Dad left a few days ago and with him left any major signs of swell. So with the few days off I made a wee calendar and tried to remember some of our adventures. I have been pretty slack with my personal writing, and so it was a good chance to catch up on anything I may have missed. So here are a few tid bits from the Adventures of Migual and Kelly - a mexican story.
*Please excuse any repeated mind ramblings that may occur.
Full moon rising over Aucklands night lights and harbour...
gives way to a midday hazy concrete jungle
·ALK-LAX
The edges must be blunt on the cookie cutter that makes their shopping centres.
·San Diego, California.
The overwhelming love and gratitude felt for the Greetis clan whom held our hands through the concrete maze.
·Carlsbad, California.
Awkward sick feeling that makes our tounges heavy. They weigh us down as we cross the border.
·Tijiuana, Baja Norte.
The sun set over our first day in Mexico. With it went any feelings of doubt that had plagued my heart. Soaking in - at a pace not unlike that of salt settling on a sunburned land, carried by a dying onshore wind - an unannounced sense of freedom.
·Baja Norte.
Heavy grey cloud coats the town, dulling every colour like an old faded movie. The chilled breeze blows past, draining with it, the colour from inside.
·Guerreo Negro, Baja Sur.
The ellusive first surf. The first dive washing away the dust and sweat containing all our insecuritites and worries. The cool, clear Baja water igniting the thirst for more, replacing the tired cobwebbed sense of adventure.
·Punta Abreojos, Baja Sur.
Yet another visual combination of any shade of brown dirt, species of cactus, and parched rock. Stretching out in reach, or rising up at varying degrees, to met an endless dusty blue sky.
·Baja, California
Blistered hands clench tightly around the steering wheel. Straining in concentration as another truck thounders blindingly past on the tooth pick Baja highway.
`Intense wheel pressure´.
·Dad. Baja, California.
The long forgotten seats and tabels of giants. Their crumbling greatness dwarfing. Their enormity humbling.
`We really don´t belong here´.
Dad as we drive through another towering desolite valley.
·Somewhere on the Baja.
Dust and stone beneath my feet. Sun, salt and sweat coat my skin. The flap of the tarpolein parades on my ears. Fresh fish soaked in lime dissolves in my mouth. Heat breathes in my nose. Scorpians and rattle snakes play in the shadows of my mind...
As I look down upon another empty wave, peeling along the base of our cliff top camp, there is no place I´d rather be.
·Scorpian Bay, Baja Sur.
Consumed after a long days drive, safe from the howling onshore wind. Fresh chopped vegies and a chilled cervaza shared with new found friends. New stories, new laughs... old ways of feeling new.
·Todos Santos, Baja Sur.
A look of relief floods across Dads frantic face as he spots me in a crowd. `I need more paper work. Don´t leave this spot!´
He needent have worried. Three hours later I was still sitting there, waiting for the ferry to board.
·La Paz, Baja Sur.
At 3am the stench of diesel is heavy in the hot underbelly of the ferry. A muggy mind wonders if Dad made it on with the car, or if I will be arriving in Mazatlan all alone...
·La Paz - Mazatlan ferry crossing.
One way roads the wrong way. Foreign words mingle with the splash of foreign puddles in a foreign land. Night lights brighten as the day dims with our mood.
·First night on the mainland. Tepic, Mexico.
Red light sporadically flash though the fat droplets clouding our vision. Impromptue waterfalls cascade down through the jungle heights, splattering onto the road. Unwelcome, but unabated rivers rush down the cobblestone streets. Saturated, sloppy footed tourists walk head down, inadequate umbrellas droop with the same resignation as their rolled shoulders.
·Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
Crabs, with their sideways scuttle, looking thoroughly out of place on the black bituman, play chicken with the car.
·Highway 200, Mexico.
An untimely, awkward slap follows the seemingly impromptue and graceless flight of the stingray.
·Puerto Escondido, Mexico.
The pelicans (or Bombers as Dad refers to them), swoop with barely a flap of their great windspan. They move with the grace of the greatest water mammals. Whales of the air.
·Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Soft light dances over closed eyelids, to the silent sway of the hammock.
·Barra de la Cruz, Mexico.
White tufts of sea spray take sporadic flight in the offshore. Effortlessly engaged in an impromptue dance, they make the most of the freedom in the golden afternoon light. For they, at any time, could be plucked from the air, as quickly as they came...
·Barra de la Cruz, Mexico.
