Puerto Escondido

I wanted out of Acapulco. The hostel was fine. The people were nice. It wasn't overly expensive. The bay was beautiful. Still, big cities tend to make my skin crawl. Sander and Albert wanted to stay an extra day, so I bid them adieu and headed for the bus station.

The plan was to take the 11pm bus to the small town of Puerto Escondido, hailed as the surf capital of Mexico. By taking the overnight bus, I'd sleep through the trip and, of course, wouldn't have to pay for a hostel.

That was the plan at least. As when Andrew and I took the overnight bus from Cuzco to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, I was mistaken. Oh, the bus took all night to get to Puerto Escondido, but there was hardly any sleeping done.

When I'd bought my ticket the day before, I was told there was only one more seat remaining after mine. That was in fact true; however, what the ticket agent didn't add was that all the seats being filled did not prevent the bus company from selling past capacity.

As I crammed myself into my seat next to a friendly Mexican teenager, I looked first with amusement, then with horror, as I realized that the 15 or so people jammed in the aisles were not going to be escorted off the bus when the driver came through to verify tickets. The engines cranked up, the door shut (sealing off the last bit of fresh air I'd get), and we were off.

As conditions were less than ideal, I tried my damndest to get to sleep as quickly as possible. It wasn't happening. The pleasant Mexican teen fell asleep before I did and threw elbows and knees at me. I was the aisle seat and so the various, squirming aisle standers jostled and bumped me as they rotated to the bathroom. Of course, children cried. Apparently, as it was December, it must have been against company policy to turn on the AC, even though it was 80 degrees outside the bus and rapidly climbing past 90 degrees inside. As it grew hotter, and hotter, the babies cried more, the aisle standers got antsier and the Mexican teen stepped up his somnapugilistic efforts. Oh, and my seat was closest to the bathroom. Behind my seat and the bathroom wall, a mother and child had crammed themselves for the ride. Whenever the bathroom door would open, and it opened often, I was blasted with no less than what I hopefully never confirm as the stench of Hell.

Bleary-eyed, sweaty, and abominably cranky, I stepped off the bus nine hours later (the trip was only supposed to last eight hours, of course) completely refreshed.

Sadly, Puerto Escondido is what everyone else would prefer their vacations to be like. I found a cheap, relatively comfortable place to stay. Te beach and town were beautiful. The water was magnificent. I lay in the sun and drank beer and piña coladas. Beach vendors peddled their wares; a few offered to sell me "mahr-ee-wanna" and "koh-keye-eena." I exerted myself about as much as a clam. I did that for five days.
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Albert and Sander met me a day after I arrived. They joined me in my sun-drenched inertia. We joked incessantly. They decided to stay in town a few more days so I won't run into them again most likely. They were good traveling buddies.

Two quick stories about the Dutchmen:

1. Our first night in Acapulco, as we walked toward the cave divers, they attempted to draw me into a discussion on politics. I refused, much to their annoyance, and explained that I don't talk politics with anyone since a) talking does nothing and b) it just gets people angry and frustrated. Albert decided to make it a one way discussion about how the US spends too much money on its military when it could be providing health care and improving its infrastructure; the evidence he relied upon came from documentaries he'd seen.

I managed to withstand his baiting for approximately 42 seconds. The political "discussion" ended with everyone's blood up and me ranting wildly to Sander about the French unemployment rate as Albert ran off to join in on a night game of soccer on the beach. Sander politely waited til I paused for breath and then bolted for soccer as well.

2. Another night in Acapulco, old man that I am, I turned in early. They boys were headed to one of the town's many night clubs. In the middle of the night, I awoke to screaming and cussing, mostly cussing. The roaring argument out in the hallway was protracted, featured cursing and accusations in English, French and some other language, and was punctuated with a deafening THWACK! I knew that a Californian and French Canadian were staying next door, so I assumed that they'd come in blitzed. I considered going out in the hall to get them to calm down, but decided nothing good would happen from that.

I was therefore astonished when myh door opened and Albert pushed Sander, gripping a bloody hand, inside. I sat up. "That "$%!ing -----!" bitched the normally preternaturally pleasant Sander.

"You got in a fight with the French Canadian?" I asked incredulously.

"No! Albert! The "$%!ing -----!"

