A really driven visitor, one who is goal oriented, a real American, will attempt the combo platter, and get himself a genuine Mayan at his preferred ruin, and then whisk her away to the nearest seaside town, where he’ll get intoxicated with her on the fermented agave, and then perform acts of gratuitous coitus on golden grains of Pacific sand, before standing up and excrementing chocolate chunks of ecstasy over his sand-burned legs.
Malinche’s Revenge.
As much as I enjoy all of the above, I came for other reasons. One of which was a natural resource those gold raping, beautiful skin making Spaniards didn’t touch. A local crop of Mexico’s north eastern desert, a botanical mystery rising just inches above the ground. In ebonic terms, it is known as Pay Yo Tee.
And as a strong believer in the Going Local movement, the only way to sample this solid little shrub was in her native soil. I mean, once you’ve eaten Chinese food behind the Great Wall, General Cho’s Chicken just doesn’t cut it anymore.
The problem: Well, there wasn’t just one.
I didn’t know how to find it. I wasn’t prepared to wander the desert like my supersuper great granpa Moses. I didn’t want to end up on some new age earth humping psychedelic group tour. And I was too cheap to pay someone to assist me.
My new Mexican roommate recommended I head three hours north, to the high plains desert, where I could find lodging in a small town known as 14. Yes, it’s name is 14. He told me he tried it once but nothing happened. Was he lying? Well, not about the town anyway, cause shortly after, all the local people I told about my next destination would just giggle, and make jokes that boiled down to “14. Haha. Peyote. Haha. 14. Peyote. Haha.” Great. Verification process complete.
The day of departure I came across an organically inclined Canadian girl, nationally identified by her American sounding voice and affronted countenance at my personality. She had been to 14. On a pilgrimage, with a group of fellow non-bush shaving Canucks. They really respected the Peyote, and came to make ceremonies, like the native Huichol Indians, she said. Those are the people who continue to come to this desert to worship sacred sites under the influence of the little bitty plant thing. She told me she really understood the powers of the plant, and it needed respect.
Tickled, I replied, “The only reason native groups considered hallucinogenic plants sacred was cause they weren’t blessed with the gift of Christ. He simplified everything with his Pa’s explanation for life and his willingness to take a beating for any problems that may arise. If they understood simple chemistry, they would know that the plant caused hallucinations which caused their mind to create situations, like, maybe, an 8 foot horned frog who promised them the fuckin’ rain they needed to survive, or assurance for the health of their dying child. But if someone had given them a television, they could have watched some smarmy tanned guy tell them what the next 5 days had in store. Same goes if they had health insurance. But you know what…they didn’t. Like all pre-western organized religion people, they had no single book, no single science to turn to, so, they fucked themselves up on shrooms, killed a few babies, some animals, and saw strange creatures that told them the rain was coming.”
“Wow,” she said, “you really are an ass.”
“Hey, if I’m such an ass, and you’re so respectful, why don’t you say a prayer every time you eat a strawberry, or a banana, or some grains, things that actually keep you alive.”
“I’m an organic farmer, so obviously I respect all the crops we plant.”
“Ok. Great. But do you do a ceremony, do you construct some kind of elaborate ritual every time you pop a juicy organic cherry tomato into your mouth?”
That sidewalk friendship devolved pretty fast, but at least I knew I was going to the right place, ceremony optional.
And what’s with this culture of the self-righteous left who purport to know what is best for you. Locally grown grass fed organic crotch, why don‘t they recommend that. And then they come to places like rural Mexico or the Congo, and bemoan the influence of capitalism on the native people, cause naturally, microwaving your food in 3 minutes is so less appealing than 8 hours over a dung burning stove. Or the banality of dropping your clothes in an automatic washer when you could spend 5 lovely hours, down by that lush winding river, dodging malaria and debating how you’ll carry the 62 pounds of wet laundry 3 miles back to your house.
Ditching the Greenies, I made it to somewhere in the desert. It was night, and when you arrive somewhere for the first time, in darkness, you could be anywhere.
I learned that 14 was so popular it divided into three little enclaves. My journey started at the summit of a 7,500 foot mountain, where the stone façaded town of Real 14 dwelled. Stone streets, stone homes, stone churches, and stoned doors. A real ghost town, at least on a rainy night.
“Psss.Psss. Hey gringo. You wants something for your mind. Peyote?”
None of that. No stores selling peyote mugs, or peyote blankets. No peyote theme park. One woman I befriended, the caretaker of a converted courtyard estate, now a boutique lodge, told me that Real 14 was one of 35 specially designated ‘Magic Towns’ in Mexico. How cool is that? Mexico actually calls certain town’s MAGICAL. That means, there are 35 places in this country where somebody can really lose their fuckin’ mind. Why don’t we have more of our people coming here illegally? She did confirm that peyote was nearby, but wouldn’t try it, nor knew how to get it. There was the little man with the big sombrero who took care of the cemetery chapel. He chuckled at the mention of the mystery plant, but once again, no experience and no directions. The woman at the torta shop told me it was down the mountain somewhere. A horseride was a nice option, she said. She slipped something into my hand, but it wasn’t what I thought. A business card. She gave me her card and said to call if I had any problems. Well, yeah, my problem is I’m trying to find the pay-yote, and, why does a woman working the sandwhich counter in Magic Town have a business card?
