Latin Living

PURA VIDA

f0nsey — Thu, 25 Jul 2013 23:56:00 GMT

“The time has come to talk of many things” [The Walrus]. In line with Einstein’s theory of relativity the speed of my travels has been exponentially increasing as the length of my blog has lessened to the point of 0; CHRIST has it been a hectic month. Altered landscapes, mindstates and travel mates. Within the last week alone I found Eden, witnessed the Fall of Eve, and overcame a lifelong love of the ground (read: vertigo). But first, ladies and gentlemen: Copán, Honduras.

This pit-stop on my journey to the Bay Islands was picturesque, but ordinary. I was all about strolling the green valley in which this delightful cobbled city was located, gourmet coffee in hand, but the ex-Mayan municipality found just outside was ferociously underwhelming; the unsurpassed splendour of Tikal before it ruined (lol) all subsequent sites for me. Whilst in Copán I decided to check out their scenic horseback tours of the local indigenous communities. What followed was an exercise in animal cruelty on some wretched, moth-eaten nag that barely reached my chest. As we heaved up the valley wall, driven by my guide’s whip and desperate reassurances that this horse was in fact a secret stallion, it quickly became apparent that the tour was not a winner. I did learn a few tidbits about the ongoing discrimination against the indígena in Honduras (for example related to the granting of benefits payments), but it was otherwise uninspiring. THANKFULLY, I quickly moved on to the island of Utila.

Despite fractionally missing the last ferry over there and having to first crash in the damp La Ceiba, Utila itself was a seriously good fun time. Touted as the cheapest dive in the world, it was no Borneo but good to be submerged once more in open water. Plenty reef life and a pretty sweet Finding Nemo drop-off. Casual. A couple days into my stay a German I’d met in Flores made it over and the July escapades began in earnest: Mungo and Valentine’s excellent adventure. Plus a serendipitous American named Steve. With Val’s spear gun we went hunting the king of the ocean: the lionfish. So confident in their poisoned barbs and dearth of natural predators that they just sit under rocks, begging to be impaled. They were delicious, cooked up alongside giant, freshly harpooned crabs. Dangerous eating though - in a postmortem revenge attack I was cut open by a crab leg which took 3 weeks to heal. Our penultimate evening there was fucking sick: starting with a night dive, we entered the water as darkness fell. Under torches rather than diluted daylight the coral was lit up in impossibly pure reds, purples and greens. We even encountered a wreck around 20m down, eery in the dark. At the culmination of the dive we switched off all the torches and excited the water, transfixed by the glowing, shifting galaxy of phosphorescence. Mindblowing. Which segued beautifully into my first acid experience at the trippiest bar in the known world - an adult’s playground of glittering wood, glass and stone; the already odd reality further dissolving with the tab into a fluid world of shifting geometric patterns and diffracted light. An incredible visual experience, but qualitatively different to the more introspective journey of shrooms. Live and learn.

After leaving Utila we furiously schlepped 500 miles south - much of it driven by a grizzled Celine Dion fan - to San Juan del Sur, right at the southern tip of Nicaragua; word had reached our ears of an obscene pool crawl and it sounded the perfect event to usher Val into his third decade of life. It was entertaining and ridiculous; entertainingly ridiculous. Otherwise Nicaragua was… mercurial. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. San Juan was heavily touristic in a fashion that had unpleasantly corroded tourist/local relations, but it also offered a beautifully isolated beach-front hostel retreat; the surfing was pretty solid, but upon our arrival at the playa we were confronted by the bleached, bloated, festering cadaver of a drowned local - interestingly it took a long while for the police to deal with this situation, and the corpse was universally avoided, though we couldn’t establish if that was the result of a desensitisation to death in a region with the highest violent mortality rates in the world, or an unwillingness to confront that same mortality.