The next day, full of remorse and bewilderment, Sander could only assume someone put something in his drink. His hand was swollen from punching what turned out to be a door (which he had to pay for). He swore off drinking and was back to his normal cheerfulness. In Puerto Escondido, he did have to get antibiotics for the hand, since it had gotten infected.

"Happy" Beach of Acapulco (By Popular Demand)

The first day I was at the beach for five hours. The water was clear, cool, and refreshing. The sun was radiant. I ended up with a mild sunburn.

I went back to the same spot the next day. I rented a chair and an umbrella. For the most part, I wrote, read, and napped. Later in the day, while writing, I noticed an old, fat, leathery white man with frost tipped hair, in a speedo, lying on his stomach, 15 feet away from me. He was facing me and staring at me through the unsquinted eye (the other being squinted because of the sun). I was wearing sunglasses, so he couldn't tell I'd noticed him staring at me. I paid him no attention and went back to writing. After about an hour of his unwavering glare, I wondered to myself, "Why in the hell is he eyescrewing the pudgy, pale honky, when there's a beach full of muscular latinos?"

That's when it dawned on me. I was in a part of the beach full of muscular latinos (and other men). I'd chosen that part of the beach because it wasn't crowded and I'd had a good time the day before (surrounded by men AND women). Apparently the gays take over on Saturdays. I hadn't noticed because of the writing, reading, and napping.

Other than a group of four women at a table in front of me, I counted no less than 20 men in the area around me, most, if not all, in briefs, speedos, or, in one case, what I can only politely describe as a banana hammock. The reality of the situation hit me with full force. The guys wrestling in the surf weren't buddies horsing around. It wasn't a friend innocently asking his friend to put sunscreen on his back. The two guys walking back and forth near the water weren't scouting for women. The poor looking young guys hanging out in the
rock formations at the end of the beach weren't just poor locals who couldn't afford to rent a chair or umbrella. (I will be explicit. They were prostitutes. I noticed another fat, old white man wander off behind the rocks and one of the prostitutes waved at me.)

I paid for the chair and umbrella, dammit. I wasn't leaving. The only concession I made to my discovery was that when I went to swim, I went to where the women were. I also made sure to leave well before sunset.

Scenes from Acapulco

New format for the ADD impaired. See if this holds the audience's attention better.

- There are certain things that randomly strike one as very odd, no matter how many times or how long one has been in another country. One of these was the other morning when I ordered breakfast. To begin with, ordering enchiladas for breakfast seemed off, but I went with the flow. The nice lady asked me what I wanted to drink, cafe o leche. As I'm not a coffee drinker I went for milk. Four minutes later I was given a microwaved cup of milk I had to break the cooling skin to get to. I suppose all that separated it from Starbucks was a
snort of coffee and 3ozs of azucar, but still, damn strange.

-Albert, Sander and I very specifically asked what time the bus to Acapulco was the day before we left. We all heard the agent at the counter say 11am. When we arrived at 1005am, a different agent informed us that the bus had left at 10am. We had to wait for the 2pm bus. Typical.

-A friend told me, "Enjoy the Myrtle Beach of Mexico," when I said I was headed to Acapulco. He was wrong; it's more Daytona Beach.

-The hostel was a bit pricy ($15) but across the main avenue from the beach. It also had air conditioning. The downside? The rooms were 8'x6'3" and had 4 bunks. Submarine quarters are more spacious. The showers weren't cold, but they didn't get hot. After my first sunburn, I realized this was a good thing.

-We arrived after sunset. I wanted to see the cliff divers, whose last show was at 1030pm. I suggested we walk to get the lay of the land and to scout out something to eat. Both Dutch, having made repeated comments in the last few days about how lazy and fat Americans are, griped about walking. I teased them into acquiescence. I insisted we eat at the aptly named, "Tacos and Beer", of course.

-I bought sunglasses from a local market. I choose to believe they are UV protected and that they're not merely darkened plastic giving unfettered, ruinous access to my retinas. I choose to believe that.

-Of course I find my favorire pens in an office depot in Acapulco. The dozen I bought are my most expensive purchase to date.

-I like Mexican food. Hell, I love Mexican food. But I'm sick of it. I walked by a BK and saw a sign for a Whopper Furioso! Of course I got one. The receipt had it labeled "combo-Angry."

