Big Sweet Tooth

La Lomita--A Local Institution

Ah, La Lomita.  Once, when I was on Isla a year or so ago, I had fantastic chile rellenos there, though this time I didn't see them on the menu.  So, I went for the octopus drenched in butter.  Hi delicious meal X a gazillion.  I can only say this bright-as-shit gem of a restaurant is forever consistent and always up to snuff with the good stuff. 

When you order a beer, I think a kid runs to the grocery store down the block to purchase one and then slings it out on your table as if it just came from the rear kitchen. There are random cats slinking around hunting for scraps and some free bean soup rolls out with each dish.  It's a perfect mix of locals, expats, tourists and loners.  Nothing party like about it in the least. ..in fact, it is dead quiet.   And, definitely nothing real special about the decorations.  Just good food and cheap tickets.

Of course, on my last day on the island, I zoomed by when the doors were shut and saw a sign for chile rellenos on the door.  Maybe it's just not on the menu?  I also witnessed a crazy good looking bowl of sopa de lima plowing out of the kitchen.  Next time, for sure.

 

El Hurache...Again and Again and Again...

One of my all time fave places to eat on Isla Mujeres is a small, locals-mostly joint called El Huarache (it's just around the corner from La Gloria, the little English schoolhouse).  Nothing on the menu is over a few dollars and for real, they make everything to order including the unbelievable empenadas, huaraches and quesadillas.  But, these pups aren't just normal quesadillas or regular run-of-the-mill empenadas.  They are so dang superior to everything you've ever had made with maiz, you'll find it impossible not to keep ordering more and more and more.  And, then to top it off right, one MORE!

The TV is always blaring, the light is god-awful, someone is always passed out, not a soul is ever particularly delighted to see you, and there is no alcohol served.  I truly adore it. 

Tapas on Isla Mujeres...Sorta...

Funny, I never expected to find a quasi-tapas joint on Isla.  Lis and I would haul ass by this dark looking bar every day while zooming around the island and one afternoon, it was begging for a pitstop.  Once again, I am at a loss for the name, but those of you who know Isla will find it across from the baseball field and those addictive shaved meat tacos. 

It was nothing more than a giant room full of colorful locals and a jukebox.  We'd no sooner ordered a few beers when loads of baby plates full of food came out.  All topped with tiny toothpicks.  Yum. 
There was tuna, cukes and jicama in chile (my fave), potato salad, ham and cheese cubes, pineapple and chile, chips and salsa...along with lime and salt, of course.  What a glorious shove down we had.  The table was soon accosted by a real friendly guy who spoke not a lick of English, but kept buying us beer (he was in love with Lisa, ha!) and then a few more fellas, one of whom I loved to death.  He was a very handsome gentleman from Cuba but was now on Isla and about to open a girls dance school.  He wanted me to come be his assistant.  Could you imagine?  Can't wait to share that news with everyone!

Meanwhile,  I guess I'd love to.

Things quickly turned to chaos around our table.  Numbers were being exchanged, phones were whipped out, ID's were being shown off (don't ask me why), and laughs were had by all.  We ended up roaring out of there and over some tacos down the road, I discovered the Cuban's cell phone in my little bag.  He must have been freaking out, but when we returned it a few hours later, he just said he wasn't worried because he knew we were good people.  Right-o.

Good people.  Good island.

A Fish Goes Down Hard....

Yeah...so, one day me and the gals were trolling around picking up ingredients for the PURE cooking workshop and Deisy wanted us to stop by a relative of her's house so she could grab some food that was just made and needed to be on the way to Alexandra's (her daughters) school---at least that is what I think I deciphered. 

All access was ON in the kitchen for fish de-gutting and I wish I'd had time to try the food at this little restaurant located on the south side of Isla.  I mean, with a kitchen like this and mad dedication going hand in hand with it...how could the grub not be fantastic??

Wish I knew the name of the place.  Next time I'm on Isla Mujeres for sure...this will be pitstop #1.  And for real...guess I'm moving to the island.  Why not, hell....

And seriously, I cannot wait to get the horrified emails from the peeps freaking that I've laid out photos in this way.  BUT DUDE, this is food.  This is what you eat.  This is from the source.  This is real.  This is Mexico. 

And, this is what you should all aspire to witness--and taste--one day. 

Tinga De Pollo: Get to Know it Quick

To the sheer delight of all...on the final morning of the PURE Pilates Retreat...one of the adorable housekeepers at Casa Ixchel showed up with a giant gift in a pot--a straight up vat of homemade goodness.  It was a classic dish called Tinga de Pollo.