I thought maybe Alfredo would know, he was my knew friend who ran a little produce shop, and taught children how to play romantic songs on the guitar. “Do you know any KISS?” After extolling the virtues of the serenade, and being unable to answer why Cuban music was so completely superior to the Mexican Circus tunes that blare out of every passing vehicle, Alfredo once again confirmed the nearby existence of my subject, but could offer neither personal or GPS assistance.
Freezing temperatures, and the occasional hail drop left only two other whities in town, an Italian couple who had also heard about the area’s mystical reputation but weren’t interested in the desert plant, despite being proud organic vegetarians. What no Osso Busco? But, they were infinitely cooler than the Canadian, maybe just for the sheer fact that they were Italian, but once again put a dark cloud over the Green movement by choosing to chain smoke cigarettes rather than ingest a friendly little mind opening plant.
There were a few shady looking men, with thick mustaches and cantina worn faces, who lurked around the gazebo-ed central plaza (even towns of 500 have a plaza in Mexico…beats a McDonalds), and were offering horse rides down the mountain where they assured me they could help in obtaining my objective. The only problem, well, the two problems were horses look cool in the movies, or with the Marlboro Man, or telling your friends that The British Are Coming. But if you’re not accustomed to riding, and you happen to be of the biological male persuasion, they hurt your nutsack more than a coke bingeing German Dominatrix.
Second, I didn’t want to pay for nature’s gift.
By the third morning, my 44 degrees cooled room, and damp gray skies were telling me to head down the mountain. Head to the valley, son. A modest gift of fate presented itself in the form of a Mexican hippy outside a souvenir shop. No, he never ate it, nor he did he resemble Cheech, but he came from a town at the start of the desert, ¾ of the way down, where I could find what I had been looking for. Thank the Lord for the Long Hairs.
The horse jockey’s said I was crazy, it was at least 2.5 to three hours walk. Why not take a ride? Cause the sun was starting to shine for the first time in three days, and I would need my nuts, eventually.
The steep, rocky descent, was offset by sunshine. We forget how delicious that glowing ball of cancerous warmth is until we’re sequestered by the cold, or the rain, or both.
I’d rest every so many minutes, watching the raging waterfalls gushing wildly with their recent additions as I stared beneath the occasional cactus trying to find this sacred diminutive outcrop. How was I going to find this? And were some of them poisonous? Would I die like that kid in ‘Into the Wild?’ Shouldn’t I have brought my own mushrooms into the desert? I was starting to get nervous. The desert plains were visible past the river’s canyon, and somewhere among those spiky green crosses lied my medicine. The descent continued.
An occasional concrete shack, or it’s protective mutt would greet me, the river meandered off into unknown lands, and step by step the mountain leveled off into flat fields of green and brown. As I passed another solitary concrete dwelling, I saw a teenager and a small child sitting idly in a pickup truck, now that the path had become a true dirt road. Maybe she would know how far to my town.
“Do you know how much further the town of Carts (as it’s know in English) is?”
“You’re here.”
“Do all of you live in that one shop/home?”
“No, there are about 60 families but their homes are spread out.”
My new friend, and her little nephew accompanied me to the covered concrete porch that flanked the town store. I had to be careful. I didn’t want them to think I was some drug crazed freak. Nono. Just an innocent gringo curious about the botanical properties of an indigenous specie. We went through my typical list of questions in which she talked about her family, her community, her opinions of life in Mexico. She answered them all quite thoroughly, and surprised me by showing genuine appreciation for her isolated desert town life, and having no desire to go to America. It was immediately after that confession, that she turned to me, and said, “Are you looking for the peyote?”
“Uh, what is it that you said?”
“Peyote. White people are always coming through here, trying to find it.”
“Oh. Huh. Well, it must be interesting. I’d like to see it. Sure, that could be cool. You know, see what it looks like.”
“I don’t know how to find it, but you can take a horse out to find it.”
“How about walking?”
It was at this point that the remaining people in ‘town’ came out from the sand and surrounded me on the porch. Mostly children, and a skinny defeated looking guy.
He took over the conversation for his lady friend.
“It’s a far walk, maybe in an hour or so, but it is very hard to find. And there isn’t that many.”
“Hmmm. Well, it’s getting late in the day, and I don’t have time. Is there not something closer?”
I had plans to make it back to the city that evening, and join my new friend for a Friday night out.
“I know somebody who sells it. I can get you some?”
“How much? Uh. Ok. You know, wait. Wait. Forget it, I don’t want it anymore.”
I had come all this way, and for less than ten bucks I could have this coveted mystical plant coursing through my blood. But that was like paying for shade in the forest. And it made it feel illicit. And all these kids watching me. I wasn’t about to influence a generation of peyote dealers. That was it. I was out. I would continue to wander through the desert, and catch a ride back to the City.