Taxco

Taxis in Mexico City are notoriusly dangerous. The typical danger in getting in a random taxi is that the taxi driver will rob you, or he will arrange to have you robbed by his cousins, either by taking you to them, or having them "hold up" the taxi. As such, you are only supposed to get in taxis which you have called for. The taxis by phone are more expensive but safe.

The hostel called a taxi for me and it arrived ten minutes later. The driver seemed nice enough; he had a cross hanging from his rearview and a New Testament in his front passenger seat. Not that those necessarily deserve an expectation of upright, Christian behavior; porn stars often have crosses eithger hanging from necklaces or tattooed upon them while then engaging in all manner of, decidedly, un-Christian acts (That I am aware of this speaks as to un-Christian aspects of my nature).

At any rate, I felt secure even as he drove me north, then west, then south, then east. I knew this for two reasons. First, I wear a compass around my neck when I'm off "adventuring." Second, we arrived at the south end of the Zocalo (main plaza), two blocks away from my hostel. Were I paying by the meter, I'd have been furious, but, as the ride was a fixed price, I merely thought to myself, "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"

Eventually, our circuitous route did in fact lead us to the southern bus terminal. I was slightly amused to discover that the bus to Taxco (and a luxury bus at that) was less than $10US and was less expensive than my, still relatively cheap, taxi ride. I hopped on the next bus and snoozed til my arrival.

I went to Taxco by what I consider to be an edict from no less than the Almighty. Both my mother AND my father insisted I go there. As they have been divorced from each other these 20 years and have agreed only one other time (that I am surely their child, after, as a young boy, I'd casually remarked/hoped I was adopted or switched at the hospital), I had no choice in the matter; Taxco it was.

I lit from the bus at about 4pm and attempted, as best I could, to navigate my way to the hostel I'd chosen from the Lonely Planet guidebook. My problem lay in the fact that Taxco is a colonial mountain town. As such, the streets were extraordinarily narrow and completely devoid of any particular rhyme or reason. The map in the guidebook was about as useful as a fifth nipple. I knew the hostel I'd chosen adjoined the local market, so up I climbed, sure there was no way I'd fail to sight something so basic as a mercado.

Wrong.

In my mind's eye, I envisioned a centrally located plaza, full of shops, laid out in a rational manner. While that might be the platonic ideal of a market, what I accidentally stumbled across was no less than a Daedalusian maze nestled amongst buildings no more than seven feet apart in no arrangement of city planning discernable from sheer chaos. Relying on my army training, I wandered hither and thither, attempting to use obvious landmarks to find my way. Eventually, I located the place but solely because I walked past two gringoes on a stairwell and surmised they must have come from somewhere nearby. Sure enough, I found the Hostal de Arrellana nearby.

The hostel had the simplicity and cleanliness of a Grecian Island Bed and Breakfast. For a modest price, I was given my own room just off the third terrace. The room had two simple, yet thoroughly satisfactory, beds and the communal bathroom was only fifteen feet away. It featured a shower similar to one I'd had in Milan a few years ago, meaning it was in the same compartment as the toilet. Thus, once one removed the toilet paper and trashcan (as in other 3rd world countries, used toilet paper is thrown away, not flushed), a shower had the additional, decadent delight of dousing a household fixture.

Leaving my bags in the room, I wandered out into the labyrinth. It isn't possible to get lost when one not only does not know, but neither cares, where one ends up. Thus, after stumbling amongst rows upon rows of stands offering food, shoes, clothes, dvds, toys, and, above all, tacky silver jewelry, I found myself a block away from a restaurant the guidebook recommended for its particularly local flavor.

The next day, upon arising and walking out for the day, I ran into the two gringoes who'd inadvertently shown me the way there the night before. They did not recognize me because I'd shaved the night before. Once out of Mexico City, the necessity of protecting myself through slovenly appearance had dissipated and I wanted to be able to get a uniform tan...and I wouldn't necessarily mind not repulsing femininas for the duration. At any rate, I met Sander and Albert, twenty-something professionals from Holland just beginnning a five month Latin American trek.

It turned out we were headed on the same path, not only in Taxco, but also afterwards in Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, and Oaxaca, and so then and there decided to join forces. Sander has long reddish curly hair; Albert has short, dirty blondish hair. They both speak English well and joke all of the time. They are incredibly good natured.