Granada was better - a chilled colonial city in a similar vein to the delights of Mexico and Guatemala, but we only stayed a day and a night before doubling back north to experience the top half of Nicaragua from the other side of the bus windows. Infinitely better, it turns out. Esteli, a small town nestled amongst the coffee and tobacco plantations of northern Nica, was a delightful change of pace after the southern madness. We toured a local cigar factory, developing an intense contact high through acrid drying rooms and sorting/rolling human production lines. The sorting of leaves for quality/size was exclusively done by women because of their visual acuity regarding colour perception (through the X chromosome women actually have a percentage chance of being tetrachromats, though I’m sure it was demonstrated ability rather than scientific theory which drove this particular gender role). In the rolling room we got to create our own cigars which was mint. Smoked like Fidel. The Esteli highlight, though, was unDOUBTEDLY ferociously forging up the nearby river-carved Somoto Canyon: hiking, climbing and swimming upstream with our powerhouse guide Franklin who did everything we did. With one hand. Carrying all our dry shit. While hauling a feeble Korean through the more intense rapids. We also got to leap off a 15m ledge in the rock face, and backflip from 12m. Jamblazing.

Our next move, though, was disastrous. On the chicken bus to Léon some bastard stole my $2 Mexican hat - right in the sentimentality - and Steve got his iPhone jacked. An expensively demoralising ride, capped off by watching the volcano boarding tour we’d rushed to catch leave exactly as we arrived. 26 hours later found us hiking the black ashen slopes of Cerro Negro, a young and powerfully active volcano which some enterprising Aussie (naturally) had decided to board down. They now use budget wood and metal sit-down boards with plastic glued under your derrière which has to be replaced after every run. I blitzed down in a mini-eruption of screaming ash, crashing spectacularly at 57 kmh. The cold beer afterwards to wash down my volcano breakfast was more refreshing than a guacamole facial.

However after Léon I was VERY happy to be turning south again, and 12 hours later reached the highlight of Nicaragua: Isla de Ometepe. Eden. It was fucking Eden. A small, twin-volcanoed island set within a massive freshwater lake, and containing something like 16% of Nicaragua’s biodiversity, this place was alive with legions of birds, vibrant flowers and more butterflies than I have ever seen. Magical only just begins to describe it. We stayed at a mint little lodge owned by a ginuwine ex-IRA mentalist named Morgan; the man was a myth. With a solid crowd this was the IDEAL place to get back to nature and explore other chemically-induced realms of human experience. The trip was incredibly positively transporting for all but Eve who had a seriously bad time (names have been changed to protect the identity of Anna Wickstead, Berkshire). The sunrise of my final morning there rocked shades of violet I have never before witnessed. Transcendentally sick. I did, however, have a minor confrontation with a stone wall at some cool springs here. 2 stitches resulted.

From Ometepe the three amigos hurried south to catch a date with a bungee jump in Costa Rica before Val’s departure. Annoyingly our bus actually passed through Monteverde, our destination, during the night, but we were all so sleep deprived that we woke up to the grey dawn of San José. Not ideal. A frantic backtrack was required to get up to the mountainous cloud forests and hurtle terrifyingly towards the valley floor. 143 metres of vertical descent. And ascent. And descent. Ad infinitum. I was first off the gondola. NUTS. This, combined with a pretty sweet ziplining tour of the lush jungle, marked the end of my fear of heights. At least beyond the grounds of reasonable self-preservation. Highly satisfying, and one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.

WELL these broad strokes roughly cover my last month of high-octane madness. Encounters with people, places, and self. It’s been insane. Currently recouping in the islands of Bocas del Toro, Panama, with yet another aggressively underwhelming local lager. My relaxed return to Europe has been somewhat disturbed by the loss of my bank card and all access to funds, but I should survive the next 24 hours. Inshallah.

See you on the other side.

Out of the Avocados and into the Wind

f0nsey — Wed, 26 Jun 2013 14:27:00 GMT

Once more into the breach, dear friends (it’s gonna be a long one)…

First, the avocados: in fair Antigua, where we lay our scene. This being the ex-colonial capital of Guatemala, rather than colonial Britain’s tasty little West Indian morsel. An incredibly beautiful metropolis holding true to central american cloud city form - it’s 5,000 feet above sea level - and ringed by aguacate farms and active volcanoes. Solid urban planning. The altitude means the clouds are mentally defined against the pure blue sky, white and fluffy as Spanish colonial intentions weren’t, while below the wide cobbled streets are lined low buildings of pastel blue, green, orange, red. A ginuwine delight. ALSO: churches. Tens of them. Largely dilapidated relics of colonial rule, but even in the most seriously crumbling iglesias, that are more spirit than body, the Mass Must Go On. Featuring an interesting blend of Catholic and Mayan symbolism. Adémas, Antigua was a masticatory epiphany - street food fare ranging from barbecued spiced beef sausages to platano y frijole rellenos (plaintain balls stuffed with the ubiquitous refried beans… INSANE); of a more domestic persuasion, the 2 girls I’d linked up with from Flores and I cooked up some delish plantain/cinnamon/coriander/onion/tomato/rice madness with a generous side order of guac attack. The most mindblowingly fresh avocados around, 3 for a dollar. Yes please.