I grabbed my bag, and made to go, when my pimp told me to follow him. We walked about three minutes, maybe four, into the neighboring desert. He started digging under some tree, and pulled up something that looked eerily similar to photos I’d seen. Crap. All this hope, all this sacred hunt, and here it is, some fungal matter under a tree next to his house. It didn’t seem so glorious anymore. Like spending 4 or 5 or 6 years to get through College to finally get a piece of paper. You look at it, and go, ‘really, that’s it, I did all that work to get this. Great.” And then you get a barrista job at Starbucks where the manager is a high school acquaintance who never made it to the Uni.
He showed me how to clean them, these solid mushroom figures with their blue-ish felt tops. But he implored me to not eat them near the village. Or store. The people frowned on drug use, and he didn’t want to be seen as my accomplice. He didn’t do drugs he said. Just drink.
“Isn’t that a drug?”
“No. It’s alcohol. It’s different.”
He got a little dose of the Canadian hairy crotch lecture. “Do you eat fruits, like oranges, or strawberries, or mango?”
“Yes.”
“Do you take medicine? Maybe some local medicine like certain herbs or lotions that make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“So, what’s the difference. They all come from the Earth. Peyote is as natural as a mango or tea herb for your stomach. Putting the word DRUG on it makes it bad, when it’s not. You’re drinking, that’s a drug. That’s something Man had to make so you could feel the affects. And that’s why it’s addictive. Peyote, Mushrooms, Marijuana. They don’t have addictive properties. I really think you should go teach your local people the facts.”
“What? Can you please not eat those here?”
Another pointless lecture. I stuffed my palm sized treats in my back pocket, and took a long walk back to the store. As we wound our way through man sized agave’s and twisted cactuses, Rudolfo, my impromptu guide, told me his American adventure.
He walked through the Mexican desert for 4 days with seven other people who had payed the smugglin’ Coyote 800 bucks a pop. Then they crossed the Border River on a small rickety boat at night, and after a day walking in the American Wild, Immigration Rangers saw them at a distance, and they started to run. Five of the eight were caught. Another three days and he miraculously arrived at some desolate Texas horse ranch where his brother had been working illegally for years.
The owner treated them well, could speak some Spanish, and apparently was friends with Mr. Bush. He claims that one day, while out in the fields, he saw the parade of black cars and sirens coming onto the property, and that their Boss always talked about his friend, the President. Now I know why ol’ Dubya never truly pushed the anti immigration law through.
How did you get back to Mexico, by the way, I asked Rudolfo.
A big smile came over his face, and he said, “The Bus.”
But he wants to go back. Not enough work for him in these little villages.
Why not start a peyote tourism business?
It was an idea, he thought, but the draw of the US was too strong.
But why? You have this nice simple life here, and all of your family is here, and it’s peaceful, and you have a place to live. What do you want?
We were leaning against the side of a newer large white F150 Ford pickup truck. The type every 16 year old male in Bunkdunk county, Tennesse gets for his birthday. Without the deluxe hitch accessory package.
My potential peyote hunter gave me this sad puppy look, and mumbled, “I want one of these”.
Whose is this?
It’s my brother’s. He sent it back from America.
So, you can use it while he’s gone. And there’s a chance he may not come back. Can’t you drive it around?
He pulled out the keys. “Yes, I use it all the time. But I want my own.”
And that’s it. I solved it. America can solve its alleged immigration problem by giving every Mexican adult an automobile. Based on many of the cars the current illegal immigrant population drive, this can also help alleviate the overflow from the Cash for Clunkers program. Send our old auto polluters south, to friendlier skies. And white people can finally go back to washing restaurant dishes and picking grapes.
I bid farewell to my village friends, and hoarded my magic snacks down the desolate road into the open desert. Like a kid after a midnight cookie raid, as soon as I was out of sight, I took refuge under the only shady tree I could find and pulled out my cock. To p. And then I unveiled my precious friends, one at a time. Laid out before me on a sunlit rock, I imagined their sacred powers. Then I imagined the weather man, and recognized my reality. I like to experiment. And I crave new experiences, and the truth is, that natural hallucinogens heighten the environment to the point that even a fanatical lumberjack, under the influence, would be unable to cut a tree again. I wanted the desert to come alive, so that every spike on every plant had luster, and powers to seduce, so that you were left in awe at every living thing. A granule of dirt. The leg of an ant. The spine of a cactus. The clouds. The mountains. Air. Sun. It all became art masterpieces that left you in rapture until you could finally snap yourself out and move on to the next piece. That’s what has happened in the past. And what I expected again.
As I stared at my three new babies, like rare baseball cards or boogers, whichever you prize, I saw a cowboy hatted man approaching on horseback. I didn’t think to move the children as I was just observing some local flora.
“What are you doing with those?”
“I’m looking at them.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Cause I like to look at small plants.”
“How did you get those?”