As the primary draw of Taxco is its silver, and we were but impoverished travellers, we decided upon going to the famous cave complex, Las Grutas, 30km away. Taxis in Taxco are ubiquitous and are, uniformly, 1970s VW Bugs. Unlike Mexico City, they are not dangerous, save for unwary pedestrians. There are no sidewalks so one must be ever wary when walking along the sides of the streets. Even most of the cars that aren't taxis are VW Bugs, which I'm tempted to think is because other cars won't fit on the streets (though in actuality there are, so maybe Taxcoans really, really like Bugs). As it is, one must press himself against the walls of buildings every few feet as a car passes by, or, occasionally, to step into a doorway so as not to get smushed. Any walking is made all the more challenging by the fact that apparently no one in Taxco works. All day long, the sides of the streets are filled with half the townspeople standing around. The other half are driving the taxis and honking their horns.

We went to the bus station and took a "combi" out to the cave. Combis serve as a privatized form of public transport and are thus, uniformly and expectedly, 1970s VW Vans. We crammed ourselves into a combi and off we went. An interesting, yet thoroughly dangerous, aspect of a combi is that the side door is left open, even when hurtling around hairpin turns at breakneck speeds. There are, of course, no seatbelts.

At the Grutas, we ate a quick lunch outside and then stumbled upon the dimly lit pathway 2km into the interior of a mountain as tour groups of Mexican children shrieked all around us. Unlike most caves which keep a uniform cool temperature and are moistureless, the Grutas had visible clouds of humidity and was stifling hot. I surmised that was from the breath and body heat of the thousands of visitors a day.

When we arrived back at the hotel in mid afternoon, we sat on the upper terrace, drank cheap beer, and basked in the sunshine. We soon struck up an acquaintance with an Australian girl who'd just checked in, and she joined us in our reverie. At first she appeared to be a world weary traveller, but, by and by, that mask cracked. At a point she asked how old we thought she was. Albert and Sander guessed 24 and 25, respectively, but, this not being my first rodeo, I guessed 19 and shocked the astonished teenager with my deft skill at identifying immaturity. Any attraction I may have been able to develop vanished the moment I realized she was a child.

The four of us spent the remainder of the evening jabbering about all manner of nonsense, while drinking beer and searching for a place to eat supper. After supper, old man that I am (or prefer to be), I bid my companions adieu and hit the sack. The next day Albert, Sander, and I were on a bus to Acapulco.

Teohtihuican

I´d signed up the night before for the day trip to Teotihuican, the largest native ruins near Mexico City. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the tour included the Plaza of the Three Cultures and the Basilica of Guadalupe. We got out of the van at the plaza and Pepe, our guide, had us introduce ourselves. I was the only American. Along for the tour were Alex, a Quebecois TV writer, two female Australian writers, Jaako (a Fin), a Czech woman, and a Mexican music producer from Tijuana. The Mexican was white with mussed lack hair and was hiding behind retro-chic sunglasses. Somehow, he wore his tight black jeans in a way where they were falling off his butt. His grey, zippered, hooded sweatshirt was open, revealing a Pac Man t-shirt, and his sleeves were pulled up to show his tattoed arm. He was approximately 5'6" and 130lbs and I surmised by the way he announced he was a music producer that he was, in point of fact, a butthead. When he further claimed that his uncle taught Carlos Santana how to play guitar, that his maternal grandfather founded a prestigious local university, and when he proceeded to interrupt Pepe to add his own thoughts on the tour, I was sure he was a butthead.

The three cultures represented are the Mexican (by a hideous modern monstrosity of a building at the edge), the Aztec (by the foundations of their Tlalelolco pyramids), and the Spanish (by the Templo de Santiago, a 17th century church). I was fascinated by the church because of its staned glass windows. They looked to simply be colored stones rather than glass and the effect their light had on the interior of the church was beautiful.

We then went to the complex of churches which make the grounds of the Basilica de Guadalupe. The Basilica is a Marianic church (dedicated to Mary and not Jesus), arguably the largest in the world. Mary of Guadalupe is hailed as "Queen of Mexico and Empress of the Americas." As I was a) wearing shorts and b) firmly against the concept of Marianic churches, I did not enter any of the buildings but instead soaked up the ambience and sunshine of the massive courtyard as, bizarrely, a flute band played "Sound of Silence."

