...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.
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