Después came San Pedro, perched on the edge of Lago de Atitlán, which was a mixed affair. Here the winds did sing to me; and the thunder, that deep and dreadful organ-pipe. While kayaking, the tempestuous backdrop was fully welcome. Storm clouds ensnared ominously by volcano peaks; lightning forking onto forested ridges; paddling out, borne on waves of thunder. As we neared the opposite shore we heard tribal drums from San Paulo, beating out over the water as I surged landward. And finally into the calm between two headlands, gliding over a deep aquamarine. Phenomenal. HOWEVER there was a flipside to Thor’s Guatemalan fury. In scaling the unexpectedly intense Mt. Serendipity (read: Volcan San Pedro) at dawn, I achieved the summit and an incredible vista for only 2 minutes before the day’s clouds got all up in my foreground. More disturbing was my death-defying parapenting experience, hailed as a ‘must-do’ of Lago Atitlán. Sure, it’s rainy season, but mornings were generally clear and I had faith in the tour operator to warn me of any particularly adverse conditions. Big mistake. Arriving at the jump-off point there was already some early uncertainty from my pilot, muttering about low clouds. I figured my $90 was on his mind though, because we took off as planned around midday. I enjoyed a gloriously weightless first 2 minutes, rising up above jungle, lake and town. But then it became a matter of dealing with the rapidly incoming weather front; my pilot’s audible tension did nothing to settle nerves. Navigating close to forested hills to try and escape major wind; caught in low-cloud powerful turbulence, ripped skywards by updrafts, the ground dropping away. Not the confident ascent of a thermal-borne eagle but like a butterfly torn heavenwards against its will. A ‘30 minute flight’ cut short after 5 with a grunted “we’re gonna have to land now”; scrambling to get above the landing spot. Nonetheless the descent - though a race against 40kmh+ winds - was an exhilarating swooping spiral downwards. Touching earth in a non-fatal embrace was all kinds of a relifef despite being dragged against it by our sketchy arrival. I was afterwards told of the tropical storm forecast for 1pm that day. Jesus Christ. I later tangled with the ferocity of this same storm in a Tuk Tuk battling homewards round the lake. Rivers where no rivers had any right to be. A SERIOUSLY intense day.

From there I chicken bussed to Xela (Quetzaltenango), which is really the only way to travel in Guatemala. So called by gobsmacked gringos because apparently fowl are regularly brought on board, us linguists know them as camionetas. Decommissioned school buses driven down from the States and imprinted with some vibrantly jazzy flavour. Invariably full way beyond capacity, and certainly not intended for a 6’3” British adonis. Up in the Guatemala western highlands the commuters are typically local women resplendent in rich textile patterns, no two quite the same; Mayan hipsters. They jabber away in indigenous languages, rocking gold teeth from a ridiculously young age, and balance their worldly belongings expertly on their heads. Excellent people watching as I bumped across questionable tarmac highways, with short 10m stretches just randomly left to degrade. Xela was fun though. Lowlight being a bizarre jacuzzi session at a woman called Ana’s all-purpose business (I was offered hiking shoes on the way out); there were candles, incense and flower petals… it was a little weird. Highlight definitely being a day trip to the Fuentes Georginas hot springs: the steaming jade green pools ranging from pleasant to borderline masochistic, it was revitalising as the jacuzzi wasn’t, and offered a chance to observe and interact with the frantic revelry of the locals. Bueno.

That Sunday I pigrimmaged my way over to the famed markets of Chichicastenango. Labyrinthine acres of brilliant textiles, masks and the delectable food stalls which dominated my time. From chocolate-coated frozen bananas through fried chicken (They. Fucking. Love it) to lunch platters of barbecued minotaur, rice and salsa. Mint. Generally haggling around was also ridiculously entertaining.