Pepe had given everyone an hour to explore the churches so I had time to spare. Pepe had revealed the tour included neither admission to Teotihuican nor lunch, so I was a bit light in the wallet. After getting a reasonable amount of money out from a nearby bank, I ventured to get something to eat as well. I considered getting a cheap burger as a mid-morning snack but was quite pleased with myself for instead getting a large cup of freshly cut watermelon...until AFTER I took the first bite. Then the idiocy of eating unwashed fruit comprised of a majority of local water struck me. The thought of Montezuma's Revenge as I stumbled around an archaelogical site looking for a bathroom did not stop me from eating the rest of the fruit. I figured I was doomed already so I might as well enjoy myself.

Just outside of Teotihuican, Pepe took us to a local establishment where a man taught us about the myriad uses the Aztecs and other native peoples had for a special breed of cactus, to include making paper, clothing, and, of course, alcohol. If you are averse to drinking, don't come to Mexico. They gave us each three different shots. The first was a milky one which tasted honey-like and the music producer said was partially fermented using human excrement. Pepe did not correct him... The second shot was an almond-flavored liqueur which was rather thick. The last as simply tequila. I took the one with the worm since everyone else was repulsed. I downed it in a gulp and the music producer said I should have chewed it. Butthead.

It turned out it was all a well-planned attempt to bilk tourists out of money. The man Pepe had handed us off to proceeded to show us another man flint-knapping with obsidian and then show us various idols the ancients made. He then walked us into his show to get us to purchase any of his thousands of knicknacks. Classic Bait and Switch. "Oh man! Look at all the cultural things we're learning about cacti and stones! BAM! BAM! BAM! Three shots of booze and then a store where I can buy shiny rocks and colorful blankets? Hell's YES!!!!"

Luckily, my wild tolerance gained by 2 and 1/2 years of law school enabled me to keep a cool head. I allowed them to ply me with a few more shots of tequila, but, alas for them, I still failed to buy anything. My Carpenter miser genes are strong indeed. Alex was the only one of us to succumb to their brilliant plan, but he only bought a bottle of the almond liqueur, thus showing yet again that Quebecois just love being difficult.

After lunch, Pepe took us into Teotihuican. The site is massive, impressive and words fail to accurately describe it. I made a point of climbing the two pyramids, thought to be dedicated to the moon and the sun. As I'm pretty sure people are no longer allowed to climb the Egyptian pyramids, I'm going to say I've climed the tallest pyramid it's possible to climb (the sun pyramid is over 200' tall).

I'm happy to report that my apparently iron stomach had no problems with the tequila or the watermelon and after we got back to the hostel, I went out for supper with Alex, the Australian writers, and the Butthead. I actually had a very good time with all of them, particularly the Butthead, who wasn't nearly so Buttheadish after all. We wandered around the city drinking beer and sangria and talking about film, literature, and mute, midget Drag Queens.

Midgets and Groin Kicks

Having barely slept the night before, and then only cramming in a few hours on the plane, I was quite worn out when it came time to explore. I made a half-hearted attempt to get in the adventurous mood as I wandered around Zocalo, the historic center of town, but even the festivities all around me failed to move me. I wandered amongst the throngs in the main square. There is a large winter festival going on and there was a large ramp covered in imported snow, which local children were sliding down in inner tubes. Nearby was a 100' tall fake Christmas tree. Another area had a make-shift arena which people were queuing to enter but I couldn't tell what was inside. Perhaps an ice rink? It was all a bit surreal as it was sunny and the temperature was in the high 70s. I was wearing sandals, shorts, and a hawaiian shirt.

I wandered over to the adjoining Templo Mayor, the only Aztec site in Mexico City not completely razed by the conquistadores, but I simply was too tired and so stumbled back to the hostel to read and relax. The inelegantly named Mexico City Hostel is actually quite a jewel. Tiled floors, stone and plaster walls, a pleasant inner atrium which let in the right amount of sunlight, and numerous amenities all belied the fact that I'm paying only $14 a night. Sure, the dorm room itself had the sickly-sweet locker-room/barracks smell that hostels the world round have, but all in all, it's one hell of a place.

