideologies and so on. Therefor he can relativize his own culture and put it in a broader perspective. With other words, he likes to criticize with touch of humour the 'Mexican way', e.g. machismo, collective ignorance, government,... In fact, that's yet another thing I've noticed mostly with educated people (and with less educated too. They're at least aware that there's a few remarkable flaws in Mexico generally speaking.).

At the time I was staying at his house a total of eight travelers inhabited temporarily his dwelling. Two French couples, a German couple, a Spaniard/American and me. That created an interesting dynamic. I mainly hung out with the last mentioned: Fernando. He was quite an interesting character. I don't recall from what city he started, my guess is New York. He had been covering that whole distance on motorbike. He had left behind about a year and a half of wandering and was headed - like me - down south. This man, a disillusioned architect in another life, dedicates his life to explore the Latin American continent. Meanwhile, he tries to visit his family in Spain at least once a year, preferably twice. Then I remember vaguely something about returning to the U.S. to buy or construct a catamaran and sail to a South American country. There he would give up his vessel and buy a lama to hike on it through the entire Andes. Pretty amazing if you ask me, and an inspiration. Furthermore, since he's an offspring of mixed parents like me, I could identify myself with him. At the time I was still struggling with the futile recognition and acceptance of my Mexican half. Maybe it was a minor identity crisis of some sort. I didn't suffer from it up to psychiatric proportions, but it did fill my head with bothersome thoughts. He too had lived a similar experience and now he had found peace with himself, accepting the limbo he hovers in. Undoubtedly he was an enjoyable companion. Another and last example thereof is the day we played soccer with the neighbourhood kids. We had returned to Pedro's house from touristing in town. Outside were a couple of kids messing around with a ball. Fernando felt like joining in, while I wasn't too keen on it. He explained to me that soccer is the one thing that brings together people no matter their nationality, colour, style, age, ideology and so on. He had a point right there. Soccer does have a uniting power despite its horribly aggressive and heavily ideology-charged border-culture. So he, a giant blond long-haired güero, went up to the kids and proposed a match. To my surprise, in a matter of minutes two teams with kids from all over the neighbourhood - and us - were formed and the game was on. I hadn't done considerably much exercise on this trip so I had my heart beating at the back of my mouth, but the effects of that little game of soccer were remarkable. Fernando walked off, having reached the limit of his energy (sickness nailed him), while I stayed talking to the kids. That was cultural interchange right there. Eventually they invited us for another game of soccer the next day but we couldn't make it. I believe I visited the archeological site Monte Alban then. Apropos, there occurred an interesting anecdote too worth sharing.

To start off, during the time of the event I was still in belief that I could make Mexicans accept me as one of their own. That stubborn martyrdom came to an end tragically that day I visited Monte Alban. In Mexico on Sundays citizens are allowed free entrance to any archeological site anywhere in the republic, while foreigners aren't - which I completely understand. To enter one simply has to show any kind of identification. In my case I would just have to show my passport to prove my citizenship. Of course, forgetful as I am, I left my passport at Pedro's home while I was already on my way to the site. 'Not a problem', I thought. I figured i'd just say that I'm from Guadalajara and that's it. At the ticket office I told the lady I'm Mexican but that I forgot my ID. She was understanding and asked from where I was visiting Oaxaca, to which I replied 'from Guadalajara'. 'Oh, how nice. Welcome, please proceed.' So far, so good. Although I was met with the final and deciding obstacle. The man who's in charge of ripping the acquired tickets to let the visitors in asked for mine. It went more or less like this:

- Douchebag: 'You're ticket, please.'

- Me: 'Oh, I don't need one. I'm a Mexican citizen.'

- D: 'What? Don't be stupid. You're not Mexican. You're like a Central American or something (mocking).'

- M:'No man. I'm from Guadalajara. Go ask the lady at the ticket office. She allowed me in.'

- D: 'What? Really?' (mumbles something unintelligible, obviously bothered)

The ticket man walks to the office and said:

- D: 'Did you let him in for free? Do you really think he looks Mexican?

- Lady: 'Well, ehm, yes. He told me he's from Guadalajara and I believed him.'

The douchebag continues to be suspicious and starts to involve bystanders into the impromptu trial, asking them the same enquiry. Also, supposedly the manager of the archeological site just happened to be present. Now, I don't know about the authenticity of his position, perhaps the douchebag was just trying to deter me. Meanwhile I heard people standing by deciding whether I was or I weren't. As you can imagine, this circus quickly turned into an utterly humiliating spectacle, ran by an individual who seemed to have made it his herculean final task before heaving his last sigh to reject my Mexican identity. As follows:

- D: 'Okay, do you think he looks Mexican?' (directing himself to bystanders)

- Bystander #1: 'Uhm, well, I guess so.'

- Bystander #2: 'No, not really.'

- Bystander #3: 'Yeah man, he looks like someone from Guadalajara.'

- D: 'Hey manager, look at this. He's claiming he's Mexican. What do you think?'

- Manager: 'So you say you're from Guadalajara, huh? Alright then, what's the capital of Guadalajara?'