I’m running out of steam so shall leave it there, but after many weeks of mountains, jungle and dances with storms, I’m headed to the islands off Honduras for the tropics at their most relaxed. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Isla Utila shall restore amends.

“Why see the world, when you got the beach?”

f0nsey — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 09:58:00 GMT

Frank was definitely onto something, but my tour of the Yucatan Peninsula was somewhat marred by the unwelcome guests of Hurricane Babs and the onset of Mexico’s rainy season. Wrong week to check in to Isla Holbox - idyllically chilled island sin autos, but also, like much of this stretch of coastline, a lifestyle predicated on the sunshine which enlivens beach, bar and café. Grey drizzle and rough seas also cancelled potential whale watching, HOWEVER the evenings were clear and this island rocked the most insane phosphorescence I’ve ever experienced; dancing trails of liquid fire. Nuts.

I opted to bypass the US-flavoured festivals of debauched hedonism that are Cancun and Playa del Carmen, instead hitting up Tulum further south where I’d heard tales of diving in a massive network of underwater caves… HELLO there. I got lucky and the day I booked to go it was a solo shindig, just me and the dive-master. The first cenote was known as the ‘Temple of Doom’, and was - reassuringly - entered via a sinkhole of collapsed limestone. Safe as hellfire. Bubbling beneath the surface into the darkening green gloom of the cave system triggered some early claustrophobia (not helped by a leaky mask), but this was quickly overcome and it was a totally new dive experience. An eery, static world virtually devoid of life but exhibiting all kinds of cavernous tunnels and chambers. Explored by torchlight. This cenote was also linked to the sea somewhere and the thermocline and haloclines were cool as salt; the dive-master ahead dematerialising into a dark blur until I’d passed through the filmy layer and vision was restored. The second dive at the gran cenote was a much clearer affair, with deliciously limpid water and the occasional freshwater terrapin lazing by. A subaqueous cathedral of stalagmites, stalactites and complete columns. At certain points the ceiling was pockmarked with tiny air pockets of mirrored glass rounded by surface tension. Stunning.

Next stop was the incomparable Laguna Bacalar near the Belizean border. A phenomenal iridescent lake of varying blues; unreal hues that changed with the passage of sun and cloud across the sky. Paradise. A couple timeless days spent diving off a catamaran moored by the hostel and basking in the sunshine with cervezas could not have been more ideal. Exactly the kind of place worth capturing on camera - unfortunately mine had evaporated on a night bus. Damn. I also happened to be there on a Friday so I headed out with a Frenchman to the happeningest place in town: La Playita. Youtube DJing the recurrent sounds of Pitbull for some furiously camp Mexican men. Amusante.

Bacalar was my last proper stop in Mexico as I finally headed for the southern border like a geographically-challenged migrant, laying over in Chetumal just long enough to be shredded by bed bugs. Passing through the Caribbean vibes of Belize in transit - time constraints innit - I scratched my way to Flores, Guatemala. This was a small town built out on an island in the middle of Lake Peten Itza. Good fun, with lake water like swimming in piss, but less taboo; warm as houses. Flores also constitutes something of a tourist jump-off point for the Ancient Mayan delights of Tikal National Park. Ruins, ruins everywhere. However, this site was unsurpassed in its scale and beauty - a massive complex of temples adhering to the Mayan calendar and fetish for sacrifice but predominantly reclaimed by the surrounding rainforest. They even had the wheel - massive stone rings - albeit horizontal and used for beheadings. Idiots. Perhaps the greatest aspect was climbing 70 metres to the top of the Big Daddy and looking out over the green sea of Guatemalan jungle, with the largest stone ‘pyramids’ (they were actually some kind of truncated species) surging up through the canopy. Yavin 4 from Star Wars: a New Hope. Jamblazing.