As I sat and read in the atrium, others watched a violent Andy Garcia movie about the Cuban revolution. A local man, a guide hired by the hostel it turned out, asked me if I were part of the Lucha Libre group. I told him I wasn't but that I wanted in. For those who don't know, Lucha Libre is Mexican wrestling in which the wrestlers typically wear masks and flamboyant costumes. The guide informed us that there would also be midget fights and perhaps even "chick fights", though he did reluctantly warn us, "not sexy..."

The group I joined was a pair of Aussie college guys and a twenty-something couple from California. We all made our introductions but, in all honesty, I didn't even attempt to remember their names. In the course of this trip I'll meet several hundred people, most of whom I'll only be around for a matter of hours, if even that. It's enough for me to enjoy their (brief) company. At any rate, the guide brought us complimentary tequila shots and corona. I really wasn't feeling drinking because I was so worn out, but I figured it went part and parcel with watching sweaty men in TIGHT tights manhandle each other.

We left the hostel and met up with a group from another hostel. Several more tequila shots and off we went. I can honestly describe Lucha Libre as being akin to a high school production of the WWE. The wrestlers were mostly burly, pudgy men and they were as convincing at delivering their stomps and punches as porn stars are at reciting lines. That being said, an open palm chest slap from a 230lbs man or a seven foot dive off the ring on to the wooden floor has to hurt regardless. We arrived after the first match had begun.

There was not a strict midget fight; instead, a midget in a white and silver mask and white body suit ws on one of the "teams." He was on the "good" side. He was by far my favorite performer because he was so amazingly acrobatic. He'd jump off the ropes, land on the chest of his standing opponent, spin himself around the man's body twice, and then fling the opponent across the mat after wrapping his midget legs around the opponent's head. Every once in a while the opponent would catch him mid-air and dwarf-toss him across the ring. Whenever this happened, the crowd erupted in laughter. The match ended when one of the bad guys kicked the midget so hard in the groin that it lifted him off the ground. Of course, the referee wasn't looking until the midget had been pinned. He writhed on the mat after the match as the victor raised his hands and the audience booed.

Vendors patrolled the aisles offering beer, popcorn, souvenir masks, and even, strangely enough, light sabers. My personal favorite was the woman selling Maruchan Cup of Noodles.

In the other matches, the only other item of note was the gigantic white wrestler. He was blonde, about 6'6", and 260lbs of chiseled muscle. He towered over all the other wrestlers. He wore obscenely tight blue latex briefs with his name, Marco, in white letters across his butt. Several times he would stop in the middle of fighting, place his hands on either side of his head, and gyrate his hips at groups of ululating women in the audience. Of course, he was pinned twice in the course of the match and kicked repeatedly in the groin.

After that excitement, we were led to the Plaza Garibaldi, the only place in the city where it is legal to drink beer on the street (otherwise it's a $200 US fine). I wanted to eat, so I went over to a little eatery on the plaza and after a few minutes the others joined me. Apparently, drinking beer in the midst of 20 mariachi bands had grown tiresome quickly. We all sat and traded travel stories for awhile over a few beers and then I bid them an early good night.

It Begins Again

Last night, my mother wanted to go out to supper since I was leaving the country for the duration of my Christmas break. She wanted to get Mexican. ¨I´m going to Mexico tomorrow for three weeks and you want to take me for Mexican? Really?¨ Dutiful son that I am, I obliged.

I now sit here in a hostel in Mexico City, preparing to go out among the natives. The thought of getting kidnapped or mugged has weighed heavily on my mind since I first decided to come here. The State Department´s travel advisory did not help at all when it mentions that kidnappings have now gone from solely occurring to the wealthy tourists and businessmen and has broadened to include the middle class. Sensing a challenge, I determined to make myself look less than middle class, a difficult thing to do for a southern man who´s had braces (when in foreign countries, teeth tell you a lot about a person). I packed what I affectionately term my ¨hobo gear.¨ I did not shave for three weeks prior to leaving. Now, this may not seem that out of the ordinary to any who remember my various previous wanderings, but the difference is that this time I have not groomed my pathetic attempt at facial hair at all. I´m currently sporting a sad attempt at a goatee, surrounded by varying outposts of mangy whisps of multicolored whiskers. I look, to the best of my estimation, like a vagrant. Mission accomplished.