I'm sorry but this tomatoey, spicy, rich, delicious concoction of chicken and chorizo served up with crema, tostadas, lime and queso was one of the best things I've ever tasted in my simple little life.

Bless you Oyuki.

A quick recipe is here.

The Coldest Beer on Isla Mujeres....

The coldest beer on Isla Mujeres is found at a local spot just a short walk from the ferry (sorry, my love, Manana).  I can't remember the name but it is across from the Social Justica seafood joint and has a string of yummy beers perched in the window.   

Why so cold?  Dunno, but they have a special fridge that houses beer only and it is literally steaming cold fumes when it arrives at the table.  Lis and I guzzled them with wild delight through the course of the day (breakfast, lunch and dinner) and over reviewing Sailor Jim's notes, Lis even assisted in attempting to help me get that damn nail polish off--like I said, I'm not a mani person!  I also dig that a toothless fella hawks natural beauty supplies while I drink, too.  LOVE IT.

They also churn out haunting tostado's that have stalked me across the whole of Mexico this past week. I keep searching for the EXACT replica, to no avail.  It's tough to find veggie tostados that have flavor, but these kids have it down---along with funky, jacked-up forks galore. 

And, for the record, I have a real tough time remembering the name of anywhere.  I just know where it is, what they serve and how good the best thing goes down. 

Sabor Michoacan and Ceviche on Isla Mujeres {From The Raving Dish}

Ceviche has always sorta freaked me out. I've never been able to wrap my head around the fact that this tasty dish is straight up raw seafood cooked in lime juice. How is that even possible? Is the acid from the limes that intense? Well, thanks to a recent cooking workshop I took in Mexico, I now know the answer. Acid is indeed the key, and it only takes a few minutes for it to hammer down its powerful effect.

To backtrack a minute, before I left colder-than-cold Chicago for sunny Mexico, I tested out a new restaurant, a tiny, family-owned Mexican restaurant called Sabor Michoacan in my Rogers Park 'hood. It had just opened in the sea of North Clark eateries, and for less than a can of Red Bull, I partook in the juiciest ceviche I've come across outside of mainland Mexico. Bright pink bullets of fresh shrimp came tossed with tiny bits of emerald-green cilantro, dots of tangy onion and chunks of ruby-red tomato. But, I didn't stop there.

My Favorite Family on Isla Mujeres -- And My Favorite Food

Seems like everywhere I go, I adopt a local family.  This time, on Isla Mujeres, it was the family of Jorge, the handy man at Casa Ixchel.  Never have I met such incredible people.  From sweet and innocent Lupe to Bubu, the hysterical wailer, to Alex the coquetta, to Deisy the mama bear/incredible cook, to Henesis the Julia Roberts look-a-like to Audy the Danny Yankee lover...I fell in love with each and every one of them.  I grew so attached the family as a whole, it became really hard to focus on the PURE retreat instead of them. 

The whole week was packed with the family--Deisy and Jorge were the chefs for our cooking workshop so there was always something to do---shop, plan, eat.  Me and Lis decided to support the gals and pay their way through an 8-week beginners course in English school (La Gloria) partly because it will help us when we return later this year.  They practice English with us and we continue to practice Spanish with them.  And, Deisy happily cooked for us a half dozen times.  The best ever empenadas and sopes (con creama), all thrown down with some cervezas. (More on this food later).

At some point in time, Audy treated me to a pedicure and manicure.  Sol's a flowin'.  I never get a manicure because I kill it minute one.  I'm too much of a tomboy, I guess.  No matter, this wasn't any old mani/pedi.  The whole gang was involved.  I had my Spanish book out while Lupe rocked some homework.  I learned a few new translations that have been crucial throughout the week:  drunk, dirty, ugly, boyfriend, never.  Go figure.  It was legend. 

Why was it legend?  Because these experiences are exactly what travel is all about all.  Local connects, intuitive moments, home-grown food...they all equal giant moments in the bit of time that is life.   No preconceived expectations are ever met, but oddly without knowing it, they are surpassed.  You can't really ask why.  You just flow.