From there, a number of us (that number being 6) shuddered south and east along dubious roads to Semuc Champey, some kilometres (9) from Lanquín. This natural monument is a limestone bridge under which gushes the thunderous Cahabón River for 300m. Safety ropes have recently been installed following the violent deaths of certain locals and tourists. I’m ok with it. Above the subterranean, watery mayhem are plateaus of still, turquoise pools ripe for bathing. These are filled with fish which feed on your dead skin. Pleasant… mostly. The highlights of this stay, though, were twofold: a “walking/swimming/jumping/climbing tour” of a cave network by candlelight, with some hairy moments (at one point we had to scale a waterfall by a knotted rope, but with no prior information from the guide as to how high into the torrent we would be climbing… turned out just 3m); and jumping off a 10m bridge into the milky green languor of the river downstream of the rapids. Company was good, and included an amicably clueless American - this guy randomly started conversations with questions like “what do you think of the US economy… in general?” and mistook fireflies for shooting stars because they “looked like they were miles and miles away”. Indeed.

Entonces, it’s time to go - figuratively and literally - to ANTIGUA BABY. Hasta Luego.

(Mayan) Ruined

f0nsey — Mon, 3 Jun 2013 13:28:00 GMT

G’afternoon, and greetings. I come to you now with tidings of tides, tides turning, and tired eyes.

After the Oaxacan mountains I descended to sea-level and the glorious playas of Xipolite and Mazunte. Both low-key towns on the sedate Pacific Coast, ideal for some mental and physical recuperation. Sunshine coronas, shaded hammocks and the surprisingly violent surf of the Pacific Ocean (I later learned our chosen bay was known locally as ‘death beach’… oh dear). Naked swimming seemed to be the norm here, and as Jesus famously coined: “When in Rome…”. The pace of living there was definitely shifted down a few gears, in accord with an infinitely more relaxed understanding of time. Restaurants were ridiculously laid back, and apparently totally unprepared for the eventuality of actual customers; ingredients generally unavailable or sought from neighbouring joints; kitchens sent into slow-motion meltdown. After an indeterminate number of days Iraxti (the Basquero), Mik Mik (the Mexican) and I left Oaxaca for the state of Chiapas.

This was kicked off with a full day’s 500km hitch-hike north-east to Tuxtla, an immensely satisfying achievement, for a few brief moments. Then we hit all kinds of walls. Upon our nighttime arrival, not only did the regional capital turn out to have fewer charms than Fritzl’s basement - the first hostel we found had 2 rusted iron bed frames and one single mattress - but Iraxti had forgotten her bag of essentials on one of the rides. Nightmare. Thankfully we made contact with the possessor, but our movements onward were stymied by her need to backtrack. Mik and I waited for a couple days nearby in the exquisitely featureless Chiapas de Corso. Not a strong start for the new state. To liven up the doldrums I adopted a local team (Cruz Azul), only to have them robbed of the championship in the final 2 minutes. By the opposing keeper. Fifa football. The match was made by the hispanic commentators who were even more electrically enthused than usual, with the final “GOOOOOAL” lasting a full 20 seconds. Amazing.

HOWEVER once we’d reconvened, all bags accounted for, we hit up the jungle-ensconced San Cristobal de las Casas like a screaming ball of hot bark. This place was a city in dreadlock; you couldn’t move for hippies. And more Aztec chic than the edgiest club in Leeds. It was pretty cool; cold, even, on account of its elevation and frequent rainfall, served chilled. A welcome respite from the humid oven that is much of Mexico, but a little too close to the Vancouver winter for my summer jaunt. Mik Mik didn’t want to leave. It was in the hostel here that I met a Brit who was so impressed with my command of the English language that he gifted me Michel Thomas’ entire series of Spanish lessons. Kerching.

Despues, llegamos en Panchan y los Ruinas de Maya. This was what Chiapas was all about - entering prehistoric jungle, experiencing pre-Hispanic culture, and describing it all in a histrionic fashion. IT WAS INCRÉIBLE. But in all seriousness, it was incréible. The jungle itself clearly greedily imbibed more than its fair share of the primordial soup: the forest floor alive with a Proletariat of ants; understory thick with tangled vegetation; canopy populated by a Curdled Blood of Howler monkeys. When these guys scream onto the scene the meditative sonic background of Forest Ambient gets a lot more hectic. MAN are they loud. And invisible. What I DID see though, were the ruins, constituting my first true exposure to the ancient grandeur of Mayan civilisation and their penchant for pyramids. The Palenque site offered some phenomenally grand Mayan architecture, sculpture and bas-relief carvings, depicting their starkly hierarchical society (standard). Particularly interesting, though, was the cultural role of the juegos de pelota (mesoamerican ball-sports). Both here and Yaxchilan and Bonampak (in a 2-day jaunt) exhibited ball-courts, which apparently were largely a ritualistic expression of their fascination with the dualistic interplay of opposing forces: light/dark, earth/sky, life/death. Life is all about balance. If you put the ceremonial beheadings of the losers aside, these guys were onto something. Although perhaps if Cricket followed the same rule British colonial history would have been quite a different story.