On a side note, GDL doesn't have a capital. It's the capital of the state Jalisco. A very poor attempt to outsmart me. I reply that he is mistaken and that Guadalajara doesn't have capital. I don't remember what happened exactly afterwards, but the opposition was way too strong and by then I'd had enough of their humiliation. I ended up paying the 51 pesos (3 EUR) entrance fee. Don't get it wrongly, it wasn't about avoiding the fee. It was simply a test to see whether I could be convincing. That proved not to work. That minor incident at the entrance of Monte Alban ended for good my Via Dolorosa of futile attempts and more important provided a change of mentality. Once I got in, I took my time to meditate on what had just happened. Inside waged alteration, total dismay, discouragement. At rest was the last thing my mind was. Finally, sitting on top one of the temples outlooking the site which rests on a mountain plateau that guards over Oaxaca city, I came to the conclusion that people are idiots. Ha, well, I'd come to that conclusion before. What I mean to say more precisely is that only I know who I am and no one else. That's how simple it is. I can't be told what I am or what I'm not because those comments are based on individual perceptions, also called 'prejudices'. Especially in my case. I've had to endure people who think they know how I'm made and having them telling me what I am. Having split nationality implies being none of both, not being accepted a 100%. In country A you'll be told you're a B and vice versa. Those misinformed people will always remind you that you're not one of them. That I had lived on numerous occasions in Mexico. For a very long time I tried to keep up the battle, but the circus at the entrance of Monte Alban sealed off that period for good. From then on, I concluded, I would have to quit trying to make people clear who I am. One can only know one person well in his life, and that's oneself. Even so, sometimes we feel alienated from ourselves and we are incapable of knowing the self. Whatever the others claim you seem to be, unless they're more or less right, is total bullshit. Science can dissect a man's heart to learn how it works for educational purposes, but they cannot look inside it. So, from then on, I can say I've found peace with myself. I've learned to put myself above the ego and let it go. Wisdom comes not from others, it comes from inside. Only sometimes it needs to be instigated.

To end this quasi intellectual enclosure, I'll illustrate my conclusion with a phrase from the following poem by beat poet Allen Ginsberg, released posthumously:

It’s true I write about myself

Who else do I know so well?

For the full version click on: http://brechto.blogspot.com/2009/04/objective-subject.html

Picking up where we left off...

'And so the week passed on with frightening intranscendence. Monday I said my goodbye to the family, the last ones I'll see on this trip. Now I'll be moving around in more southern areas, where I think I will feel more at home. We'll see.'

This last sentence of my last blogpost dates from January 26, more than five month ago. During that time I wrote absolutely nothing, as you can tell from the blog. What happened? Fuck, I don't know. Well, a lot of things. I myself find it hard to believe that I reduced my literary activity to zero. There's several reasons. For instance, I didn't always have a computer with internet at my disposal, and if I did have one I didn't always find the time to write comfortably, i.e. with seas of time. But most important of all, I think I was roaming deep down inside life's abdomen. Living at 300 km/h. Ceasing the day until there is no more left to cease. Too busy enjoying life. Too busy enjoying life? Fucking hell, when has that ever occurred to me? This has to be further explained, don't you think? On many occasions I truly wished to post an anecdote or two, but I got to the point where I felt that I would miss something - anything - if I would dedicate some time to this self-imposed obligation. It sounds slightly exaggerated, but that's more or less the reason why I have published no reports on my travel activities. Anyway, for those who have been waiting for a sign of life and for those who haven't - and I honestly don't care if you wouldn't - here's an update of what I've been doing the moment I left my family in Leon. Unfortunately, in reduced version. Too many details would make up a text with more words than the bible. Maybe one day I'll exhibit it in its entirety in an autobiography (ahum...). But for now, here's what happened:

Enchantment in Veracruz, Olmec turf

After I finished my last family stop in Leon I hopped on a bus to Xalapa, the capital of the state Veracruz. Geographically, the state lies in both central and southern Mexico which explains a change of climate and vegetation in comparison with the northern states. Lush green valleys, lakes and ponds, humidity allover,... Personally, I enjoyed this change of ambient after months of intense traveling in northern and central Mexico, where predominantly arid land colored the view from the many bus-trips I undertook. The desert and the culture linked to it was starting to wear a bit out on me. If I were to choose between cowboys and indians, I'd surely go for the red-skinned hunter/food-gatherers. But that beside the point. As I was telling, I first visited Xalapa, which for a capital feels like a very cozy city to walk through. Hilly narrow streets, colonial architecture, a surprisingly considerable presence of 'green',... All this covered with a layer of chipi chipi, a local term to describe drizzle. Rainfall is not my climatological atmosphere of choice, but in this city it gave it an enchanting air.

As accommodation I relied on my favorite website couchsurfing.org. My host was Sergio, a 26-year old student with an impeccable English accent and a dubious sense of humour. All in all I have to admit my experience with him had been rather neutral. When he was around he wouldn't be very much communicative and for some reason he felt the need to emphasize the age difference between us (Something quite a lot of people tend to do on this continent. 21 years seems to be at the same level as 12. Strange.). Notwithstanding, I got along quite well with his friends and family. And as you do or may no know, the key to be accepted into a household is the mother. If you manage to gain her almost son like sympathy, you're in. However, this may sound like a competition. But honestly I simply enjoy getting along with my friends' mothers.

As with most large cities in Mexico, its surrounding villages and countryside are often very charming. In vox populi there is a verb called pueblear which roughly means 'village-hopping'. City slickers accustom going to the country to escape the madness from their urban environment, mainly during weekends. That way, their mind is temporarily revitalized so to endure the multilevel pollution of their cemented habitat. For me, I just enjoy hopping from one habitat to another. I visited a couple of said locations around Xalapa such as Coatepec, where allegedly the state's best coffee is grown and produced. During the short amount of time I was there, I managed to drink the worse coffee I'd had in a long while. Choosing arbitrarily does not always result successful, I learned. Afterwards I did another town with an impressive collection of cascades called Texolo. When I arrived there it was already getting dark and absolutely no people where around. The tourist facilities around the waterfalls where completely deserted. On top of that a dense cloud of fog covered the whole area, giving it a haunting 'Silent Hill'-esque feel. It felt like walking around the movie-set of a thriller. This ambient made the sighting of the cascades very worthwhile.