Sometimes You Can Sail Without Being a Sailor

One of my favorite spots in all of Isla Mujeres is a little bookshop/restaurant called Manana.  I wrote about it on my last trip here and this time, I fell even more in love with it.  Every day, you run into the same faces over and over.  It's kinda like Manana makes the island go 'round.  It's a hotspot for all the relaxed folk on Isla and one day me and Lis were chillin' at one of the open air bar windows when a funny little diddy named Jim rolled by.  He was wondering if my laptop picked up wi-fi and before Lis could slam another beer, he'd invited us out onto his sailboat for some snorkeling adventures.  I love how a sailboat always tracks me down no matter where I end up. 

Early the next AM, Lis and I headed out with Jim on his dinghy to his boat.  He'd just bought the beast and sailed down from Florida.  Of course, he had no idea how to sail, but he just knew that he had the money and the balls.  Sometimes that's all it takes.  In fact, most times you need even less than that.  A couple of wrecked boats, cave blowouts, coral burns and bellowing guffaws later, me and Lis had determined that Jim would be a buddy for life.

He gave us a tour of Against the Wind (from Nashville, TN and not the boat pictured) and for real, the boat was decked.  I had the best shower off the stern of his boat that I've ever had in my life.  The interior was stacked with crates of Jiffy mix, freezers full of meat, three friggin' GPS units, a gold panner...I mean, Jim had hit up everything before setting sail. It made me SAD as hell that I'd just sold my own boat, but lifted me into a whole new excited frame of mind at the idea of buying a new vessel.  I might need one a little bit bigger than a 30 footer.  Yikes!  But, in LA for sure...I gotta be able to leave the boat in water year round. It's just that simple.

After determining that we'd do our best to stay in touch, we established a communication mode (scribbled notes under a pink rock just off the dinghy dock), had a few beers with some of his new sailing pals at an octopus joint, and hit the road.   

Well, first Jim busted out his hand-drawn map to the port authority.  Poor thing.  He'd not checked in with a soul upon arrival.  You gotta love it. 

Meanwhile, this was Day 1.

Hello Bright Pink Home-Applied Mani from Isla Mujeres...

See, this is the funny things about blogs.  You never know where the action is happening in real time. You might think you do, but in reality the blog could be weeks or months behind what is really going on.  Case in point--I've just spent 2 weeks on Isla Mujeres, a tiny speck of an island off the coast of Cancun,  yet not a soul has any idea what just shook down in my life. 

My PURE Pilates retreat just wrapped up and I have one more night on the island before I start the long-ass drive back to LA.  Alone.  Thank God.  I've spent weeks in the company of others and as special as the times were, I relish in being along.  Dead alone.  At all times.  It's so easy to get back to the MST basics--nothing but me, my truck, my moments in time, and all my glorious stress-free space in the universe.  I like it.  No, actually, I love it.

These one-shot-says-it-all photos lays out my trip in a nutshell, but over the course of the next week or so, I'm gonna backtrack and spread it all out like a stain.  A big, fat MST-infused Isla Mujeres spillover that I just don't want to end.   Ah, but the thing to remember is that all the adventures keep on 'acomin.  That must just be my plot in life.  I accept it.  For sure...all the time.

Casa Sac Nicte in Merida...and Random Blogs

I'm trying to figure out why people (including myself) check in on blogs.   I have a handful that I hit up as often as I can--some are travel writers (guidebooks and magazine articles), a few are blue water adventurers (a girl with a sailboat on the Sea of Cortez) and they all live in a foreign country--or are traipsing through one (a surf fiend making a new life in Mexico and an info master in Bali).  I check in on them simply for the inspiration.  To know that there are others out there somewhat like me...with the same way open frame of mind that I have.   I just like reading about people who go, do, try and be.   It's really that simple.

I dig perusing their words especially when they wax on about their everyday struggles. Because trust me--to travel and/or live a little bit of a skewed existence isn't cake all the time.  Not by a stretch.  There's still bills to pay, connects to make, money to make, shiz to organize, life to lead, exercise to be done, goals to accomplish, ideas to generate, friends to chill with, people to meet and the craziest of all--finding a place to land. 

I touched down in colonial Merida for just one afternoon and night and managed to link up with a hysterical writer who lives in Romania but was looking for a new spot to build some roots.  Mexico to the rescue.  Merida attracts folks because you can buy an incredible hacienda for less a 1 bedroom condo in Chicago.  To me, it was a wee bit of the bustling side of things but then again, I'd just come from the mountain bliss of San Miguel de Allende. 

