Back in the winter of '97/'98 Darnel and I got a wild hair to go to Mexico. Neither of us knew the first thing about the country. We didn't speak the language. We had little money. We didn't know where we wanted to go or what we wanted to see. And we went without a primary mode of transportation. One might reasonably ask just what we were thinking. I don't think we could have provided a satisfactory answer.
My recollections below are spotty at best, and may be downright false. It's been a lot of years and lot of miles since.
We started with an AutoDriveaway from Richmond, VA. We drove across country making few stops on the way to our drop-off in Long Beach, CA. When we unloaded the car it was winter in southern California—in an El Nino year.
We took city buses south as far as we could go. Somewhere north of San Diego we spent about five hours in the pouring rain trying to hitch to the border. Finally the clouds broke and we got a ride and made it into San Diego where we skated around a bit and finally took the train to Tijuana. We got there in the early evening after a few harrowing days of sleep-deprived driving, snoozing behind a strip mall—where I have a vivid memory of Darnel crapping in a cereal box—and finally landing in the bustling streets of TJ.
I can't say why or how we came to the decision but we took a bus east and ended up in Mexicali. By this time it was late evening and we were tired as hell so we ducked behind a motel chain (Sheraton, Hilton?) and crawled under our sleeping bags in the darkest spot we could find. After about twenty minutes a security guard literally almost stepped on us. I think he was sneaking off to smoke a little mota on his shift—why else would you crawl behind an air conditioner unit on the dark backside of the motel?
So we startled him and did our best—as he screamed for help—to apologize and get the fuck out of there. So at this point we were walking the dusty streets of MCali, alone and forsaken. The streets weren't unpaved as we first thought, they were just covered in inches of dust and trash. There was a dead, bloated German Shepherd just off the sidewalk. Lots of cursing and screams in the shadows. We surrendered and got a motel room in the shittiest establishment we could find.
Late in the night we got the bright idea to stroll around and see the sights. We met a couple students who were out for the night. They made their benevolent intentions known by offering to "show us around." Well, if any of you know Darnel, there was no turning back. We just looked at each other and didn't have to say it: When in Rome, get in where you fit in. We got in their car. Anybody ever drink beers at midnight in a strip joint in Mexicali? I can't recommend it.
From there we headed southwest. I remember eating fresh pineapple and avocado in Los Mochis. I'll never forget Tepic. It was a lovely little town but we were feeling pretty road weary and were excited to find a stand that sold fresh juice. Seemed just the thing to to fuel up and get some rest. We got a cheap hotel room and settled in. It took us a minute to cool down after hitting the throne. We both thought the parasites had damn near killed us before we realized it was just the beet juice we drank. Blood bombs.
From there we made our way to Mexico City. It was too much to comprehend. We walked around the zocalo, saw what we could see of street life in the capital and then headed out for Oaxaca.
I can't remember exactly why we headed to Oaxaca. We didn't know much but that there were historical ruins and that the further south we went the more mellow the trip got—less vibing from curious and drunk locals, less sketchy sleeping arrangements (I remember sleeping in a shadow in the middle of a soccer field, and once next to a house being renovated near a city center—the construction crew woke us at six am, etc.).
Well, Oaxaca was like an oasis. We got a cheap hotel in the middle of town. Had some beers and shot pool, visited some ruins, felt at ease. We even found a skatepark. It was the only time we really skated in Mexico but it was one of those weird days where skateboarding just make sense. We landed tricks left and right, I remember doing 360-flips off the ledge multiple times and Darnel carving and grinding the vert wall super fast. And we were the only ones there, skateboarding on the edge of the jungle, so far from home.
From there we headed northeast. I hardly remember the route. We have photos from a lake, seen here, and I know we made it to Tampico on the Gulf coast where we spent a scary night sleeping in an abandoned beach tower through a gulf storm. We spent an entire day waiting for a train at a remote outpost, seen here. When the train whistles would blow folks would pour out of the forest with tortillas, tamales, and pots of beans to sell to travelers. When the train would leave eveyone would slink back into the trees and be gone. After a while the teenage soldiers hanging around started drinking and, since there was little parental or military supervision, they did what any teen soldier would do: get drunk, yell, and fire their weapons into the air. Not a comforting act. The next day we were picked up by a guy in a Camaro (?) who spent half the year building roads in Chicago and the other half with family in Tampico. He dropped us up in Matamoros (which in Spain means "kill the moors," I learned that one in Madrid because there's a drink by the same name that's lit on fire and your "friends" count to thirty as your mouth burns and you jump up down and swallow at the countdown. Ugh). From there we walked into Brownsville, TX, a town that'd suit the devil.