“I found them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Ok. You don’t have to.”
“But tell me, how you found them.”
“I just did.”
“You can’t. You have to know where to look, and they are not easy to find. I work with tourists, and I take them out here to find them.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Great, I just saved enough money to live here for a few more days, and, of course, my nutsack.”
“What’s wrong with your nuts?”
“Nothing, but the horse hurts them.”
“Not for me.”
“You don’t have big nuts, like me.”
“Listen, I want to help you. Don’t take those in your bag. The Police stop people on the highway, and if they find them you will get a very heavy fine or go to jail. You should either eat them, or give them to me.”
“Ok, I’ll guess I’ll try them. Good bye.”
Nosy bastard. Thinks he can monopolize mother nature. The moment of truth had come. I gently placed one of the buttons in my hand, and we stared at each other, an arranged marriage that may not work. I went in for the first kiss, and as her fuzzy lip entered my mouth I wanted to vomit. My imagination of fecal matter flavor, as a bi-curious youth, didn’t reach this level of disgusting. It could have possibly been the most bitter substance on Earth. No wonder there wasn’t a single known animal who would eat it. What could offset that nasty taste? A softball glob of peanut butter. 4 snickers bars. A tonguerectomy. I had no access to any of those.
Tucked into a forgotten corner of my backpack was a bag of sweetened apple granola, a remnant from my bus journey from America. It helped ward off my gas station beef jerky fetish. I proceeded to fill my mouth with granola until it was falling out, and then jam a piece of peyote right into the middle of my tainted grains. It was still like trying to force down cottage cheese and rotten peaches, just so you could enjoy some Pillsbury dessert.
And then I waited. The thing is, these things never hit you right away. You’re just waiting, and waiting, and eventually things change slowly. I knew this, but it didn’t make it any easier. As I sat beneath my sun blocking buddy, an hour had passed, and nothing seemed different. Maybe they weren’t the right ones, or I didn’t eat enough, or my body was preparing for a massive seizure, and the village people would bring me back up the mountain where my friend at the cemetery would take care of me.
Maybe walking around a bit would help induce something, anything. I walked up to an agave plant, to introduce myself.
Funny name for a plant, I said. Likewise, it responded. The 5 foot fronds seemed life-like, like a headless person. No not a person, but an energy about it that I don’t think was there before. Or was it? Was it? Shit, what have I done. I’m noticing a warm sensation envelop my body, and my head also, a sort of light ecstasy sensation where I feel slightly removed from my body, but everything is still clear, just heightened, and very detailed. All the plants of the desert come into view now. They are no longer in hiding. I move a little further into the desert. Back against another tree, this one leafless, providing a vista of the mountains I just came down off. At this moment, all I wanted was a cigarette. I never want cigarettes. Shit, my trip had begun. What did I do. I’m alone, in the desert, no phone, nobody knows where I am, and I have no idea how long this is suppose to last. Mom!!!!
Why do they call it a ‘trip?’ According to ancient legend, a subject would ingest chosen hallucinogen, and then be whisked away into a world of his creation, often set into motion by his subconscious. So, those crazy, monstrous tribal masks one may have seen on display in tourist shops around the world were created to combat the JUST SAY NO campaign. The heightened creativity awakened by the drug would turn the people donning those face shields into larger than life Lords of the Gulf Stream, who could provide you with up to the minute weather reports and do really cool stuff with fire, and the beating hearts of local children.
At it’s core, a trip simply takes one’s natural environment, whether that be Disneyland or Uncle Fred’s basement, and incorporates that with your thoughts to create your own personal Alice in Wonderland. Often times, one trip turns into many, so that, say, an adventure with you playing kermit the frog chasing around pigs in bikinis may suddenly turn into a maze of crystals, when the lights go out and Pink Floyd begins to spin. But have no fear, opening the door and turning off the music, may bring you into a strange but amusing labyrinth where assorted cans of Chef Boyardee become characters in a play you have suddenly created, where the lone can of beef ravioli is subjecting his feudal serfs, the Spaghetti O’s, to a life of bottom dwelling immobility and rust, while he enjoys an unrivaled existence from his top shelf fortress. If you are feeling physically active, you can wage a war, annihilate King Beef Rav I, and release the sleeping anger of his minions, and soon the floor will become alive with swimming O figures enjoying the spoils of anarchy. And if all this is too much for the tripper he or she only need to go into a dark closet with no noise or objects, and gradually their mind will release the secrets of our existence before eventually burying the subject in his own worst fears. At that point, you would open the door, turn on some cartoons, twirl around some lit matches, and all would be fine.
But Peyote is sacred. It belongs to the Earth. Not in an amusement park, or your split level home. And I was here. Live. All I cared out about anyway was an enhanced awareness of nature, some way to finally support Al Gore, and stop sending my monthly checks to Farms Are Better For the Rainforest Investment Fund. And gosh darn’it, if somebody was looking for a renewed appreciation of nature, the magic mini crop was the ticket.