I stayed in an gorgeous B and B (Casa Sac Nicte) dead in the center of town and had the best convo with the owner over a few beers (on him)--in the communal living room.  The said writer popped in from one of her house scouts and BAM we were off for drinks, dinner (Mayan) and more drinks at the free-for-all cantina.  The talk always turns to sex (or poo) and we chilled for hours spilling out stories that I'm not sure even my closest pals are tuned into.  Cuba came up and man, I was this close to going with her, but after a quick stop on Isla Mujeres for the PURE Pilates retreat, I've gotta jam back to LA for a job.  Next time, eh?  I guess life curls around you on a dime and you gotta just roll with the flow.  It's a tough road, this travel way...

And seriously, the couple in full pass out mode has to be one of my fave photos ever.  It was literally 7:15 pm.  Nice.

Even Poo Looks Pretty in Campeche

Campeche, Mexico is a tidy little beachside town that I sorta fell for.  In a weird way.  I ended up in a quaint old hotel in the colonial part of town-- and it's the sort that is peppered with cobblestone streets.  My spot in time was a perfect hotel with a small terrace that reminded me of what Cuba might be like (gotta get there, too).  I plunked my bag down into the room and took off walking...even though it was 10 pm when I started out. 

A few drinks later, I found myself tucking into a tiny market called La Michoacan chowing on a sandwichon.  This big bad mama looks like tres leches cake and is really the most delightful stack of soft and squishy bread smeared in some kind of creamy pimento cheese spread.  Miracle, for sure.  It seems I can strike up a convo with a wall (for real) and I ended up chatting it up with the owner and his pal--a guy that he provides jewlery materials too.  Things like pearly white OSTRICH BONE!  I mean, who knew?   The pieces were awesome, but I just couldn't bear the thought of slinging a poor ostrich bone around my neck.  Grod. 

He was a smart cookie, though and offered to take me to his workshop so I could see the entire process but I was just happy breaking into my sandwichon, talking to the quirky owner in my combat Spanish about his pet pirana and watching a small dog go poo on the sidewalk. 

Lordy, the places I find myself when I'm alone.  I cannot imagine being with someone on a trip like this.  I'm not sure the same easy-come-easy-go experiences would happen to me if I was with anyone else, you know?  I could have stayed all night long just soaking it all in--it was all so much like my vision of Cuba and I'm now thinking I need to treat myself to a Cuban getaway once the CAmer trip wraps up.  Who the heck knows when that will be...but it's all starting to take shape in my noggin'.

As the jewelry maker spied on me spying on everything else, he simply said:  I can see you are a happy girl.

'Nuf said.
But, back on the road, stat.

Campeche, Mexico and Shell Beaches

I've been trippin' into places along this entire journey that have been on my MST list forever and ever.  Lots of big places that I've read about, made notes on and couldn't wait to explore and a whole lot of small, more tucked away places (secrets, the whole lot of them):  Santa Fe, NM; Fredericksburg, TX; Texas Hill Country; San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  I've slipped through them all and now I find myself on the way to the bustling colonial gem known as Merida.  I get wild with excitement when I knock a place off my list because then I can just get it the heck out of my head.  That way the actual location doesn't harass me any longer...as they all tend to do--if I don't get there and call it home for a minute, it will haunt me all the live long day.

Ah, but before Merida, we have Campeche, Mexico. 

When I finally hit the beach just west of Campeche, I was just plain old giddy.  I've not really explored the water since I've been truckin' thru Mexico, and I immediately came upon a thousand strands of beach where I could toss Yatz and call my life as I know it a goner.  This is maybe the first time in my travels that I've seen a beach full of nothing but little-bitty shells.  Little feet slicers every which way I wandered.   Then it hit me that MAYBE sand WAS nothing but worn down shells.  Wow. 

While sucking on the baby blood blister I'd acquired somewhere along the way and slinging down sugary sweet drinks, I hunted for some banditos.  Everyone keeps saying that outlaw Mexico is rife with them, but all I've been coming across are a bunch of smiling locals and some real helpful strangers.  All those crazy folk must be talking about the other Mexico.  Yah, that's it...all the machete wielding maniacs are in that other Mexico.  Wow, thank god I didn't end up there.

Back on the Road & Headed to the Coast~

After leaving Veracruz, my trip became all about getting straight to the coast.  I was hankering for the water--blue, blue water.  And food, of course.  Lot's of yummy food from all the roadside restaurants and rough-hewn shacks.   