(Click this photo and read Darnel's caption. Priceless.)
(The above is Darnel and I in the back of a pickup in south Tejas. It's cold in the back of a pickup in south Tejas in January.)
From Brownsville we hitched across TX. It took days. One evening when we thought there was no hope of getting a ride a giant Texan pulled his pickup to the side of the road and offered us a lift. Turned out he was headed to Austin—perfect. A good long ride. He asked if we intended to rob him. We let him know it hadn't occurred to us. He said, "Good, 'cause I got a gun under the seat." Ooookay then. After he knew we weren't mercenaries he began pouring his heart out about his roommate/partner he was splitting with. He was heading to Austin to blow off steam and have a good time. Love is a battlefield, fair enough, but I gotta say I admired that he told two smelly weirdos he picked up at dusk on a blue highway in TX that he was gay and heading to Austin to party. Nice one. To this day I don't know if he was trying to pick up on us, test his luck on whether we might have been venomous homophobes, or he just had a hunch that we weren't haters. Anyway, he dropped us near downtown.
We grabbed a few beers, had a time, and then slept in some bushes near the college.
The next day we hitched out. Dumb luck that we had skateboards strapped to our packs. They didn't do us any favors south of the border but they sure caught the attention of a local cop. This cat pulled over, asked us what we were doing and where we were from. Before we knew it we were back at his house drinking beers and trying to appreciate the hospitality without getting ourselves killed. The guy was nice but a little unhinged. His poor wife sure didn't like us around. Anyway, turns out he was a skateboarder and a cop that used to work out of Jacksonville, NC. He told us that cops were as corrupt as we would have guessed; about how they'd never turn in more drugs than was necessary for a bust, how they'd confiscate unauthorized weapons from Marines and never turn them in; how he never went after skateboarders or drunk drivers—him being one and all. Turns out his axe to grind was drivers with expired registration—he had no patience for it, loved to make the busts. You can't make this stuff up!
Well we got away from him the next morning. Got some rides into Louisiana. Went through Shreveport with an Indian student and at some point hopped on a train. We crossed the Mississippi River into Mississippi and made our way into Alabama.
We got picked up by a couple ex-cons in a Buick somewhere, hell, I don't know where, Tuscaloosa? We were heading east and aimed not to stop until we got home. Our chauffeurs were putting back the better part of a twelve-pack of Busch. They kindly offered us cans—thanks guys, we owe you a beer. They pulled over and picked up another miscreant. He too was offered a cold one.
All seemed to be going well until they started talking about the "camp." "Rainbow Gathering? What's that?," Darnel and I said to each other when we were invited to join them in the Talladega National Forest. There was a promise of "true community," "real freedom," and "plenty of beer." Who could complain?
Fuck. After stopping for piss breaks and to assess how lost we were numerous times, our knights in shining armor delivered us to "the community" about one a.m. We were deep in a Nat'l Forest in Alabama in January with about forty of the shittiest people you could beg to encounter. But let me be fair, for these alcoholics, speed freaks, deranged hippies, ex-cons, murderers, and guttersnipes, this was utopia. No doubt about it, the genuine article.
After lots of horn honking some of the occupants stirred. They came out from lean-to's, tents, from behind trees, and out of cars that didn't look operable. They all had the same question: "You got any beer!?" Darnel and I curled up next to the fire and slept with one eye open.
The next morning they smoked pot, drank whatever beer they could unearth, and spoke of their righteous lifestyles—based in freedom, community, and ecological stewardship. I thought Darnel was gonna throttle the bastard who was burying trash in the forest while his fuckhole friend talked about how the Rainbow Gathering in New Mexico was busted by the fascist cops for "no reason." I shit you negatory, there's Twinkie wrappers buried a foot beneath the soil in that forest, you can dig them out any time over the next few thousand years and judge for yourself how "free" these grubs are.
The next day our new pals had nothing to do so they offered to drive us into Atlanta. I believe we payed the gas and they were going there anyway to panhandle and raise money to score drugs. But hell, it was our only ticket out of hell. Unfortunately the devil rode in the backseat with us. We stopped at about eight a.m. for gas and she bought her first 40. It loosened her tongue up to the degree I thought Darnel was going to pull it the rest of the way out for her. She was about twenty-years-old, a punker of no certain pedigree with addictions aplenty, and about as insufferable a beast as you could hope to lay eyes on.
Well, they finally dropped us off near a MARTA station in ATL. We rode it straight into the airport, walked up to ticket counter, and plunked down $36 each for a one-way into Raleigh.
We hadn't showered in over a week and fellow passengers were visibly pissed off. We took off our shoes. We payed good money and needed to relax. Home sweet home.