Next stop was Veracruz, the state's homonymous city. Known as 'Mexico's gateway to the world', today it's still the country's most important port. Also historically, Veracruz enjoys a reputation thanks to a series of successful military actions. No less than four times did the harbour city receive and defeat foreign invaders. First the last of Spanish troops, than the French and twice the U.S. army. This piece of extraordinary self-defense granted the city with the decorative title 'Cuatro Veces Heroica Veracruz' (Four Times Heroic Veracruz). What I like most about it however, is its Caribbean, almost Cuban feel. The light-coloured garment, the music genres, the people's accent,... It's, again, a different Mexico. For a while I was freed from the gunslinging, American cowboy infested norteño culture from the north. Here you'll find darker-skinned, slow-paced, charmfully dancing coastfolk.

My Couchsurf host this time was Josué, a visual artist from Guatemala. An incredibly wise man, stoical at all times, with a subtle sense of pleasant humour. A true indigenous descendant. He was intrigued by my goofy attempt to explain Belgian politics and our, so far one-year exceeding, absence of government. In parenthesis, that's something many people have found hard to believe.

I was lucky to be in town during the weekend. From Friday till Sunday the historic center converts into a a small nocturnal festival with live music all over. In fact, there's at least one band playing every night somewhere in town. Locals and foreigners come together in huge numbers on plazas and squares to dance salsa, danzon, Cuban son and marimba. At nightfall those genres echo through the streets announcing it's time to find a dance partner and burn away a few calories through some very contagious footwork. The most pleasant part of all is to observe the wide range of ages participating in the Terpsichore: from young turtledoves to near fourth-aged couples. If the band's playing salsa or any other upbeat rhythm you'll see couples swaying elegantly, swinging their limbs vigorously with incredible compatibility, forging the male-female into a harmonious unison. Same with slower paces, but instead you'll see predominantly older couples whirl adagio, as if they were competing for the slowest. Nonetheless, it's a heartbreaking sight to watch two veteran lovers express their affection through the turtle dance. What a much better way to spend quality time together than sitting in front of the tube, don't you think?

Josué's partner Céline, from Bretagne (France), recommended me to go visit Lake Catemaco, in the same state a bit further south. I was first planning on going straight to Oaxaca, but Céline's description of the lake totally convinced me and so from one day to another I changed my itinerary. Apparently, there was some sort of an eco village - 'Bahía Escondida' - run by a Swiss guy in a minuscule village right near the lake. Getting there was quite an adventure, as it always is when visiting untouristy villages. Once I arrived to Catemaco, the 'big' city near the lake, I had to take a collective pirate taxi to the that village where the eco hostel was. Those colectivos come in usually in two models: the standard family car and a type of van (I'm sorry, I'm lousy if comes to cars). Since the fare is often incredibly cheap, for instance 10 pesos (= 0.60 EUR), they collect as many people that can possibly fit into the colectivo. In Catemaco there were these vans that connect all communities around the lake with Catemaco. For the locals that's their only way of getting around. It was my first experience with said type of public transport and I have to admit it's quite enjoyable. Since the passengers are packed together almost like cattle it creates a brief moment of trivial sociability, depending on the people of course. Topics such as work, family and weather are commonly brought up.

The eco hostel was... mind-blowing, astounding, simply beautiful. More exact, the place where the Swiss guy had built his place. To get there you had to either take a little boat or walk for ten minutes over a narrow muddy path along the shore. So with my human-size backpack and bulky guitar case I took the dry way. Upon arriving I was met with picturesque bamboo huts neatly covered underneath tropical vegetation topped with a postcard view of the peaceful lake facing the hostel. This is also called the 'wow-effect'.

One day I went out hiking by myself. I didn't figure out exactly where I wanted to walk to, I'd just see what would cross my path. In one of the communities I passed I hooked up a conversation with a group of locals who were seated on the ground having e few beers. Actually, they asked me where I was heading to. I said there was this one village I was recommended by the hostel's owner. All four men started explaining the same directions differently in choir. That habit of a bunch of people talking through each other upon asking them for directions was something I'd encountered more often. Quite funny, that's for sure. After the guys were done explaining they invited me to have a glass of beer. I was totally surprised by their spontaneous kindness to a foreigner like me. I hadn't experienced such openness from local people on this trip, especially from yokels. Well, one beer became two, then three, then four,... I can't remember the exact figure of alcoholic beverages we had, but two of the guys had reached their limit. One of them stumbled home jabbering incoherences, the other fell asleep in a sitting position. I only reached a state of slight tipsiness. Walking back to the hostel to prepare dinner I realized what an interesting experience I'd just had as a result of accepting a beer from four guys sitting on the main road of their community. Oh right, one of them was sort of the domestic 'police officer' in charge of the town's security, and also someone occupied the position of major. That seems like a town I'd like to live in! Before leaving the guys offered to show me around for free, even on horseback. I agreed on coming but eventually I couldn't make it because I had to be in Oaxaca to meet my Couchsurf host. A true pity, I walked away from yet another unique experience now that I look back on it. Oh well, everything happens for a reason.

I'll halt here for now. There's still much to tell, which I'll expose shortly afterwards. I hope this recollection of anecdotes was of your delight.

The wedding and the divorce

After my previous, somewhat emotional post I'll continue where I left off two weeks ago. My cousin Magu had invited me to a wedding party despite the couple didn't personally send me an invitation card. I had met them a week before in Tepic, but only briefly and we weren't that sober either which made the encounter rather superficial. At first I was a bit reluctant to attend the ceremony for said reason, but eventually I conceded and invited myself as Alejandra's couple in order not to appear as an unkown party crasher. And why not? After my first wedding in a tiny town near the capital a few weeks ealier I could start turning it into a sport. So, Saturday quickly came around. For the first time on my trip I actually dressed up nice for the occasion, i.e. black jeans with minor holes, a borrowed shirt and a pair of black shoes. I even combed my hair. It felt strange, but whatever. In this life I always try to think 'why not?'. Really, that question can take you to places you never imagine you'd go to. It's like saying 'yes', but less direct. The wedding wasn't too formal. Everyone was kind of dressed for the occasion, but not to that extent that a whole two-week salary was spent for the outfit. Oh, right, the (now) married were Pillo and Francia, who decided to marry just to get over the hassle. Let me tell you both are very fond of norteño music, so it doesn't surprise that genre dominated throughout the whole wedding party. It could be classified as a boda ranchera, or a real cowboy wedding, only loaded with money. Lots of money. The event started around 14:00 with the ceremony taking place in the same salon where the party was held, seen that it was a civil marriage. No religion interfered. Despite that aspect, the ceremony lacked a bit in charm. But the subsequent celebration made everyone forget that part.