Though you'd never really see it in the USA, the Mexican's have mastered the art of streetside vendorship.  Full half mile long traffic jams are created over a small plastic bag of fresh-squeezed orange juice ($1).  Entire parties are had over a queen-sized slab of pescado ($5).  And,I find myself busting some sun salutations whilst waiting on an gooey empenada to be prepared ($1.50).  All in one briliantly sunny afternoon.

Is this not what life is supposed to be, though?  The complete and utter acceptance of time?  Your own time. Wanna have a drink at the crack o dawn?  Do it.  Wanna study Spanish at 2am?  Do it.  Wanna eat til you curl over in pain from all the good stuff?  Do it.  Wanna make eyes with a complete stranger you know you'll never see again who doesn't speak your language---whilst slamming the said drink, studying the said Spanish and gobbling the said food?  Do it.

Life has quickly become a succession of easy days, dream-like flows of time and whatever-way-the-wind-blows circumstances.  It's good, man, it's real good.  And, the food is even better~

A New Day Dawns in the Wilds of Mexico...

The next morning, I tumbled out of bed at the crack of dawn, rip-roaring ready to hit the pavement.  So, I did all I could do---dropped a $20 on the kitchen table and beat it the hell outta dodge.  The all-fresh, all-organic dinner had been fantastic (charred fish with a mayo/green onion dip, veggie loaded salad, spicy frijoles, warm tortillas, and cold beer) but the company was even richer. 

The Shell's and Sascha were flinging out dialogue so good it would be impossible to rewrite.  I'd call it vibrant--it was all talk of secret monkey slaughters, on-the-lam producers of Apocalypto, killer eco ideas, escaping the real world, jungle survival, poetry readings, witchcraft scams, and crazy folk (them, not me).  They went at each others throat with wild abandon...I loved it and laughed hard the whole time.  These two couldn't even agree to disagree, and when I asked them if there was anything in the entire world that they did agree on, the air turned heavy.  Dead even.  Sascha then divulged with an impish grin, "Cana is good."  The Shell's agreed immediately.  And, then they were back at it...

As we wound down the convo and the evening, I offered to help the now tanked Shell's up the hill to her house but before I could even grab a flashlight, her head had slammed into the concrete floor.  For real.  She was simply reaching down to grab a tiny baby blue sombrero that had fallen off the counter and BAM!  Poor thing.  That cana's a mo-fo, eh?

After seeing that Shelly made it home safe, I froze my little bootie off in the barn/dorm, cradling my pillow (who knew it got so cold in the jungle?).  Of course, I kept one sleepy eye peeled on the narrow set of stairs---just in case...
Dude, you never know what the frizz is shaking down in the back country.  I barely got three hours worth of sleep but come sunup, hasta luego, kiddies~

It was eerily quiet as I weaved my way along the overgrown path back to my truck...but the early AM light pouring over the lake was magical.  Yeah my night was epic, but man I was absolutely euphoric to be back on the road.  It's where I find myself all over again.  Me, hot asphalt, no shoes, windows down, hair a tornado, taillights fading.  What else is there?

PS--If you want to see firefly stars so close you could grab 'em, get to Bahia Escondida Rancho stat.  I can't imagine this place will stay off-radar much longer, but for now--and just a mere few bones--it's just you, the animals, the Shell's and Sascha.  Stars, lake critters and deep convo included.

And, if you are lucky...on the long way out, you will happen across a fella walking along the side of the road with a big wicker basket.  In his brimming bounty is a batch of just-now-made pastels.  Sweet Jesus, the glory in the first bite of a warm, cream-filled doughnut before getting on the road is like nothing else in the world.

Taste of Peru {From The Raving Dish}

Before recently, I knew only two things about Peru and Peruvians. One: They make a mean pisco sour. Two: The country is home to Machu Picchu, one of the most breathtaking, mind-boggling, man-made structures in the world. That was the extent of my knowledge about this Latin American country, until I went to Taste of Peru, a tiny North Side haunt crammed into a shabby strip mall. The restaurant also taught me that Peruvian chefs churn out a mean paella that rivals the best that I have had in Spain.

I had eyeballed the Taste of Peru sign close to a trillion times while cruising up and down North Clark Street, but it wasn't until recently that two of my buds and I ended up there on a whim. We were all lost as geese about where to eat, and something about Peruvian sounded exotic at the time. On the hunt for something hearty, steaming and cheap, we thought Taste of Peru fit the bill, and its BYOB policy cemented our decision.

In Mexico, You Must Stumble into Gold...

Dios Mio...who the hell could have known that Shelly would be a brilliant artist?  Once I'd trekked up to her new glass-encased casa she started in with the tequila.  Straight shots con limon.  Nice.

