Cats shared a sunrise at La Barra together on Thursday morning.
I spread my purple sarong across the chilly sand and fell silent as the golden orb glowed in brilliant puzzle pieces from behind the clouds, reflection sparkling and magically elongating the golden puzzle on the river delta in front of us.
Small birds chitter-chattering, flitter-fluttering.
Large birds silently swooping, gracefully diving.
Cats sitting together.
Silent.
Until Orange Cat breaks the silence to joke about Mexican crocodiles wearing sunglasses and chowing down on their breakfast toasties.
"Fuck the toasties, ma-an," he mimics our South African friend.
The waves behind us crash and pound, flood in, flow out.
Heave.
Ho.
The silhouettes of surfers trudging through the glinting sand, drawn by the heave, ho, flow of the swell.
They look about as awkward as the helter-skelter baby turtles of Escobilia beach. Or a skier walking up metal stairs with clunky ski boots and long skis flung over tired shoulders.
Clunk, clank goes the skier.
Flip, flop goes the surfer.
On the cusp of their element. But what a cusp.
Cats walked back to the main road after the sunrise, flagged down a colectivo and disembarked at La Punta.
Things I'm going to miss when I leave vibrant Mexico next month:
- cheap and delicious fresh fruits and vegetables
- street food. With chorizo. So much chorizo. And cinnamon coffee. And salsas. And agua frescas. And --
- ocean sunsets
- people who are too lazy/relaxed to complicate life
- being able to walk almost everywhere in my pirate shorts and a bra/swimsuit top and feel delightfully in place.
- how everyone says hola or buenos dias here. Everyone. And smiles.
- colectivos. Being able to flag down a truck from just about anywhere on the main road and sit in the back on a rickety wooden bench with god knows who else. Maybe a boy with a fish the size of my torso underneath his seat looking silently at his hands. Maybe a woman with three babies bouncing on her lap chattering with the wrinkled abuela across from her. Maybe a drunk, shirtless American on the floor hitting on the hot Russian to his right.
But it was early on Thursday when Cats caught the colectivo back to La Punta, so we sprawled out and watched the road peel away behind us as we jostled across potholes and over speed bumps.
One thing I will NOT miss when I leave Mexico: the speed bumps. They're everywhere. And sometimes they're marked and sometimes they're not. And sometimes the speed bump signs have speed bumps to go with them and sometimes they don't.
Cats drank cappuccinos and Hulks at Cafe Ole.
We left our valuables at our respective hostels.
Just when you start to feel safe...
Orange Cat went to the police station to report his stolen phone.
"I don't have hope that they'll be able to do anything," my mačka (Slovenian for "cat") told me as he hugged me goodbye at Brisas de Zicatela. "But I want to know that I did everything I could."
So while Orange Cat sped off to Puerto Escondido to catch the one and only English speaking policeman in the whole police force --
"But are you sure he'll be there?"
"They told me he would when I went on Tuesday. So I'd give it 50-50."
"Of course."
-- I packed my day bag with the warmest clothes I have left in my...err... limited wardrobe. Then I removed all my money (also, very limited) from my little wallet and stuffed it inside my enormous jar of cod liver oil pills.
Yes. No one will think to look for it in there.
I've become moderately paranoid since three hundred of my five hundred dollars were stolen out of my host's bedroom in Puebla whilst I was off visiting Mexico City. This is how I cope with paranoia. Hiding what money I have left with my fish oil. I then put the only other valuables (camcorder and external hard drives) inside dirty socks and hid them underneath a pile of reeking laundry. When my daypack was bursting with toasty clothes (the ones that reeked the least) and the electronics I refuse to leave behind, I sat down on my sand covered bed to survey my colorless room and to say goodbye to the privacy and quiet and belonging this simple space gives me.
Girl's going to the mountains. Mountains. Finally. My goodness. I have such a deep yearning in my soul for mountains. Always. Mountains and dry dirt and ragged rocks and scrubby bushes and the smell of pine.
I heaved a sigh.
A long weekend in the mountains. In the NOT sweltering heat. This is what I need. To not sweat until Monday afternoon. Por favor y muchos gracias.
San Jose del Pacifico.
A hillside mountain community nestled about halfway between Pochutla and Oaxaca.
Up a road so serpentine that it easily persuades the fainthearted (or faint stomached...) to take the twice as expensive, twice as long bus ride around the mountains.
A cozy hamlet nestled high up Sierra Madre del Sur.
Famous
(or infamous)
for its use of magic mushrooms.
Enveloped
Perpetually
Magically
By soft mist.
Blue Cat has been dreaming dreams of warm socks. Of toasty cabins. Of chilly nights and warm Oaxacan hot chocolate held in cold mačka hands.
These are the fantasies of a newly fledged snowbird halfway through the season.
So when Ella and Brendon told me they were interested in spending a few days in San Jose del Pacifico, I immediately asked to join.