Three five-liter bottles of Red Label scotch, 300 bottles of beer, an all-you-can-eat taco stand and a jukebox playing non-stop banda and norteñas for not even a 100 guests. As you could imagine, I was prepared for a binging feast just like Bacchus commands, with the expectation of at least ending up lying completely zoned out on the grass like a squashed spider. Unfortunately, precisely on that day ole' uncle Murphy came to apply his law on to me. Thank you, asshole. From the beginning I started feeling a minor stomach ache that grew worse as the evening passed by, abstaining me from alcohol and delicious tacos. I couldn't even go number two. So there I was at the table, observing how everyone else - except for Magu who suffered of diarrhea that day - launched themselves onto the party's delights. Ah yes, most oportune. Well, in the end I did manage to eat and drink a bit, so the evening wasn't completely ruined.

The time I can't remember, but suddenly a large-numbered brass band appeared and started extremely loud banda music, comparable to norteño but more focused on wind instruments instead of guitar and accordion. While the poor jukebox had trouble making the invitees move, the band instantly lifted them up. It's fascinating to watch how live norteño music incites people, a phenomenon I've witnessed on various occasions. These Mexicans sure know how to fuel up a party with good vibes. Although I'm completely fed up with the now incredibly popular genre, I tried to dance to it anyway. It's not that hard. You just have to grab your partner close to you and jump around with cartoonesque allures. It's quite fun, actually. And it made me forget the discomfort in my bowels.

The evening slowly, but pleasantly turned into night while the band played on and the guests handed themselves over to drunken revelry, when a minor drama was starting to build up. I won't go further into it, instead I'll just say it inspired me to write the previous entry which reflects the moral weight I was carrying. It got a bit out of control when the party was moved from the salon to the couple's roof terrace of their house. Eventually I managed more or less to ignore the ordeal and enjoyed the rest of the night. Meanwhile Pillo was introducing me to his by then inebriated friends, most of them wealthy licencees with interesting stories about their cars and travels. There's only a slight sarcastic tone to it, because some of them had really interesting things to talk about. While I was chatting around suddenly a group of musicians started hoisting their equipment onto the roof terrace. Indeed, Pillo had ordered a second band to entertain the guests. This time, a norteño band consisting of accordion, guitar, bass and percussion. My cousin Magu told me they charged 3000 pesos (about 176 EUR) per hour. I didn't verify that figure, but just imagine the cost of hiring two bands playing for two hours or more. And so the party went on untill I was too tired to talk and drink. Unpercieved I descended and lay down, physically and mentally exhausted. I wasn't even slightly tipsy, probably due to the moral hangover as my cousin Mariana described it perfectly. The day was done.

In the end I had a pretty good time: a vibrant mood, people dancing, music, food, alcohol,... Indeed, it was a succesful evening despite the drama. Eventually it wasn't that unfortunate that I couldn't binge on. It would have worsened the situation without a doubt. And sometimes, it's kind of fun observing with sober eyes others evolve from decent, withhold and formal guests to loosend up, intoxicated and exhilirated satyrs. A bit lonely, but fun nonetheless.

After that weekend with a mindset of getting the fuck out, I left GDL and its affairs to make a final family stop in León, Guanajuato. Actually, I was ready to jump back into the unknown but I couldn't just ignore that part of my vast family tree who I hadn't seen in about ten years. Ten years! That's a whole lifetime. So there I stayed for week and left just time before I would be tempted anew to stay longer. Taken the long time gap into consideration I was confronted with a couple of interesting developments. For instance, the younger child of the bunch - Marcelo - has grown from a crying toddler into a 15-year old adolescent with an interest in music and parkour. The second youngest Manuel is now 19 years old and keeps himself busy with handicrafts, djembe and the guitar. I discovered he is one of the few cousins with similar interests and view on life. Then, both females Arzi (23) and Rosi (21) have become mothers of two. There you go, Mexicans are really hasty in that respect. It's kind of like: "Oh, gosh, 25 is coming close. I better get knocked up and marry quick so I can waste the best years of my life to early adulthood." Well, more or less. It's like how I look at it in a humoristic way. But obviously cultural differences make early family planning in this country common. Anyway, for the first time I was reminded that I've been an uncle for a quite a while without even noticing it. That was a pretty enlightening experience. When I heard them say: "Look darling, here's your uncle Diego", "What do you think of your uncle?" or "Your uncle Diego comes from very far" I was stunned, silenced, even endeared. Now that's instant aging right there.