We were just twirling about our first shot when she decided to unfurl her paintings.  I mean, wow!  As she unrolled each masterpiece, I couldn't help but ponder exactly how much money I could make off this little gem.  Come on Shell's!!  What up?  Dude, this chica should be displaying her work all over the world. I have seen so much less get such mad props, it almost made me sick to my stomach that she had no idea how talented she was.  She soon lit a candle, since the sun was starting to set.  Another shot, por favor.

That was when all hell broke loose.  Shell's wasn't too pleased with Sascha and his ability to complete her house to her specifications.  Though she did dub him a genius time and time again.  Want some more tequila, MST?  Yes, please....thank you.

In no time, the heartfelt Shell's was laying out a story for me that was precisely the reason I'd come to Mexico.  A nearby island was pilfering drugs--and it wasn't just the ganj...it was all the good stuff...Ah but these banditos...they were taking the dinero and slinging it back into the system--i.e. building schools, supporting locals, etc...

The outsider would never know what the hell was going on unless he had an in.  I was looking for an in.  These types of stories are journalistic heaven.  You can only really happen upon them because they are so remote, so tight, so sealed shut, it would be hard to hear about it and then attempt to track them down. You must stumble into gold like this.  As it should be.   She whipped out a   glass board and started in with crude, hand-drawn map to the actual said location.  Dios mio.

It was time to head down the hill to grab some food.  Sascha had demanded to be alone in the kitchen to prepare the fish, salad, etc...Shelly was only good for drinks, no food.  Por supuesto. 

When I rolled back down the hill, Sascha suggested I take a nap in the azul hammock before dinner.  He still had an hour or so before things were in order.  I knew it would be impossible for me to fall out in a hammock but no sooner had I shut my eyes than I was dead to the world--a dog licking me the whole time.  Nice.

The Shell's shook me awake a bit later (felt like days, but was really 15 minutes) and sneaked a little cana before busting out some hardcore poetry.  My god, the night was just getting better and better as the minutes ticked past.

The Jungle is Alive

Once I tossed back my first beer, I couldn't stop drinking Dos Equis--rapid fire.  They were just so cold and the limes coming out alongside them were so huge, so full of juice--it was if I'd never had a real lime before.  The second I sat down in a well-worn chair in BE's dining room, I caught a glimpse of a frazzled looking woman (Shelly) flapping her arms and trying not to stare at me.  She was keeping Sascha, the pony-tailed and handle-barred moustached owner of the camp, very busy in the rustic kitchen--with a line of questioning that would petrify anyone.  I just kept thinking...Why are these people acting as if it is normal that I am here? Like, no questions asked.

It's 100 degrees out.  They reside down a dirt road miles from anyone/anything.  You have to walk about a half mile thru a dense jungle before you even see a little sign pointing the way.  And, I'd just strolled up in ballet slippers, hair a massive bush of curls...looking for a cold beer.  Flicking bugs the whole way.  The odds of me being there just seemed really wild to me.  Hell, let's all sit and have a drink.  Cana for them, cerveza for me.

Upon closer inspection (re: eye contact), I could tell--by the excitement in their faces and the lilt in their voices (ah!  a stranger/victim)--that they were kinda stunned that I was there too.  Finally, I had to ask---
Where the hell am I? 

Laughing, Sascha busted out an old book full of maps of the area and pointed out exactly where I was. Los Tuxtlas, Veracruz, Mexico.  But, my question was more--what is this place? 
Turns out I was in BE, a funky eco-camp tucked way into the jungle in a nature reserve.  I mean...DEEP into the jungle.  Right on the edge of Lake Catemaco. 

I was the only guest at the moment and after many, many drinks it was determined that I'd sleep over.  Hell why not?  I'd only made it 75 miles that day and it was nearing sunset.  Grayyyttttt.  Another day down.  Ah, but if not here, then where?  Another beer was practically shotgunned.  Shelly had only consumed a solo cerveza and shook her head vehemently when I prodded her to have another. I soon realized it was because she was tucking into the cana on the sly.  Indeed, Shelly.  Gettin' a little hectic in the jungle, is it?

Though you can camp here, I opted for the $7 "dorm" option--the dorm turned out to be the top floor of a small barn with three cozy little cots draped in Mayan-style blankets.  Excellent...can't wait to be murdered and slivered up in the jungle come sundown.  But, first, why not a good meal?   All organic veggies (from the garden Sascha had going) and a bit of the local flavor were on the agenda.