Each, and every single cactus, succulent agave, leafless tree, granule of soil took on it’s own life. Not in a frightening way, where you were being strangled by the organ pipe arms of a nearby spiny monster. But rather, a real awareness that every single thing around you was breathing, living, inviting you to touch, not harm. The sun’s radiating warmth, and the desert valley’s cool dry air combined to envelop you in a sort of maternal love. Lying on your back, each and every cloud presented itself to you, perfectly painted in a shape of your choice. I chose the floating harem of elongated Aztec princesses but this was quickly overcome by stupid animal patterns.
If you wanted, the sky could become an impressionist explosion, bathing you in pastoral fantasy before releasing you into the heavenly expanse that had become your home. The surrounding mountain range delineated itself so that even from a great distance, you could still consume each individual valley, follow her varying peaks, be dominated by her pure immensity. The mountain’s rich ebony, the sky’s infinitely optimistic blue, the cloud’s mesmerizing cotton fluff. They all joined to wrap me in a world of natural love that is impossible to find in a man-made environment. Jesus, I was turning into Emerson. Or worse, a Greenpeace poet.
During this period, there were no fears, preoccupations, a future, a world of ‘if only’s’ and “but, if I could just’s’. And as this paradisiacal universe sucked me lovingly into her big fat juicy bosom, I noticed something in my pocket. No way. You’ve got to be kidding me. Why the fuck do I have a cell phone, in Mexico, in the desert.
And that very moment, upon recognition of man’s modernity, my trip was about to take a new direction.
Two important lessons for those about to undergo a psychedelic experience. Uno: Have no plans, no watches, no method of communication with the outside world. Being unable to lose yourself in timeless fantasy, or heightened reality, will only diminish the experience, and bring to the forefront fixations which negatively alter the journey. Dose: Stay away from humans. If they have not embarked upon this adventure with you, they will only seem alien, and all of their anxieties, awkward mannerisms, and incomprehensible thoughts will further swallow you into a galaxy you shouldn’t enter. Both of these Golden Rules would soon be violated.
Before I embarked on the peyote submarine, I made plans to meet my new friend. My only friend in Mexico. Rodrigo. And the only person who had my Mexican phone number. A big Friday night out. A celebration of some exam he just passed. My first weekend in a regular Mexican city. This wasn’t Cancun. What were the bars like? What did the women wear? Did all the drunks go for marginal quality late night hamburgers? This too was suppose to be part of the South of The Border experience. There would be other weekends. What was I thinking? Crap, no signal in the desert. Could I stand him up? But I hate when people do that to me, plus, half my things were still in his house. The sun was beginning to descend. Oh. So very pretty. The Sun. Please don’t leave me. Alone. In the dark. I was hours away from home base, in the middle of nowhere, I’d have to find a bus, or a truck, maybe a few. Figure out how to meet him. Where will he be? It’s almost 6pm now. Should I go to his house first, or straight to the downtown? Could I even make it back before midnight?
Shouldn’t I just blow him off for this once in a lifetime experience. There was that one nosey guy on the horse, who questioned my procurement procedures, he had offered me a bed to crash. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. My wonderful little wonderland of natural bliss crumbling under my gregarious weight. Why couldn’t I be a social reject, a foul smelling mute who slept in abandoned railroad cars. Goddamn sacred drug was not strong enough to overcome my desire to party with Mexicans.
The advantage of the psychedelic is the power of the mind to create infinite worlds. With experience, there is no reason one can not leave the natural for the material. Who knows, maybe I could do something fun with the Chef Boyardees of the world. Sure, I was violating my sacred oath with the Earth, and I’m sure if my hairy pitted Green Canaider knew of my plans, she’d retch organic bile on my being and ban me from the Holy desert for eternity. But you know what…I’m American god damnit. And these colors don’t run. I can do whatever the hell I want. And yeah, sure, it’s been great and all to hang out with mother nature, feel her warmth and retreat into her peaceful arms, but we are not a one track people, us norteamericanos. We are innovators, Do-ers, inventors of the Blackberry. We will not be subject to a life of monotony, no matter how glorious and comfortable she may be. We make plans. And we stick to them. Dinner at 8, next Thursday. Highways to build. Wars to fight. Ms. Peyote Angela Consuela Diaz-Rodriguez, we are gonna show you the delights of man’s inventiveness.
It is almost 6pm. Based on the last village I passed, it was probably another forty minute walk to the nearest paved road. It was bittersweet moving among my natural friends that brought me such floating bliss. As I made my way, rather quickly, through the rocky paths, each member of the soil would greet me, send reminders of their splendor, entice me to remain, where my mystical pill intended to keep me. I know, I know, I would say, to all of them, as if giving my resignation speech to loyal coworkers, for whom, none if this would be possible, if not for their hard work and dedication. But new opportunities awaited, I pleaded. You have been wonderful to me, supportive, nurturing, but there comes a time in one’s life, when he must move on, to greater challenges, that, sure, provide more risk, but also more opportunity for reward. And none of this would be possible without my time spent here, but please, understand, it’s not you, its me. Soon, the road became visible, and at that moment the clouds stopped moving. The mountains got a bit taller, and the cacti toughened up. Don’t do it, they beckoned. You don’t understand what you’re up against. What you eat in the desert stays in the desert. So tempting, so loving, they were practically on their knees, grouping together, trying to prevent my entrance onto the road which now lie in scorpion throwing distance. As my left foot got ready to make contact with it’s first man made substance in three hours, I turned one last time to my constituency, or my leaders, and told them I was simply weak, and worthless. I am American. A power greater than all the drugs on Earth. An opportunity awaits me. If I stay with you, I’ll never know, and that is a pain I refuse to sleep with. Goodbye, and thank you.