In that week my cousin Armando and his girlfriend took me to the yearly fair which isn't that much different from fairs in Belgium with the exception of the food stands. Man, there was so much to eat for such moderately cheap prices! Endless rows of tacos, hamburgers, hotdogs, gorditas, more tacos, seafood, etc. colourize like christmas lights in the night. And don't forget the odours, they make you hungry all the time. A typical snack of that region are dorilocos: a bag of Doritos cut open and filled with peanuts, cucumber, tomato, animal skin and a very, very spicy sauce. A delicacy, only I couldn't finish it because it was way too hot for me. I couldn't even talk. The cool thing is, afterwards you get a high feeling, as if it were some kind of drug. Anyway, the rest of the week I spent hanging around with Armando's youngest brother Marcelo (15), who I feel kind of looked up to me. Manuel, the second youngest, taught me about working with leather, i.e. making handicrafts such as satchels and bracelets. Whenever he was home we would do some jamming, a delight I haven't experienced for a long time. On Saturday the family took me to Guanajuato, the state's capital, probably the most enchanting city of the republic. Extremely colonial, cozy plazas, colourful markets, street artists, romantic squares and narrow alleyways. Definitely, I could live here. But before that we went to see a high Jebus statue on a hill. Honestly, I wasn't really that interested since the symbolic meaning of the place is nihil for me. The view from the top was worth it, but lunchtime was my personal highlight of the day. Litteraly, I ate like a pig. The place was kind of an open house construction with inside a woodfired stove where Doña Carmen prepared the dishes and freshly made corn tortillas on. It was no more than a buffet: you simply pick a plate, grab some warm tortillas and serve freely from a dozen typical Mexican dishes. Man, it was eaters' paradise. All that for just 40 pesos (2.40 EUR). But because the lady knows my family for over 12 years now she charged us 30 pesos for everything, including drinks. Filled up with for two days for little money, now that's happiness right there. Later that day we even went for tacos at a place where everything you ordered was 2x1. I didn't need to eat anymore, but refusing tacos al pastor (spit-frilled pork) with cubed onions, coriander leafs and sweat chili sauce is just too hard. If there's one strong memory of Mexico I'll have back in Belgium, it's its cuisine.

And so the week passed on with frightening intranscendence. Monday I said my goodbye to the family, the last ones I'll see on this trip. Now I'll be moving around in more southern areas, where I think I will feel more at home. We'll see.

My rearview mirror

There is always a moment on this journey that it's time to leave. Wherever I am, after a while, whether after three days or four weeks, I feel something in me that suggests to pack my bag and take the first bus to nowhere. Not necessarily because I'm fed up with the people that I'm staying with, or because the place doesn't appeal to me. Moreover, it's a sudden need to change my state from still to action. Also, I always fear that I'm becoming a burden to my hosts after a while and therefore want to leave before any annoyances emerge so to avoid leaving a negative impression. A feeling of incommodity, nervosity, impatience in my veins helps to sense the moment. It happened in Austin after staying 10 days, in San Francisco after three weeks and it is happening now. Today marks the fourth week of my stay in Guadalajara and I more than eager to leave the place. However, the family plays an extra role in this story. Before coming, I cherished a naïve expectation of reuniting with them and happily forget the disputes and disagreements of the past. Of course, that's a pretty stupid thought. Quickly I recalled the wretchedness of a vast family tree. Besides, I noticed how different people we all are and how little they understand my way of life. If it weren't for our bloodlines, I would have absolutely no attachment to them. Only a few truly understand me, or at least try to. I enjoyed seeing back my family, but I have to admit I've had better times on this trip with other, totally unknown people. If it weren't for Alejandra, I would have left much earlier. Now, after this weekend I feel it's necessary to say my goodbye. I've stayed for too long, and I'm starting to do more bad than good. I can't cope with, or better, I don't want to cope with negative vibrations. This traveling mode is starting to fail. I can't stay too long in one place anymore. Firstly, because of my plan of getting to Buenos Aires by the time August hits the bend, secondly because I've learned now that attaching to the people I meet isn't always good. I'm thinking of changing my ways. Roadtripping, bushopping, a different city each night. Truly on the road, not staring at the walls. I'll see whether I keep up the effort. As we all know, life is like a box of chocolates and who knows how tomorrow will look like.

I want to walk the hemisphere
A different city every night
Empty bottles of beer in galore
To follow the flow
See where it takes me
Little time to affectionate
Superficialness is inevitable
Thank you and goodbye
Sorry if I hurt

Dancing with Bacchus and his ecstatic satyrs

The weekend that followed New Year was really just a prolongation of Friday's bacchanal. On New Year's day, while Mariana, Alex and I were recovering my cousin Magu finally showed up. His face, hidden underneath large shades and a cap, revealed his Friday night story. As I mentioned in the previous post, he suffered the consequences of hitting a liter of scotch and eating roast meat afterwards, being the following: vomiting all over his room, slipping over it while running to the bathroom and his mother who devoutly cleaned the entire mess up. His excuse? It was the roast meat who had done him bad. Ah yes, I've looked similarly over the years as a result of eating 'bad meat'. Anyway, Magu and I had planned to go to Tepic, a city about forty minutes away from the Pacific coast. Before we could leave however, his parents obliged him to attend mass at church as form of penitence. I decided to join him so we could leave immediately right after. Supposedly he's a catholic, but in fact spends the whole time observing attractive women and making immature jokes. I actually enjoyed myself in church for the first time in years.

Now, in Tepic we were offered to stay at Imelda's house, the girlfriend of Carlos who's a friend of Magu's, who stayed for two weeks at my place in Antwerp while he was studying architecture in Milan. After an hour and half of cruising on the road (it felt great to move fast again, especially after so many weeks of sedentary life), we finally arrived at the state's capital Tepic. Honestly, a pretty ugly city. We didn't stay long at the house. Immediately Imelda teamed up two friends to join the nocturnal journey. Two very lovely women, Sinahi and Alejandra. Perhaps the most pleasant girls I've met since Monterrey. The gang and I hopped only three bars, although enough for me to end up plastered yet again. In the second bar, were delicious draft beer was served, I quickly hauled in two one-liter cups of dark beer. While ordering my second round to the waiter I accidently ordered another one, who did not understand my sign indicating 'thanks'. To my surprise Alejandra embraced it and followed me all the way till the end. In a way it's pitiful, although also hilarious and maybe even typical, but Bacchus brought us together that night. In Belgium it is sometimes said that if you find a woman who drinks beer, you don't need to ask for more. Well, that Saturday was something like that, although not entirely true. Luckily, I've had the opportunity to talk to Alejandra with a sober conscious and it turned out be quite interesting. On that saturday night there were a number of memorable moments. In the last bar for instance, Alejandra and I were 'talking' when she suddenly fell from her stool. Since I was nearing the state of complete inebriation, not only had I no strength anymore, I couldn't stop laughing at all. Together with two others of the gang we lifted her up, luckily with no serious consequences. It wasn't my fault, seriously. Then, while driving back home Alejandra gave me - or I aksed her, I can't remember - her cell phone number. I was done typing the number into the device when suddenly, during an uncomfortable silence in the car, only disturbed by the radio, I asked her: "So, uhm, what's your name again?". Hyena-like laughter followed the question. That's Magu's version of the story. I, however, believe I was asking for her last name. Unfortunately, no one digs it. Luckily, we were both drunk which alleviated the humiliating situation a little. Back at Imelda's place we closed the night off with another beer, where those assholes were filling up my glass while I was giving a drunk sermon. Of course I didn't notice it and they were pushing me to drink faster. That marked the end of the writer's nocturnal escapade. Magu assisted me with removing my shoes and covering me with a blanket. That's what I call cousinly love.