Following some jungle lodging, hiking and edenic river swimming (beautifully referred to in Mexico as a purifying bath - photos pending) I parted ways with my companions. Two consecutive nights of overnight bussing later and I have arrived at Isla Holbox. Hell yes.

TL;DR - The Mayans were the shit.

"A Huevo"

f0nsey — Wed, 22 May 2013 14:35:00 GMT

“A huevo” (vernacular)

1. The declaration of a shared moment of appreciation and/or assent.

“Mate, the extent to which fundamental conflicts of interest and manipulative marketing strategies are allowed to continue to dominate both research and policy, from investment banking to medicine, is a frigging farce. Pinche capitalismo pendejo.”

“A huevo”

OR (related)

“These mountains, these shrooms…”

“A huevo”

2. To egg.

So little internet, so much to relate. Entonces, Europe should take a leaf out of Mexico’s book; specifically the one pertaining to inter-city bus construction. 19 hours of passable 60mph comfort and I reached the sleepy mountain village of

Xilitla. Heil HITLER was this place beautiful. Frail shrouds of cloud gently ensnared amongst lush treetop canopies. I arrived, shattered, on a grey afternoon with some blessedly refreshing showers of light rain. Antidote for the raging burns i'd sustained whilst surfing in Sayulita (another defeat in my ongoing tussle with the mexican sun). After settling in and stoically forgoing a tactical nap I checked out the local town. Turns out small and incredibly hilly. There were some semi-jovial shenanigans going on at the centre though, with a local band directing some kind of folk dance. From what I could make out, the men stepped rhythmically in half time, the women triplets, and most did it with the utmost solemnity. Only a few boisterous young men visibly appeared to be enjoying themselves; however there was also a palpable deficit in their ability to keep time with the old dogs.

NONETHELESS I'd come here for the chance to see Las Pozas. This was the legacy of Edward James, a wealthy British mentalist who found Eden in Xilitla, and devoted his life to building an insane concrete and stone homage to the surrounding architecture of the antideluvian jungle. His imagination explodes throughout the forest, concrete fantasies in communion with tree, vine and river. This included a series of piercing blue pools below the waterfall, connected by smooth stone slides. It was a ginuwine adult's playground. I've uploaded some photos to try and capture a sense of it.

Next came Puebla just south of El D.F; from the mountains of the north to a new plateau on my ongoing gastronomic Everest. Just off the picturesque main square was a small restaurant named Las Ranas where I ate the most INSANE lamb taco and torta (both being essentially just wheat in different forms). Bread soft as the bottom of the baby Aphrodite, meat more succulent than the most kobe-ed beef, and with the lasting heat of real good salsa. Otherwise Puebla was pleasant, with an interesting exhibit of a revolutionary family's house (La Casa de los Serdan) which still bore the bulletholes of Porfirian violence; however i quickly got itchy feet and followed the best taco i've ever had with

Oaxaca (the city), where I had the worst taco in Mexico. In fairness, I think my expectations had been inestimably raised by my Pueblan tacophilia, but this soggy wrap of pork gristle was more 'street' than 'food'. Thankfully Oxaca was otherwise a winner. A phenomenally majestic Cathedral, buzzing central market and super cheap hostel (necessary after the unfortunately expensive bus fares), where I came across some other travellers. They were a group of French exchange students and Mexican pal who’d just completed a year in Puebla; we had some beers and a dinner of much-needed salad (VEGETABLES) and I've linked up with them for my tour of Oaxaca (the province). The first stop was the aptly named

Hierva el Agua - some idyllic springs boiling up out of the mountains and settling in two deep infinity pools (no joke - looking onto more mountains) of deep blue and semi-translucent green. Great swimming, and something of a local water park which gets a little hectic during the day. Mik-mik, the Mexican i'm with, dismissed these basketball shirt-clad merrymakers as Americanised adulators of the north’s consumerist culture; the US is evidently a perenially divisive part of contemporary Mexican identities. He also began waxing lyrical about a place that translates to 'sky harbour', and an incredible natural phenomenon he'd only witnessed 17-18 times, where the island disappears before your eyes, and the air is cold. Mist. He was talking about mist. The poor guy's also never had the chance to experience snow. Part of the natural wonder here, though, were the cascadas petrificales - residue left by minerals in the water reacting with the stone, forming a frozen edifice of liquid, ‘flowing’ rock. Check it out in the photos, yo; sone muy bonito.