I guzzled another beer and tripped back down the mud path to where I'd long abandoned my truck (I needed my own pillow for this one), whilst Sascha set to procuring dinner.  I had expressed a keen interest in the tiny fish the locals were trolling about netting up, so Sascha wrangled up a big fat kilo of them.  I drank some more beer while he slammed some more crystal clear cana.  Thing's were starting to get a little hazy, real fast.

Shelly, in the meantime had scurried up the hill to her house to ready it for my viewing (she had just bought land on the cheap from Sascha and he'd built her a house---hence the tense words).
She was beyond thrilled to show me around, because I was the first person to roll thru since it had been semi-completed...it was her "dream house in her dream location."   An artist's haven she'd designed herself and escaped life in America to live in.  I knew the Shell's was dying to get me alone for a drink so she could unleash all the secrets she had no one else to tell.  Oh, the joy.

Time to feed the animals---dogs, geese, chickens, roosters, pigs, etc...
They all came running when Sascha bellowed out the mealtime call.  I procured another beer and trotted up the hill to Shelly's ready for madness.

The Bumpy, Dusty, Dirty, Muddy, Remote, Fantastic Road to Bloody LOCA...

The question of the day is:  Just how far will you go for a beer?  A very cold beer? 

Well, I managed to travel into the extreme belly of voodoo/witchcraft Mexico for one---to a small town that is referred to as Catemaco...and is tucked against the lush Veracruzian shores of Lake Catemaco.  Not necessarily intentionally did I end up there, but I saw the colorful sign for Bahia Escondida as I was barreling thru this little lakeside community loaded to the brim with spirit chasers.  I had no idea that I would spend the night many kilos from civilization in a really rustic eco-camp that just skirts the STRAIGHT REMOTE jungle where Apocalypto was filmed.   

Oh, I found the muy fria cerveza all right...as well as a bazillion brilliant stars that people travel the world over to lay eyes on...and guess what else I happened upon/discovered?  A whole lotta CRAZY is goin' down in the jungle.  From monkey murders to brilliant art to tribal feuds to full head-hit-the-concrete-floor pass-out's to seared baby fish to the COLDEST beer this side of Bar Casanova in SMA...it's just damn good stuff any way you look at it.

I must have an invisible banner strapped across me that says : I, MST, Welcome the Wild.  For $7 bucks a night, though..bring it on! 

More in the next post...it's just too much to wrap up in one single entry on the Tooth. This one is a bit of a saga~

Mango-on-a-Stick, Charming Beach Towns & XM Radio

Once I hit the coast of Mexico, the windows came down and the sunshiney heat blasted into my truck.  Music blared, back roads were explored, and I scarily perfected texting with one hand while slamming water, eating a mango flower on a stick, and searching thru XM radio for ANY song that did not have an American Idol attached to it.

Alvarado is a very small Carib-esque beach town that I could definitely spend some time in…but God, there are just so many.  How does one decide where to end up?

For those who care, here are a few things I have learned on the road...I am 3000+ miles and counting...

1.  XM radio is only good for the BBC, Channel 50 and Bloomberg.  Beyond that…it is loaded with a shizload of peeps I am boycotting: Daughtry, Fergie, Jordin Sparks, Maroon Five, someone who sings about a man named “Shorty,” T-Pain, and a whole lot of other folks that I loathe.

2.  At midnight, when I am hauling ass and trying to make some time, I stop for a Bull (yep, back on that again!) and put it on any channel that plays all of the above. How in the hell do I know all the words to each these songs, I ask you?  I have managed to remember ONE—I tell you ONE---Spanish word.  Donde.  Yet, I can sing the hell out of Tattoo by Jordin Sparks.  God help me.

3.  Coca-Cola rules the world.  It is everywhere, consumed by everyone, at all times, by all ages.  Another boycott.  But, a Diet Coke sure comes in handy for an energy blast.

4.  Candy really does make the world go round.  When I toss a piece of something sugary sweet out the window to a random stranger, the immediate happiness that sparks into his/her dull eyes is completely life-altering.

5.  I love being in a country where no questions are asked.  Ever.  Whatever you are doing at any given moment is a-okay.  Beer at 9 am?   Awesome!

6.  I could really care less about every single tourist attraction in the world.  Every last one of them.  Gimme the off-grid, the under-the-radar, and the undiscovered any day.