The next day there was no time to recover from the hangover. The same gang minus Alejandra and I had full-day excursion to the sea. We went to a beach close the San Blas that's not infected by large buildings such as hotel resorts, restaurants and apartments. It was my first visit to the sea on this trip and as I far as I can remember, I had never seen such a civilization- and tourist-free beach. Apart from some palapas, dwellings with roofs made out of dried palm leaves, there was no more human construction to be found. We drove our car up all the way till the sand just like the others. You could see families with their cars parked near the shore sitting around fireplaces drinking, eating and most of all enjoying the view. There were actually plants and birds and things around. Before I went for a swim I gazed to the surroundings on top of a rock, contemplating about what had happened the night before and more. A beach like that definitely lends itself for any kind of meditation, just like standing on top of a mountain. While I was standing on that rock I concluded that the latter attracts me more. I'm definitely a mountain. Or maybe I haven't witnessed a sea which evokes the same melancholic feeling like a view from a peak does. Anyway, we stayed there for while, ate a little in one of the palapas and drove to San Blas. There, in a bar at around three in the afternoon we were hitting some cocos locos, coconuts filled with an undefined mix of strong spirits and coconut milk. I felt Bacchus creeping from behing the door again. It didn't escalate like the day before, though. The rest of the day isn't much worth mentioning. Back at Imelda's house Magu, Sinahi and I went out for some pizza. After she left, the two of us drank a last beer in the dark on top of the house listening to mariachi songs about shattered love and drowning sorrows in tequila. Jolly. New Year's weekend had come to an end, and good too. My body was broken.

Another week passed by like a day with a few highlights here and there. Rendezvous with Alejandra, a family get-together, meeting Magu's friends,... Time is a terrible enemy. For the weekend that was to follow my cousin Andrea organized a trip to Tequila, birthplace of the homonymous spirit. The idea was to get together only the direct cousins, but everyone brought along a friend or partner. With a gang of about 13 people we stayed at an enormous genuine hacienda in middle of town. The house was easily over a hundred years old, including its furniture, paintings, books, etc. A true historical gem. My cousin Sergio's girlfriend Paulette - who is the living version of Minnie Mouse only without the big ears - her family owns the place. They use the hacienda only for recreational purposes and social gatherings of all kinds. With other words, we had a free place to crash and it wasn't the least. We only had to pay a ridiculous small amount to the lady who takes care of the house and even kooks for the guests. I've experienced some very interesting social differences while traveling and the weekend at the hacienda marked another highlight. Indeed, Sergio didn't choose the poorest girl on the street. Interesting how going with the flow takes you to places you wouldn't imagine going to. An interesting aspect of the house was its alleged hauntedness. Paulette had warned us in advance that many people had died in there and how sometimes creepy apparitions of a man in a black cape or a girl would hover around. There was also an American who had taken a picture of a mirror wherein the image of a deceased family member is visible. She told us that many hired shamans confirmed the spiritual gravity of the house. Well, for a sceptic, sober European like me it's hard to take those warnings serious. But here in Mexico, and perhaps in more Latin American countries, there exists a much stronger belief in the spiritual world and all of its manifestations to the human eye. Obviously, that creates a vicious circle where clever charlatans take advantage of easily deceived people who are ready to believe anything supernatural served on a plate.

Anyway, in Tequila my cousin Andrea proposed to the group to get on one of those ridiculous tourist cars that take you around town and to a couple of distilleries. I wasn't really fond of the idea, but we all accepted in the end and it turned out to be an entertaining ride. In the barrel-shaped tourist vehicle were already a few quiet families whose silence was abruptly disturbed by our tumult, mainly caused by my cousin Magu and his friend Carlos. It was hilarious alright, but I felt embarrassed sometimes because they wouldn't let the guide speak. Then, while driving the chauffeur - baptized by us as 'Paco' - would turn off the lights, crack the volume knob open and ignite the disco ball. Indeed, there was even a disco ball in that car. The tour consisted mainly of two parts: information about Tequila the town and the spirit, and samples. My noisy group of cousins and friends requested so stubbornly the tequila-tasting part that the guide actually gave up talking and led us straight to the bottles. It didn't stop there, though. In fact, it felt like going on an excursion with my class in secondary school: always making noise, never listening. I did however learned how to taste tequila properly, just like wine. Seriously.

After the party tour we bought everything needed to continue the night adequately: a five-liter plastic jar of white tequila, several bottles of Squirt, ice and crisps. The rest you can imagine. It was kind of the classic five-phase scheme of inebriation. The following morning I felt like absolute shit. The worst hangover I've had in years. All went well till I got out of bed, when yesterday's bacchanalia came to collect the price. Surprisingly, I was the only one in that lousy state. It was that bad that I couldn't even eat, just when the housekeeper prepared hot cakes. A truely sad moment. Oh well, that's a fair price to pay for alcohol-induced funtime. That sunday we rolled out with a relaxed visit to some beautiful springwater-based pools.