After sunrise we engaged in the agonising existentialism that is hitch-hiking; sitting in an infinite roadside limbo, hopes rising and falling with each passing car. Thankfully Mexico is not Europe, and the longest we had to wait was an hour. After a few generous lifts we succeeded in ascending 3,000 metres to the tranquil village of San Jose del Pacifico. THIS was an incredible move. We found a hillside cabin (the shower heated by a wood-fired stove!) looking down yet another misty valley of primordial green forest, and before a relaxed evening we checked in with the local (agri)Culturalist to get involved with a shamanistic ‘Temaszcal’ ritual for the following morning. This consisted of a 2km walk to his cabin at 7am, dressing down to boxers and sitting in a small, clay igloo. There followed a bodily purge, courtesy of especially brewed teas flicked onto red hot stones in the centre of the hut. A super humid steam room of eucalpytus, rosemary, arnica and other delicious herbs. This was completed with a quick, cold shower in water and then warm shroom tea. DESPUES, cleansed and refreshed, came the tea itself. Unexpectedly delicious in that it only hinted at the powerful earth twang of the actual fungus. The next few hours were spent on the jungly hillside, contemplating the infinite Now, the mindblowing, ultra-real beauty of Mother Nature, and the absolute subjectivity of our individual experience of both. “The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone” (Huxley). A seriously good trip.

This has become one of the longest things i've written all year, so I will leave you here for the beaches of the south-west. Hope all is well, I’m

Pacifically chilled.

Guadalahurrah

f0nsey — Sat, 11 May 2013 09:39:00 GMT

Guadalajara:

Roaming the historic streets,

Thinking up haikus.

I struck lucky in Mexico's Second City; aimlessly wandering towards the centre of town upon the evening of my arrival I randomly came across a trio of ebullient Mexican amigos. Attempts were made to catch some quintessential Lucha Libre, but we missed the last bus. Game on for my Grand Tour. With them as my guides we engaged in some furious linguistic pidgining, and I got a sense of Guadalajara's twin narratives of glorious revolution and endemic corruption; of a people united by their shared history of rebellion against the colonial yoke and fractured by the iniquities of the intertwined institutions of Church and State. The city centre was loaded with magnificent architectural pieces - museums, administrative buildings and a cathedral - alongside legions of statues of revolutionary heroes. However as we walked past a late evening mass in one of the many lesser churches, Juan told me of the paedophilic abuse suffered by his uncles, among others, at the hands of the selfsame priest administering the Eucharist; no punitive action had been taken because of an 'our word against his' situation and the work of local hardline Catholic adherents to the "Lord works in mysterious ways" bullshit). In a similar vein police misconduct went all the way up the ladder, from street-level bribery to alleged high-level criminal ties. America's Drug War is going well.

On the less distasteful side of life Guadalajara was a culinary sensation, the pinnacle of which was to be found at Las Carnas Garibaldi, the fastest servers in the West. Within 45 seconds of entering the building they had taken AND DELIVERED my order: Carne en su jugo sided with soft shell tacos, delicious bean mash, roasted baby onions and salsa madness. Acccompanied by Corona served in an ice-frosted glass rimmed with salt and containing fresh squeezed lemon in the bottom. They turned the flavour up to 11.

My next stop was the quiet beach resort town of Sayulita on the East coast for some sun, seafood, and surf. It boasted a strong 2/3 as the swell was unfortunately placid. Surfable, but not challenging. I did, however, have some mindblowing fresh-caught fish in various forms: tacod (naturally), Ceviched (raw fish cured in lime and herbs - insane), and barbecued.

Now back West before turning South.