This is a rather drastic change in my personality, I noted after Brendon had "of course you can come," ed to my question. A couple of years ago, I would have timidly waited for someone to ask me whether or not I wanted to join in on adventures like this. I would have assumed that if they wanted me, they would ask. And if they didn't ask, it was because they didn't want me. But now... I assume that if they don't want me, they're adults and can just tell me no. And that it's my responsibility and my privilege to look out for my own joy. And it would bring me so much joy to share an adventure with Ella and Brendon and Cat in the mountains.
After my bag was packed, I trekked up Brisas de Zicatela and turned right on Calle Morelos towards Casa Kei. It was Andrej's last morning in Pepe's treehouse guesthouse con jungle garden, and I wanted to make us a plate of guacamole and plantains fried in coconut oil to share before we left for our long weekend in San Jose.
This garden is just so damn beautiful, I thought as the coolness of the shade mitigated the overwhelming heat of Puerto Escondido's winter.
"Guacamole, Orange Cat! Are your excited?"
"You know how I feel about guacamole..."
A new volunteer sat with her laptop open at the red checkered table, probably on her third or fourth attempt at connecting and reconnecting to the internet in order to get Facebook or her email to load.
I miss Casa Kei's garden and I miss playing with the cats... but I do NOT miss the internet here... and I'm sure Boy doesn't either.
Hammers thundered overheard.
Neither do I miss the deafening pounding of construction and the sawdust everywhere.
Orange Cat fiddled with the stove until he got the burner to light and I started mashing avocados and squeezing limes.
"It's going to be good guacamole, Cat."
I glugged a generous amount of coconut oil into the pan and then charily placed the plantains in a single layer in the sizzling sweet, white oil.
Who needs chips when you can use caramelized plantains? NO ONE, that's who.
We speedily, greedily devoured our guacamole, plantains and fried queso, Andrej washed the dishes, and then we returned to the checkered table to chat whilst waiting for Brendon and Ella to meet with us so we could catch a bus south to Pochutla.
"Aimee, will you put the dishes away? Dust will get on them," Pepe askmanded (ten points if you can guess what that means), looking up at the workers and then at the dish racks full of dishes that most definitely weren't mine and that he most definitely knew most definitely weren't mine.
The other volunteer shifted awkwardly in her seat. She knew it was her job to empty the dish trays. I knew it was her job to empty the dish trays. Pepe knew it was her job to empty the dish trays.
So why is he askmanding me?
Tension has been high since I left Casa Kei as a volunteer.
Such a pity.
I stiffly stood to put away the dishes, resenting him and myself for mutely obeying the stupid askmand.
Just like it's dangerous to cross the line between friend and lover, it's dangerous to cross the line between friend and volunteer. Things get... complicated. Tense. Especially when what you're volunteering with is someone's metaphorical baby... Ach. Working here with Pepe watching was like babysitting a child with the mom peering over my shoulder the whole time. Nothing I did ever felt good enough.
Also.
You broke one of your rules by volunteering here, Bourget - NEVER volunteer with someone when what you're helping with is their primary source of income. It's too much stress and the host probably needs to go ahead and hire someone.
Also.
You're so done here.
I put the dishes away and walked back to Orange Cat.
"Thank-you."
"Welcome."
Damn.
When I closed Casa Kei's gate behind me (I decided I'd rather wait for Brendon and Ella on the corner of Brisas de Zicatela), I knew I was closing it for the last time.
Chapter finished. Thank goodness.
I fumed about Pepe's unrealistic expectations as we sat on the curb whilst waiting for the bus. I fumed about how he expected volunteers to spend over eight hours a day in his guesthouse (and that was only once I'd made the schedule... before that, it was beck and call) in return for a crummy place to sleep. And to be grateful for said crummy place. My first week at Casa Kei was spent in a tent. A one man tent with no mattress on very hard dirt. My second and third weeks were spent in a shack that leaked water, was stiflingly hot and quite overrun with bugs (a tarantula was found just on the other side of the flimsy wall, as a matter of fact. Pepe thought this was amusing. Perhaps this is because he's accustomed to living in close proximity with tarantulas and understands their... err... friendly nature. I'm from Colorado. We don't have tarantulas. We have poisonous black widow spiders. I have memories from when I was eight years old of my dad moaning in pain through a closed door from a bite on his leg. So. The tarantula did not amuse me).
Eight + hours a day for THIS?
Umm... Excuse me?
When I discovered that I could rent my own room with a bathroom for the equivalent of three dollars a day (sans my friendly tarantula neighbors), I did some basic math that even my theatre brain could comprehend and decided that my time was worth a bit more than forty cents an hour.
This is the math that's kind of important to exchange volunteers.
Key word = exchange.