On the other side of the road, two concrete box structures stood. One had auto parts, the was a butcher. I chose the butcher. And thoughts of vegetarianism were abundant. Gross. Who would eat that? I stood motionless in the store’s entry, as three men hacked and hung entire racks of cow rib on flesh tearing hooks. A lightly complexioned guy, heavyset, jolly, in his early thirty’s, approached, his glasses slightly askew on his rather rotund face.
Can I help you?
Uh, ah, uh, um. Dond est el afas asfe sfsa
Shit, I realized I spent the last hours in my own head, my own private Idaho. I couldn’t speak. Not to mention in a second language. I just wanted to shout, “Im on peyote, leave me alone.” But I couldn’t. I tried to return to the old me. The one who talks to everybody, trying to learn their story.
And in a sign of some divine interference, he spoke English with me, learned in a year on the job in Texas, where he worked illegally as a building framer until he fell two floors, and without health insurance, and no disability payments, was forced back to Mexico. He seemed genuinely happy to be back, expressed absolutely no desire to return north, and found the life quite cold and grueling, separated from a community of people who actually knew each other, living in a rough neighborhood which is all he could afford, and having no life outside of the only tedious work he could find. Interesting. But..I’m fucked up man, I got to get out of here. I bummed a cigarette, and retreated outside of the butcher, where I had panoramic vistas of the Eden I just departed. The moment I sat down, back to the wall, eyes on the wild, calming tobacco in my body, peace returned. Maybe my friends of the wilderness were right. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to return. I may get stuck sleeping in the jolly butcher’s shop, in bed with 200 pound chucks of bloody flesh. I’m sure that would go over well with mother nature’s special friend, still swimming fiercely inside my veins. I got lost again in that surreal expanse. Right over there. Across the street. One road separated me from that welcoming land of endless love, and sustained fascination. Quickly, my mind flew over the street, and I was back with family. Every cloud, plant, mountain, renewed it’s capture on me. The marvel returned that feeling of gut warming love. And then people showed up.
One by one, it was meat buying time. Families huddled into the fronts of pickup trucks, would enter the store, staring at the strange white boy loitering out front. Every tick, every thought projected on to me, so it seemed, and, well, it was plain fuckin’ weird. I attempted to talk, but would be met by lukewarm smiles and silence. Was I crazy? Mumbling? Were these your typical country rednecks? Was mother peyote telling me her non-mammalian world was superior to my thin mustached mammals? I had genuinely enjoyed almost every person I had met in Mexico. Was it these particular people? Or my mental state? At one point, I continued to transport myself across the street, 4 different pickups sat parked right in front of me. A state police car, a beat up old Dodge, a cheese delivery truck, and one of those super long Chevy Suburban SUV’s with Texas plates. I thought the cop would arrest me, but he just sat there listening to music while his wife got some meat. I thought the kids in the Dodge would want to play with me, but instead they just stared. I thought the cheese delivery guys would offer me a ride, or some cheese, or maybe both. But they ignored me, and kept working. I tried to talk to Texas guy, one of my peeps, but he didn’t have much to say. Him and his pressed cowboy shirt buddy just got into their gas guzzling beast and drove off. Was this normal? Was I losing it? Were humans awkward? A shout came from inside the Butcher. The last bus of the day would be passing soon. I should get ready cause the driver won’t stop. At least I had a way out. My own little jet across the desert. No need to hitch. I grabbed one more cigarette from Butcher Juan, and planted myself in the middle of the road, so I wouldn’t be left to suffocate under the hold of massive porterhouses and strange country folk.
Mexico has an impressive bus network. Americans should be embarrassed to offer Greyhound. There are buses here with wide leather seats, full reclining capability, flat screen televisions, and the occasional waiter. Like first class on an asian airline at Chinatown prices. One can really traverse this country in style.
The bus that was about to pass was no such thing. It was the bus you imagine, when you think of a Mexican bus ride, without the chickens. Cigarette hole burnt seats, locked into uncomfortable positions, smoke stained torn window curtains, a crooked plastic jesus next to the wheel, broken green tinted windows, aisles full of debris, and shocks installed by the people who make those beds in cheap motels. The only thing going for it was emptiness. Not a sole. The driver stared at the strange creature entering his Desertship Enterprise, seemed to accept my telepathic declaration that I was on peyote and would be positioning myself in the back of the bus.