Good times, good times...

GDL homecoming

About three weeks ago I finally arrived at Guadalajara, my second hometown. From the very beginning of this trip various cousins have been asking me when I would come since they had all heard the Belgian cousin was coming back after four years. Four years. Even for me that's too long. As a kid my parents and I used to come over more frequently, sometimes leaving a year or two in between. Honestly, partly because of rebellion, partly because I was fed up doing the same thing each year, I stopped going. But about two years ago I started feeling that urge to look up the other part of my identity again, which I had been neglecting during the years in Belgium. My adultery-commiting uncle Nacho in Monterrey pointed it out to me perfectly: "La sangre llama" (Blood calls). And he's right. After staying for a long while at the other side of the Atlantic I couldn't stop thinking of Mexico. Its food, its music, its people and of course the family. Not that I get along well with all of them, because there are really way too much of them, but there are some family members who I hold close to my heart. So as you could imagine, the reunion with my closest cousins at the bus station was very gladdening. And even though it had been four years since I last stepped foot on Mexico, it didn't seem like that long when I saw their faces. It's interesting how long time lapses can be absolutely meaningless, sometimes. Sometimes, because in the course of the following weeks I would notice how different people we've all become, or at least me. Sometimes I have the impression that I'm the only one who's changed in comparison with the rest. For instance, they seem to take pleasure in denominating me a 'rebellious, tree-hugging hippy' for my ripped clothes, ideologies and inability to make plans. Most of all my clothing habits have become a target for mockery. My aunt Rosana offered me to buy a new pair pants, while aunt Elia - feeling so sorry for my paint-covered seven euro shoes - bought me a new pair for Christmas which I in the meantime have exchanged for a pretty cool sailor-like army bag. They weren't really my style, honestly. I haven't told her, though. She'll probably resent it, but, fuck it. I explicitly asked her not to buy me any clothes. Furthermore she doesn't understand I can't carry too much weight anymore. But anyway, it was nice to see them again.

After the hugging part of the reunion my cousins immediately started asking me after my plans, a word I haven't used a lot on this trip. Since I don't really have any, Elia's children decided I should stay at their house for the first couple of days. Oh wait, before I continue, let me outline my family tree briefly. Or else the story will get pretty confusing, even for me.

Okay, so as far as I'm informed the tree dates back to a mixed marriage of a pale-skinned man and an indigenous woman from the Purepecha tribe. I don't recall their names, nor how many children they had, but I know that one of them bore three sisters: Maria Teresa, Lurdes and Lupe. I'll take that as a starting point.

• My great-grandmother - who's name I don't remember - had three children, those who I mentioned above.

• Maria Teresa, better known as 'Tita', is my late grandmother. She and my also late grandfather had three daughters: Rosana, Elia and my mother Maria Teresa

• Rosana has three children: Mariana, Ignacio and Angel - referred to as the Diaz family. Elia likewise: Andrea, Sergio and Carolina - the Gonzalez family. My mother: me.

• But then my grandmother's sisters also procreated. Lupe only bore one daughter: Cecilia. She has been married for five years but no children have emerged from that marriage. Unlike Lurdes, who gave birth to no less than 12 children. About 15 years ago one of them died in a car accident. The remaining 11 bred like rabbits. I estimate a total of around 33 cousins from that family branch. Only four of them I know by name. The rest I hardly ever meet. They're referred to as the Villa family.

• Then there is my grandfather's family, who I barely know or see. And the prodigy of my grandmothers' cousins, the family-in-law of my aunts' husbands,...

• As you can see, my family tree gets pretty complicated after a while. So I'll leave it here for now. I hope you got a better understanding, because I don't, really.

So first I stayed at the house of the Gonzalez for a week, afterwards at the Diaz'. I spent the days visiting relatives, talking and eating with them. All good. On the first Tuesday my cousin Magu took me to a lucha libre competition, the Mexican equivalent of U.S.'s professional wrestling, but much more fun. Honestly, I don't really enjoy sports wherein two guys are beating the shit out of eachother, especially when they adopt sexually tinted combat moves that make it look like hardcore gay porn. But in lucha libre the whole folklore around the ring is more interesting than the fight itself. For instance, Magu and I had balcony tickets, there where supposedly the 'poor' are seated, whereas below near the ring the 'rich' people are. Between those two levels there is a constant verbal war wherein both parties insult eachother. This happens during the fights, which consequently makes it difficult to pay attention to the show. On the balcony, there's a group of people - mainly men - that dispose of a wide range of fixed shouts. For example, if close to the ring an attractive woman walks by the group will shout 'vuelta!', 'vuelta!' (turn!, turn!), which indicates that the woman has to make a little pirouette to show what she's got. Or if during a short break the showgirls appear from behing the scenes they are requested to jump to, you know, let it bounce. If she does so, she is rewarded with the unflattering comment: 'Esa sí es puta!', meaning 'That's a slut, alright!'. Also fellow spectators can be target of these mockings. If you by any chance look like a celebrity such as Justin Bieber or Austin Powers, you'll sure be the victim of the group's ridiculing. Unsurprisingly, so was I. My Tarahumara sandals, fuzzy hair and shorts gave them enough reason to call me Judas Thaddaeus and Barabas. That happened when we were leaving the coliseum. Just when I thought I was safeguarded from them, 20 men in line shouted 'Judas Tadeo, chinga a tu madre!' (J.T., fuck your mother). Oh well, I didn't mind. It was all part of the show.