True volunteers are those who give without expecting anything back. I'm an exchange volunteer. When I give my energy to a person and a place, I want and expect something back. And in this exchange... I'm not getting enough back. If I'm required to be here for eight hours a day, I'd like a bit of food and a pleasant place to sleep.
I mean.
I did get free coffee at Casa Kei.
And the free coffee was even fucking delicious free coffee.
But even if I'm not "working" and just staying in the garden talking to guests and explaining wifi passwords and whatnot... I'm still required to be here. And being here still keeps me from doing other things. I think I put up with this at first because I thought he was my friend, had "rescued" me from The Sanctuary and I really, REALLY like this space.
"I'm gonna do my best to not let it give me indigestion," I told Orange Cat as our bus grumbled towards Pochutla.
I'll never know whether or not this mantra had any verifiable, quantifiable success, because regardless of whether or not the Casa Kei drama actually gave me a stomachache, the road from Pochutla to San Jose del Pacifico sure turned my insides inside-out.
HOW IS IT POSSIBLE FOR A ROAD TO WIND THIS MUCH?
I pressed my forehead against the window, absorbing the cool from the glass and consciously relaxing my jaw, neck, shoulders. Orange Cat sat like a stone statue and stared straight in front of him.
Well.
Straight is a strong word.
Jesus, and I thought the roads in Southern Italy were bad. Those roads had more potholes, sure... but these have those ridiculous speed bumps and curve after curve after curve after -- BUMP -- after curve after -- BUUUUUUMP --
A little over two hours after entering the Oaxacan vomitron, we elatedly and nauseously tumbled out into San Jose.
And discovered
immediately
that spending over two hours sort of kind of DESPERATELY needing to vomit
was a small price to pay
for a sublime sunset
over a glorious garden
of majestic
opulent
clouds.
 |
| Happy. These are the moments in life that last -- |
 |
| -- regardless of whether or not you photograph them. But photographs are nice. |
"We're here!" I celebrated in between snapping nice photographs with filters that captured how the moment felt in my mind. "Now let's go find ourselves a home."
I'd read that the cabanas of La Puestra del Sol boasted hot showers and fireplaces.
However, there were no maps to be had.
No English speakers to be found.
And a sun quickly setting behind the garden of clouds.
"Let's just stay wherever we can for tonight and spend tomorrow finding a better place."
 |
| This hostel didn't boast hot showers, but the locked door with a, "be back soon" sign tipped topsy turvey was kept company by a sign that boasted, "rad vibes". Also, there was a sign at the entrance that said they spoke Australian. Um. Win? Mate? |
 |
| In San Jose, you even get a nice view whilst taking a dump. |
Our first night was spent at La Cumbre.
For a grand total of 200 pesos a night. Split amongst the four of us, that's about four dollars each.
Um.
Not bad.
For a morning view like this?
Not bad at all.
Before we'd even managed to unpack our things and settle in, a sloppy hippie wearing enviably comfortable pants and a well-seasoned beanie approached us.
"Hey, welcome. I'm Edwin," he began in a distant, breathy voice. "If, you know, you need anything, make sure to let me know," he continued. I assumed that he was doing his job as a hostel volunteer and was about to tell us about wifi and kitchen and toilets and things. Like I did when I was volunteering at Casa Kei. "If you need any weed or shrooms or anything, just let me know."
"Okay... err... thanks. Um. Edwin."
"No problem."
We walked back down into town and had a small dinner of quesadillas and Oaxacan hot chocolate in a local-as-possible-in-a-tourist-town sort of place with carved, painted magic mushrooms for sale in the side room.
With bellies full and bodies tired, we drew up layer after layer of thick, wool blankets, pulled on socks, donned warm hats and let our eyes drift shut in our mountain cabaña.
The wind howled all night long.
While I adore falling asleep listening to the crashing of the waves... there's something so... electric. Enigmatic. Erratic.
About the wind.
...
I can so easily lose myself in the sound of wind.
Thursday night was so cold and dark that Ella couldn't find the toilet (nor did she have the motivation to look for it). She peed on the dirt next to our cabaña. Brendon's lack of toilet finding motivation found him peeing off the balcony in the middle of the night.
but... you know... at least we're all clear on how to get weed and shrooms.
Orange Cat can hold it forever. So he did.
I'm the planning wizard. So I asked the seven people warming themselves around a campfire (who all resembled Edwin in their unabashed usage of comfortable pants and seasoned beanies) how to go about finding the toilet before it became entirely dark.
Friday morning was frigid. All four of us warm ocean breezes spoiled vagabonds shivered and shook and "FUCK, IT'S COLD" until a desire for warm coffee in cold hands coaxed us out of our beds (aka, Blue Cat's desire for warm coffee in cold hands coaxed the other three out of their beds).
 |
| It's amazing to see all the diverse flowers that grow in the cold. |
We'd spotted a pretty fabulous spot for coffee the day before.