And thus began the next phase of the journey.
Curled up against the green tinted windows, torn fabric chair permanently lodged in the half recline position, the movie was about to begin. A stunning documentary cine-verite piece featuring a desert at sunset, narrated by thoughts from a madman. Oh I miss thee dear agave. Your thick juicy arms, rising, calling, opening out to all those who will fall into your enchanting limbs, serrated perfectly from your wide supporting root to your finely peaked tips. And all you cacti, single headed, snowmanned, field goal posted…you’re not scary. You’re the clowns of the desert. Whimsical creatures who have only your spiky little helpers to keep the curious from stroking themselves upon your deliciously comical frames. Crap. I just wanted to yell at the driver, to pull over, right here, in the middle of this wherever in the hell I was desert, and let me return to my birthright. And each time that mother peyote planted her wish on my tongue, her disciple’s taunts of regret coming back to haunt, American Logic would fight its way through the drugged haze: YOU MUST NOT GET OFF THE BUS. DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS. FIRST, YOU WILL DIE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT. SECOND, YOU HAVE A PARTY TO GET TO. YOU PROMISED. AND YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THE BIG MEXICAN BAR HOP, DO YOU?
And so, that’s how it went, the next hour or hour and half, or however long it took. Me, like a child looking out the window to see snow for the very first time, trying desperately to transport myself back to that magical landscape, mere yards from the window, and the periodic awakening of my other self. The Guy With A Plan. Jerkoff.
My spaceship would periodically veer off the road, gliding through some 8 house town in search of passengers, the one streetlight refracting green through my teleportal. After a long ride in peace, a young man walked up onto the aisle, a large backpack in tow. From a distance, he looked like, like..Me. Shit. What am I doing getting on the bus out here. Another slight side affect of hallucinogens is that people can appear to be people you know. Really. I prayed that myself wouldn’t come sit next to me and talk. And luckily, he sat next to the driver, chatting with him for the duration of the ride, much as I would do, unfettered by desert dope. I was tempted to get up and see myself. But logic grabbed me by the ass, and said Sit Down.
At this point, I was content to ride out my Light Fantastic on the Peyote Enterprise. Maybe it wasn’t as enriching as wandering the Real Deal, but it was a pleasant middle ground. A front row seat at an IMAX nature spectacular. If I could just get a cigarette. Never could figure out why psychedelics caused a physical craving for tobacco. Suddenly, my spaceship stopped. My cacti and mountains, and wonders of the dry earth had vanished into night. I looked up to see green light beaming in from all sides of the ship. We were under attack. My alter ego was just sitting there looking back at me. The driver was staring at me through the large cracked rearview mirror hanging perilously over his head. What? Oh shit. They knew. And the paranoia came out of nowhere. Get into the desert now before its too late, they were shouting. Somewhere, off in a distance. They were talking. Both of them. To me. Shit. What do I say. How do I say it. Years of Spanish, fleeting, words would not come out. Si. Si. Ok. The ship had landed. And the Captain had to get home. Get your bag and get off.
Strange planet, this place. I descended with my twin, who turned out to be a white skinned Mexican teacher who went into the desert for weeks at a time before returning to his home base. I tried getting him to help me, to not leave me stranded in this strange town, to bring me into the trees, or his home, or somewhere, but not here. It was too late. My twin left. Kirk left. It was me, alone, surrounded by 6 chunky elderly women, wearing aprons, cooking tortillas. Across the street were taxis, each driver looking more menacing than the next. I should probably get a taxi to the bus station. It was already 8pm. All around me were one off trees, poking out from a crack in the sidewalk, a broken off median, the window of a home. I wanted to rescue them. All of them. But instead I just stared at a flowery bush, unaware of the eyes staring at the Alien who had just landed in their town square. A junior captain approached, more Tijuana Psycho than our admirable Kirk. When he whisked me away, through the cobblestone streets of this forsaken town, it was if we were cruising through that Star Wars desert village where the really cool bar was. The diminutive Mayans substituting nicely for Ewoks or whatever those things were. The streetlights continued to cast a greenish blue haze over the landscape. Was he taking me to get raped? Beaten? Observed? I asked him but his answer implied that something else exited my mouth. We’d be there shortly. Ok. Where? Ah, yes. Spaceship Terminal 2.
The man behind the counter said the last bus would be here in 30 minutes. He asked how my trip was? Did I find any peyote? WHAT? He said this. He did. How do you know where I went, to 14? Well, the only people passing through here come from there, and, you bought your first ticket here. All the gringos go up there looking for peyote. Have you tried it, I asked the ticket clerk? No, he said. He likes to drink instead. I told him the peyote was natural and took a seat outside. Three tall shrubs, and a strange tilted succulent guarded the terminal. A bored taxi driver, right foot up against the concrete wall, shuffled me a smoke, and I walked over to the isolated custodians of the terminal, exiled to an inaccessible island wedged between the highway and the taxi drop off lane . I wanted to sit with them, these poor creatures, cut off from their homeland, where I should have stayed. And as I went over to chat, alone, in the middle of some green barrier island with a fence, I realized the people at the terminal were staring at me. What am I doing? Idiot. Better to observe the horticulture from a distance, not rouse any suspicion. It was too late. I could feel them, branded Freak Gringo by all these haters. I retreated to the backside of the station, where my Ship would soon arrive.