Having only a broad plan (to see Aztec and Maya ¨stuff¨), I packed the absolute basics of underwear, socks, two pairs of pants (one 15 year old pair of black jeans, one pair of camouflage pants), two pairs of shorts, a pair of swim trunks, five hawaiian shirts, a poncho, an Inka Cola T-shirt, a pair of sandals, a pair of sneakers, a fleece jacket, a knife, and about 7 books (to include a spanish-english dictionary and a college spanish textbook). No sooner had I got to the hostel than I changed into the shorts and sandals (it´s well over 70 degrees here right now).

The flight was delightfully uneventful, but inprocessing at the Mexico City Airport was a trifle disconcerting as I discovered that I´d left my Lonely Planet guidebook on my bed this morning and that I had to report my knife, a ´cuchillo´, to customs. Visions of a strip search in a language I barely understand flashed through my mind, but the customs lady was far from impressed with my daring to bring a pocketknife to Mexico and sent me on my way. One terrifying taxi ride to the historic center of town later (50mph weaving through traffic in a 95 Nissan Sentra), and here I go.

If I´m not back by January 11th, send in the Marines.

Australia OMG!

I watched that movie last night. I should have known better. Baz Luhrmann needs to take his place next to Ewe Boll as one of the worst directors of all time. "Not that there's anything wrong with that" but his films are homosexuals' and washed-up actresses' dreams. Let's run down the line: Strictly Ballroom? Check. Romeo and Juliet? Check. Moulin Rouge? Check. Australia? Put it this way, it prominently features Judy Garland as well as damn near every character singing "Over the Rainbow" and Hugh Jackman's soapy torso. Check and check. His next film, Wicked, will come out in 2010 and will be a musical. Dear Lord.

Anyway, just because homosexuals and washed-up actresses like his movies doesn't mean that he's one of the worst directors of all time, but (and yes I'm dealing in stereotypes) they typically prefer over the top dynamics. Heaven forbid there be any subtlety. If you're going to go over the top there has to be some sort of tongue-in-cheek, self-referential mockery (eg. "Army of Darkness").

Not for Luhrmann. He's as sincere as can be. What a butthead. My example: Having already set up Jackman and Kidman as the "rough and tough man-down-under" and" hoity-toity, well bred little-miss-know-it-all" (respectively), they are forced to ride together across the Outback in a dump of a truck. Oh wow! They don't like each other and yet they're forced to spend time together! LOL! Then she looks out the side window and sees a herd of badly computer-generated kangaroos hopping along next to them. She gets a dreamy "Oh, all my hatred and disdain for this miserable country have been wiped away by majestic marsupials!" look on her face. That's about the point where I leaned over to the person I was with and said, "BAM!". Sure enough. BAM! One of Jackman's Aborigine friends riding on the top of the truck shot a kangaroo. Tight close up of Kidman screaming in abject horror and then next, THWUMP, as the carcass is slammed on the top of the roof and blood oozes down the windshield.

Now, besides the two groups I've mentioned, obviously there are others who like the film. A good fella I go to law school with tried to defend the movie. He said he thought it was "epic."

If epic means horrific pacing, schizophrenic tone, syrupy schmaltz so thick it would choke a bear, ridiculous implausibilities, a pointless last third of the film, and a social message being beaten over your head for the duration, then yes, it was really, really, really, really epic.

That and Hugh Jackman's character is known only as "The Drover" for the entire film. What the hell is that? Just because they say it in Australian accents doesn't make it any more reasonable. If he drove A Semi and they called him "The Trucker" the entire movie, you'd consider the filmmaker touched in the head. Someone must have had pictures of Jackman and Kidman having a three-way with a kangaroo. That's the only thing that explains their participating in the cinematic ebola that was that film.

On a last note, when the hell are actresses going to stop shooting their faces full of "what the hell is that"? It's one thing if a woman has naturally plump, succulent lips; it's quite another when she comes across as having an allergic reaction. It's one thing for a woman to stay youthful gracefully; it's quite another when you can tell she had her forehead embalmed since she couldn't furrow her brow without circus strong-men's assistance. I'm pretty sure I'd have found a 41 year old Nicole Kidman naturally attractive with regular-old make-up. Instead, I was just sort of agog at exactly what she'd done to herself. She had only about three expressions in the film because her facial range of motion has been pretty well destroyed.

It may have been an Australian movie, but it'is everything that's wrong with America.