Tiny and pink and with a balcony overlooking the cozy hamlet.
But just like yesterday, it was very much closed.
And just like the rest of Mexico, it had no signs to inform us caffeine deprived adventures as to when it would open.
(I've actually seen a restaurant that randomly closed for an entire day. The reason they put on their blackboard? "Closed today. Feeling lazy.")
 |
| First time in almost two months I've gotten to wear BOOTS! |
 |
| Chickens and dogs really own the streets in Mexico. It actually surprises me when I go into Puerto Escondido and see chickens in cages and dogs on leads. I'm like, "Hey guys.... what happened to you? What are you in for? Jaywalking? Stealing someone's picnic? Attacking a small child?" |
 |
| Magic mushrooms and San Jose's quesadilla lady. Always meet the quesadilla lady. Always. |
 |
| This is something I'm never going to grow tired of. Peeling paint. Meat dangling from the window in all its gnarly, fleshy glory. Sans pretty packaging. |
But I don't believe I've ever seen something technically illegal so openly embraced.
Open celebration probably has something to do with the fact that these mushrooms are such a huge part of mesoamerican heritage. They've been used for healing, communion and religious rites since pre-Columbian times and were celebrated until the culture squashing Catholic missionaries suppressed them for... errr... idolatry?
Spaniards couldn't have the indigenous peoples of their conquered countries communicating with devils.
and a wee bit of FYI...
a) magic mushrooms are not addictive.
b) are being studied for their medicinal properties in treating cluster headaches, OCD, clinical depression and alcoholism.
Maria Sabina was the first magic mushroom healer who opened the velada ceremony to westerners.
Bob Dylan
John Lennon
Mick Jagger
Keith Richards
All came to Maria Sabina to "find god".
And to listen to the "saint children" speak through her.
Because I can swim in the immense
Because I can swim in all forms
Because I am the launch woman
Because I am the sacred opposum
Because I am the Lord opposum
I am the woman Book that is beneath the water, says
I am the woman of the populous town, says
I am the shepherdess who is beneath the water, says
I am the woman who shepherds the immense, says
I am a shepherdess and I come with my shepherd, says
Because everything has its origin
And I come going from place to place from the origin..
While I don't quite know what to make of the sacred opossum, I do enjoy the bit about everything having an origin and going from place to place from the origin.
Since our pink cafe was inexplicably closed --
-- besides the forever explicable --
"meh.. it's Mexico."
-- we went all the way into town for our hot chocolates and coffees.
We were hoping for the traditional cinnamon coffee and a thick hot chocolate.
We got an... umm... enormous, watery and sickeningly sweet hot chocolate.
 |
| Brendon is not enthusiastic |
And coffee so watery it didn't even get points for trying to be coffee.
"It's not worth the water it's boiled in," Orange Cat set the coffee down after a single sip.
We finally managed to find La Puestra del Sol and rented a cabaña with a fireplace for 650 pesos a night.
Still desperate for a real coffee, we walked back into town and ordered cappuccinos at the tourist information center/internet cafe. At which the internet sometimes worked and there was no tourist information at all.
But at least their coffee got points for trying to be coffee.
 |
| Why all Mexican shops are confusing. Open sign plus padlock. Um... ? |
Then we walked back up the mountain (SO MANY MOUNTAINS!) to our original hostel to check out and eat lunch at the hostel's restaurant.
And now I'm finishing this post from our cabana in La Puestra del Sol.
A sprinkler sounds in the background to my right. Birds chirp to my left. A large coniferous tree covered with old man's beard whispers and sways in the breeze.
Ella's feet, black and red socks, black pants, long legs crossed resting on a log to my right.
Twisting, braiding long blonde hair.
Slowly sipping wine out of a blue tin cup.
Brendon chats about missing flights with my Mačka.
(Mačka and I have never missed a flight. Or a bus. Or a train. We don't understand this. But I'm a planning wizard and he's an Orange Cat. So)
A mountainous pine forest stretches out before me.
Today.
Is the first day in nearly two months wherein nary a drop of sweat has oozed out of my pores.
Although ooze is a fairly soft word for transpiration in Puerto Escondido. Pour might be a more appropriate word.
Ahem
Today.
Is the first day in nearly two months wherein nary a drop of sweat has poured out of my pores.
Win.
I'll take a nap after I finish my wine (also in a blue, tin cup). I anticipate that Brendon and Mačka will continue to drink, enjoy the view and solve all the world's problems.
Then we'll go back into town and have a small dinner.
Then we may
or may night
go find Edwin.
From whom we may
or may not
purchase 2.5 grams of dried mushrooms each.
So that we may
or may not
commune with god
(or just giggle a lot),
find the place of origin
(or just giggle a lot),
in our small cabaña
with a smoldering fire
and cups of Oaxacan hot chocolate
tomorrow night.
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