The same week my cousin Andrea gave me my first paid job as a carrier and sticking adhesive labels on enveloppes. Nothing extroadinary, luckily I had enjoyable female company who alleviated the boring burden of our repetitive task. I had quite a time chatting with them, especially when they discovered my origin, and even more when I told I spoke a little bit of French. That really knocked them out. It wasn't the first time I noticed that speaking French here is considered extremely romanticm, mostly by women. An interesting contrast with Belgium, where in the north the language is looked at with digust. After the second workday the Gonzalez family organized a pre-Christmas dinner/posada for the direct family. Unfortunately, I had fallen ill badly that day which left me in no mood for a family get-together. A number of things made me feel annoyed about the whole thing, such as my uncle Jesus (Aunt Elia's husband) who over the years has grown very grumpy, grouchy. Well, I can't comment too much because of the public character of this journal. But in general I felt pretty bored at the dinner because I didn't stop comparing it with last year's Christmas weekend with friends in a mountain cot loaded with food and a shitload of alcohol, free from irritating jolly Christmas songs and traditional ornaments. That was the best profane Christmas ever. The whole religious aspect of the dinner at the Gonzalez made my eyes roll till they almost popped out. At one moment, Jesus was reading from the bible after which we all had to say thanks to niñito Dios (baby Jesus) for something we were grateful for. By the way, in the state of Jalisco the coming of Santa is remplaced by the birth of Jesus who for reasons unknown hands out gifts to the faithful. I didn't have anything specific to thank our friend Jebus for, but to avoid any desillusion amongst my family members I quickly invented something about being happy of being reunited after four years of absence. It actually hurt telling a lie of such proportion, as if my agnostic persona was trying to refrain me of saying bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I'm highly pleased to meet my beloved cousins, uncles and aunts again after so long. On of my objectives of this trip was to reunite for the urge to return was bigger than ever. But it wasn't Mini Jebus who paid my plane ticket to cross the Atlantic, it was my boss back in Belgium who sought after it. And my own self, my concious who said: "Fuck it, it's time leave this place." Not God, not his son, nor a flying spaghetti monster, me. Anyway, I tried to made to make the best out of it. Tolerance is a difficult but valuable virtue. Embarrassment kicked in however, when it was time to hand out the gifts. Taken as en easy but valid excuse, due to my limited travel budget I didn't have anything to give (not that I'm a splendid gift person...). To my surprise I received a number of gifts such as chocolates, cookies and even money. I could have crawled in my hole. They didn't mind I had nothing to exchange. With only your presence it's more than satisfactory, they told me. It's hard to believe, but they didn't make a deal out of it so neither did I.

Later that week I had to endure a second Christmas dinner, this time only with the Gonzalez family. It was alright: we had pizza, there were gifts, nice chattings. It didn't stop there, though. The next day I was invited to yet another Christmas meal at great-aunt Lupe's house. It wasn't dinner, but rather lunch, in Mexico called el recalentado (the warmin-up) referring to heating up the same dinner of the day before. That was about enough Christmas celebrations for me in a while. Hmm, I guess I'm turning slowly into a grynch after all. Not like in the movie, though. The best part of the whole celebration is getting together, eating multiple indigestions and drinking in the name of Our Lord Jebus, savior of this damned world. Well, there wasn't much drinking involved, but I ate like a horse.

Several days passed with interesting and less interesting facts worth mentioning until suddenly we hit the last day of the year again. Aah, New Year, my favourite celebration of the year. Much is discussed about this day, both negatively and positively. In its essence it's also no more than an excellent excuse to get together and feast. Although New Year is just another day in life - merely an exaggeration of a Friday night - it is the last day of yet another year which has to be said goodbye to with a bang. Particularly its naive positive message attracts me: try to do and/or be better with this change of year. It's a moment where everyone's rejoicing and confirming the presence of their loved ones. Obviously, all this has become much too forced, exaggerated, just like Christmas. And I believe few people actually try to make a difference with each new beginning of year. But that's not important. The part of getting together not only with friends and family, but with everyone in your neighbourhood is the most interesting, I believe. As I like it, massing up in a big city with loads of alcohol to watch the fireworks and afterwards party till sunrise. Of course, if you're not into big crowds and all that overdone shit, there's plenty of other possibilities. Anyway, none of what I just mentioned was to be found in the center of Guadalajara. The second biggest city of Mexico, ten in the evening and no life whatsoever. No kids playing with fireworks, no youngsters boozing up for midnight, no massive movements of people, no music, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The scene was sad. Because of a lack of money and disorganization my cousin Mariana, Alex a friend and I ended up roaming the the city for action. Being kind of our last resort, I didn't think it was such a bad idea until I witnessed the solitude on that last day of the year. Apparently, everyone ships of to the coast like Puerto Vallarta where all the buzz is. And also, according to Alex, seen that New Year has no religious background whatsoever there's no reason to celebrate it in Mexico, especially in conservative Guadalajara. The scene was rapidly turning less comforting. As the three of us were walking to a bar Mariana suggested, and eventually turned out to be closed, we witnessed how poorly crowded bars were closing its doors as midnight neared. Our situation was slowly moving from sad to pathetic. The only person who could have saved us was my cousin Magu, who called us to tell us that he was going to pick us up in an hour. Unfortunately, the man drank himself shitfaced on whiskey consequently slipping away on his own vomit in his room, so we were told the next day. And so, still in the believe Magu was coming to pick us up, we decided to walk in the first bar that comes up to have a beer until his arrival. While we were walking through a park I suddenly heard live music from a distance. As we were approaching the place turned out to be a rock bar barely filled till half and a band playing famous rock and metal songs on request. "Not bad", we thought. Mariana, Alex and I sat down, ordered a cubeta - litteraly a bucket of beer on ice - and didn't leave the place until the joint closed its doors. The new year was heralded with the band's rendition of Steppenwolf's 'Born To Be Wild', an excellent tune to start 2011. Great music, good beer, pleasant vibe, enjoyable company,... that's all it takes to make a succesful evening/night. We had forgotten about Magu, eventually.

Well, there's still more to be told but I'll leave it here for a moment. Although New Year was 10 days ago, I still wish you all a pleasant new beginning of 2011. Enjoy it, because the year's already almost over.