(PART 2) Why I Travel - Or how I almost became a Mexican DJ

After dinner the first night I walked around the central Plaza. I was not sure what to expect, but the charm of the buildings, the distant sounds of the Caribbean, and the fact that I was left to my own discoveries made this night very appealing to an independent spirit. That same disheartening spirit that led me to quit every dinky summer job was now a quiet awakening of wanderlust. I strolled through the streets uninhibited by friends at home, girls that wanted nothing to do with me, and the fact I possessed absolutely no money but the few pesos my Dad had given me for soda. I was truly surprised and filled with joy at the simple feeling of walking and not knowing what lay around each corner.

Of course my quiet stroll was brought to a raucous end when I was within 100 meters of our hotel and heard no less than three donde's on my final approach. The gang was winding down for the evening and my Dad suggested we crash so that we can get an early start on SCUBA the next day. I was not certified in Scuba and have never been a strong swimmer so I had some reservations about my first time on the dive boat.

After breakfast, if you can call it that, we boarded some little shitty Datsun trucks bound for the pier and loaded with dive gear, dive guides, and donde' dudes. When we got to the boat I was once again impressed by just what a piece of crap it appeared to be and I kept expecting the boat to be another of the Dive Shop Owner's jokes; alas, it was indeed our boat and everyone piled on with excitement. As the boat pulled away from the pier the crew began to assemble and prep gear for the morning dive.

I have to admit that for some reason, SCUBA did/does not interest me at all. Ooooh, I can breathe underwater, so what! I like the water, I like to be in it sometimes, and I especially love being on a boat (even a decrepit little diesel shit ride like ours that day) but I do not have a real interest in being down there with the animals. I don't really like animals except on my plate and the occasional dog, so my natural fear of creatures larger than me made the opportunity to snorkel that day not as appealing as it might have seemed to many.

Nevertheless, after an amazing boat ride where I finally felt a nice breeze and saw crystal blue water for the first time in my life, we reached the dive site. The famous Palancar reef was the site of the morning dive. My father had delivered tales of coral glory for years about this reef and I had seen photos and slides that simply blew me away. As much as I do not like animals, I love photographs of them and the rest of the undersea world. I knew that even if I could not dive, I could snorkel, and I was willing to take my chances with sea monsters in order to see all those vivid colors.

Once again, ignorance is often bliss and the reality is: without a light and at close range, the reef from 45-60 feet above looks every bit a monochromatic cyan. These guys were on a 60+ foot dive and so there were no shallow coral, no schools of brightly colored fishes, no sea devils and way too much tropical sun on my pasty white back. Within 15 minutes I had seen enough and swam back to the boat. I really did not like breathing through a snorkel. The sound of the air rushing through with the occasional splash of salt water bothered me more than I admitted to anyone on the trip. I was actually a little panicky in the water and always am for the first 15 minutes of snorkeling. In essence, I wanted to practice my Spanish with the boat crew and drink another Mexi-Coke under the dappled light of the patchwork awning above the boat.

Ahhh, I can still smell the diesel as the boat rocked back and forth and how it increased dramatically as each group of divers rose from the depths and we sped to their relief. As crazy as this may sound, that was the last day I went out on the boat, because on that night something special happened...to be continued

Why I Travel (or how I almost became a Mexican DJ) Part 1

In 1988 I had never left the state of Texas, nor had I ever been on a plane. My father was an assistant scuba diving instructor and he traveled often to Belize, Honduras. and Mexico. In fact, my father traveled so frequently that I thought it was his job (and in some ways it was).

It came as an enormous surprise when my father approached me that summer and told me my step-mother accepted a summer teaching position and could not go on their planned trip to Cozumel. He then asked me if I would like to go. I was overwhelmed and I remember calling my Mom to ask for permission (even though I did not need permission to travel with my Dad).

I was really jazzed when I sat down on that 727 Stretch from DFW to Cozumel. I was 17 years old and about to start my senior year in high school. I couldn't really keep summer jobs and was penniless as I had blown all my cash on fireworks earlier that month. The chance to go somewhere and do something other than drive up and down Ennis Avenue with my equally slothful buddy Dave was scintillating. I had no idea what to expect I just knew my Dad's friends had brought several coolers full of beer, snacks, and liquor which were duct-tape sealed and ready for flight. I could only surmise the intention of this group was total debauchery, and thank God I was right!

The plane touched down and as we filed out of the fuselage down the ramp it was immediate we were not in Kansas anymore. This was Cozumel 23 years ago. There was no AC in the airport, no order of any kind, and the runway appeared to be cut right out of the jungle. I remember feeling much hotter than I had expected to be. I had always heard of cool ocean breezes and this was anything but that. It must have been 80% humidity, mostly cloudy, and 90 degrees.

We jumped in a cab and motored towards town. There were a few other kids near my age on the trip, but within minutes I could tell they were a bit too goody-goody for my taste, and I allied myself with my father's cooler-toting buddies instead. As soon as we reached the hotel (a total shit dive in the center of town) my new partners in crime, M and B tore at the duct tape on the coolers and started screaming Viva Mexico! and of all things, the word, dónde. (where)

Apparently they had overheard me ask the cab driver, ¿dónde podemos comprar el agua? (I had taken 4 years of Spanish at the time and had absolutely no fear of trying to speak..wish I could remember any of it now). Clearly, the only word that these clowns remembered from my question was dónde. It was going to be that kind of week. Every time I turned around some poor Mexican was looking up at the sky because M or B would be shouting dónde! to the heavens. I kind of wanted to kill them and even more so, I wanted to join them.

I was on my first ever trip abroad and by 4pm on our first day in Mexico my Dad had excused himself for a nap and I was left to the careful guardianship of Los hombres que gritan, donde! (The Men Who Shout Where). Donde is the bar? Donde is the bathroom? Donde is my wallet? Eventually it just became donde donde donde! shouted out like TORA TORA TORA!

 Of course being 17 I was not supposed to drink, but that did not stop M&B from offering at every possible moment. I was their teenage translator and they were my chaperons. I was amazed I had been able to turn the other cheek on booze for the whole 2 hours prior to dinner. I felt a bit like The Coward of the County, but the fear of disappointing my father (whom I did not know all that well) was very intimidating.

I remember dinner on this first night was in a place that looked like a Mexican Palace from a Western movie. I do not remember the name; however, I do remember my Dad's buddy, who owned the dive shop sponsoring the trip, sitting with us when they brought out chips, pico de gallo and a bowl of brown peppers in a brown sauce. I discovered Chipotle peppers the way in which they should be discovered; by putting a whole pepper on a chip and shoving it in my mouth on the sage advice of my Dad's buddy (that bastard was supposed to be looking out for us). The initial smoky, salty, vinegar flavor of the pepper was sublime; the ensuing capsaicin H-Bomb that went off in my mouth sent me scrambling for my bottle of Mexi-Coke. Since we were not allowed to drink the water that was sat before us I sat there in tears while the gang of experienced scuba dudes laughed their asses off at my expense.

I learned a valuable lesson that night: do not ever put the whole thing in your mouth! ...to be continued