Photos: Latin Living

f0nsey — Sat, 11 May 2013 00:55:00 GMT

Mexico City? Capital.

f0nsey — Mon, 6 May 2013 09:38:00 GMT

So Mexico City has come up trumps in a major way. First stop: total success. Although it is furiously heavily populated - streams of peculiarly potato-esque mexicans heading in every conceivable direction at all hours of the day - the Centro Histórica region in which I’m staying has a delightfully mellow vibe. Vibrant, but relaxed. A district of pastel-shaded colonial architecture loaded with small cafés, bars and the essential greasy sizzle of street food vendors. Quesadillas, tacos y enchiladas? $1.25. Yes please. Nearby is the main square (the ‘Zocalo’) which hums with activity and provides access to one of the slickest metro systems I’ve ever encountered. Forget waiting for trains. 3 pesos to literally anywhere in the city, and free carriage entertainment of varying qualities. Up above, overlooking the plaza, is a museum exhibiting some insane frescoes which render the artist’s vision of Mexico’s rich and turbulent history. Plus a little casual hagiography for the admittedly solid Benito Juarez.

En el segunda día I forged out of El D.F. for a day trip to Teotihuacán, a precolonial Mesoamerican metropolis whose growth chronologically paralleled the fall of Rome. The whole compound apparently would have been populated by around 100,000 people and displayed some seriously complex urban planning, following their 260 day calendrical cycle, in sync with the skies above. The 3^rd largest pyramid in the world, built without the use of pack animals, metal tools or even the friggin wheel. Slavery has undoubtedly been one of the blackest recurring marks in human history, but god DAMN did it get shit done. The pyramids of Sun, Moon, and Feathered Serpent are become features of the landscape, hermanos of the mountains beyond. The mindblowing setting was only slightly marred by the wheezing of Mexicans as they heaved themselves up hundreds of steps with a flamboyant lack of fitness. A little embarrassing. Perhaps the sun god resented my scorn, though, chastising me with some fierce neck burns. Nowhere to hide from the harsh midday rays on a pyramid.

Nonetheless the highlight of my stay has got to be La Merced Market of Mexico City itself. Today was spent exploring this sprawling labyrinth of stalls selling a ridiculous variety of wares: had I been so inclined I could have supplemented my hat purchase with a delicious range of spices, counterfeit DVDs, and basic witchdoctor materials. A chaotic mélange of sights, smells, and flavours. Nuts. Refuelling in amongst the ad hoc eateries was delightful, and ecstatic to once again be in the company of mangos. God’s fruit.

HOWEVER i’ve gotta run. Mexico es loco.

Accidental Trafficking

f0nsey — Thu, 2 May 2013 16:17:00 GMT

ALORS my central american tale begins with a false start and an unexpected tango with the American border police. Here's what went down:

On the morning of May 1st I ventured out of Vancouver to the frontier north of Seattle to kick off my journey south. Or so I believed. Early that afternoon I nonchalantly strolled into the US border control, joking with the other passengers as the overly sombre team of True American Patriots brought out Sniffles the dog. No biggie, i thought, my bags are totally kosher. So confident was i that as Sniffles molested my backpack i was just intrigued. Maybe she took offense to the raw musk of the Brit Abroad. Either way the sitch seemed prime for a little righteous indignation: "no officer, i'm not a dangerous terrorist; can i kindly go and enjoy the audial delights of Bonobo now please?" The rough search of all of my worldly belongings was irritating (FUCK packing up all my shit twice in one morning) but not distressing. They found my glass pipe which i'd brought, naturally, it being a legally acquired Canadian memento. All good. HOWEVER it quickly became apparent that it was not "all good". Earnest conversations were held between various members of security. I was brought through to an interrogation room where i was handcuffed and throughly searched: being warned "i'm going to search your crotch now" in no way alleviates the experience of being groped by a 6'2" American male. Having returned my bags and genitals to how they'd been pre-violation i was taken again to an interrogation room and questioned. The standard 'are you aware that drugs are illegal?' spiel. The seriousness only truly hit home when he hit me with the punchline: they had discovered some minuscule, months-old evidence of marijuana residue on my pipe. The stubborn, unsmokeable friggin remnants of good times had long ago. BOOM drugs 'possession', attempt to smuggle etc etc. God. Damn. The Land of the Free may or may not be permanently closed to me - i have to plead my case to the US consulate, but they're not available for 20 days SO another time, amigos.

Mexico it is.