7.  Border guards, patrol men, military boys and policemen all around just want to flirt.  I promise you.  What I have been asked continually in all the random stops along the way:  Where are you from?  Where are you going?  You are solo?  Can I come with you?  It never, ever strays from that line of questioning.

8.  I love snapping photos out of the window of my truck while doing a hundy.  Enough said.

9.   I could disappear into the bowels of Mexico forever.  And, I mean that in a real good way.

10.  Why is every gas station in the USA not full service? I really, really dig someone pumping my gas.  I always tip big, too---for the record.  It’s the small things.

11.  American's are plain old scaredy cats!  Every single one who sees my tags from IL looks at me with a real puzzled face and is totally incredulous that I hauled all the way into the outlaw land that is Mexico all alone.   I have to say I've felt much safer here than I ever did wandering through my own 'hood in the PM.  For real.

12.  My actual needs are getting to be less and less.  And, my living space has shrank down to an almost fetal spot anywhere in the world.  What a liberation. To realize that absolutely nothing is needed for genuine happiness.  In fact, most things have become a hassle--hence the random giveaways on the road.  Smiles all the way around.

Oysters Shucked Fresh Near Alvarado, Mexico

You do not know oysters until you have been to the Mexican coast of Veracruz and hit up a tiny town perched directly on the nortern edge of Alvarado, Mexico.

The village not much more than a scrubby patch of shacks—each with a huge mountain of fresh oysters piled high on a roadside table.  Some of the little sling-to's have giant bags of shrimp dangling from a rusty hook but the thing to go for is the oysters…simply because all you need is to pull into the dusty parking lot, order up a half dozen and grab a beer. Then in no time flat, the fella cracking them open wields his knife with surgeon like precision and your table is loaded with crunchy tortilla chips, an addictive mayonaisse/salsa-like dip, a bright blue plate full of just-caught oysters, and a small plate of lime and salt. 

Don’t forget about the cold Pacifico to wash it all down with.   These little babies are so fresh, so clean, so splattered with ocean goodness that it is impossible to not order another half dozen.  The whole lip-smacking kit-n-caboddle will run you under $3 (beer and tip included).  As my pal Lisa stated, “Where in the world can you get a meal like that?”  Well said, my girl but, guess what?  I know where.  It’s a gem called Leslie’s…and it’s worth a trip to Mexico alone.  And, the vinegar hot sauce that is on the table has a MAD heat to be reckoned with.  Another beer, por favor?

I’m sorry, did I hear someone (s) say that it was 10 degrees out--with 6 inches of snow covering the ground in Chicago?  Hmmmmm…Shame.

The Dusty Road to Veracruz from SMA...

Leaving San Miguel de Allende was pretty tough. I am just blown away by how many truly good people there are in that little mountain village--from the locals all the way to the expats.  So many opportunities for good food, deep volunteering and random exploring.  Ah but...I'll be back in the summer (and really, should I just move there?).

The hardscrabble road to Veracruz from SMA is about 450 some-odd miles and full of trillions of fruit stands (my fave is ice cold tamarindo juice and the pina y coco combo), taco carts and auto hotels.  I am still so confused about the auto hotel.  What the heck is that thing?  I even stopped in one to take a look-see and the guy explained the entire situation to me--in Spanish.  Oh right, I don't speak Spanish (less now than ever, it seems).  So I never figured it you--something about 3 hours, time, pesos and the word "also".  Hmmmmm....another thing I must get to the bottom of.  Add it to the list.

I hauled ass through pouring rain, crazy dense fog and cold gusts of wind (saw a couple of accidents and really, I am so impressed with exactly how much a little Mexican truck can haul) 'til I hit the coast of the Veracruz.  The weather immediately changed once I was in Veracruz--meaning that my naturally curly hair shortened to about 1 inch from the humidity. That's always how I know when I'm in a real honest place.  My hair starts to look pretty dreadlock/funkdified.

Veracruz is a giant city on the beach that is actually pretty cool once you get off the main drag--which I did immediately.   The side 'hoods reminded me a little of New Orleans and have this whole French vibe going on.  I only stayed the night there because I wanted to see the stretch of coast just south of there in the daylight, but it was a happy accident.  More in the next post about that southbound adventure....because that's when things started to get good.

And, bless these poor guys hearts.  It's like, "Hon...It's cool you want my email and/or digits, but REALLY...you live in the middle of Mexico on a dirt road that I will never, ever cruise back down again.  How in the world do you think we will connect again in this lifetime?  Tell me, please..."