Sitting on bench, brushed up against an ice cream cooler, its rumbling coils forming electronic music against a treeless landscape. A ship pulled in. I watched as the travelers descended. One by one they pulled their baggage, dragged their boxes, carried their offspring into the Terminal, never to be heard from again. Except one. She walked right up to me. A live incarnation of Shaman. An elderly Indian lady, hunched over, with a hand knit poncho, long, wavy grey hair, with an occasional black strand, and wide knowing eyes. An image of a wolf featured prominently on the back of her shawl. And in her arms was a child. Her grandson maybe. Upon closer look…you’ve got be kidding me. I am not THAT fucked up. She was cradling a plastic child. Something that children play with that urinates on command or that religious freaks leave on Catholic altars. This shit only happens on drugs. They should have changed those frying egg commercials from The 80’s and simply shown a woman holding a real baby. And then in the next clip depicted the same woman with a fake child. Breastfeeding it. That would have scared a lot more people than a fried egg. I like fried eggs. A little on the runny side. But I like them. So not only does the living apparition of a witch doctor stand in front of me, her companion wolf staring me down, but she is coddling an artificial child. Did her grandkid just die? Was she practicing to be an adoptive mom? Maybe she won the thing at a county fair. If only I could form complete Spanish sentences now. Crap, worse, she was sitting down, right next to me. I wanted to touch the kid. Maybe I was fucked up, and the kid was real. No way. Look at the sheen on his cheeks. And that full set of hair. It was frozen solid. And that smile, plastered on his face, unflinching. Bulllshit. Shaman mamma was up to some weird voodoo stuff. She knew. She knew I violated my pact with the Earth, and she sat here to teach me a lesson. The Desert people sent her to find me, punish me, maybe encapsulate me in plastic like her catatonic baby boy. I wanted to move, to run, to get the HELL out of there, but I was captivated. Locked. Afterall, what would anyone else do, riding a wave of peyote, stuck in an isolated bus terminal, sitting next a old shaman lady, with a wolf shawl, carrying an oversized fake child in her arms, wrapped in two wool blankets. Damn right. You sit there and stare. She asked me to watch her things, a cargo train full of mismatched suitcases. I tried to ask if I could guard the child, but once again, what left my mouth was not Spanish. Domdwe secular el beabeio srwfs? From complete fluency to a bumbling idiot in a matter of hours. Maybe the next inter-planetary ride would fare better.
Boarding time. This was the Mexico SpaceShip authority I had grown accustomed to. A giant leather reclining chair. First class style, built to suck you in. Ample leg room. A flat screen television right in front of me. It would be a smooth second half. Nobody next to me, I sprawled out, preparing myself for the movie du jour. I barely got my legs up on the neighboring seat when I heard a voice ask what seat number I had. Before I could find me ticket, I almost shouted, NOT AGAIN. I went from Shaman lady with fake baby to Knockout Mexican babe with fake boobs. One of those Selma Hayek types from a daytime soap opera. Cruel. Mother peyote was a cruel bitch. Evil little shrub twat. I have traveled tens of thousands of miles, literally, on every known transport man can ride, well, almost, and I’ve waited a lifetime for a beautiful woman to be trapped in my two seat confine. Ok. It happened once before. On a transcontinental flight. She was a stewardess deadheading back home to Chicago. We talked the entire flight. She gave me a ride home from the airport in her slightly beaten down four door sedan. She didn’t want to let me out of the car. It was time for the kiss, or a date. But the problem with fantasy, romantic fantasy, is that the longer you spend with that Fantasy the more The Reality scares you. My beautiful leggy blonde mile high mistress had turned into a struggling single mother, riddled with anxiety disorder, upset over her flight schedule, unable to deal with a new puppy, distrustful of men, hounded by a bitter ex, and generally skeptical of all things living. In the end she liked me, and all I could say upon arrival, in that awkward moment as she sat staring at me, “Nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll catch you on a flight some time.” And I never looked back.
I know, hallucinogens heighten reality so things may not be as exaggerated as your mind perceives. But I swear on all things swearable, the woman outside the bus was a shaman cuddling a plastic child in a blanket. And this Mexican porn star was sitting inches from me. I offered to move but she asked me to stay there and sat next to me, despite the bus being half empty. I thought my Trip was winding down, maybe I could talk to her afterall.
Hi.
Hi.
Uh, hi. How are you?
Fine, and you?
I’m going to die. I mean, uh, yes, hi.
She stared at me. A look of disbelief, fright, and bemusement all rolled into her dazzling deep chocolate eyes. I couldn’t take it. I should move my seat. But maybe something could happen between us. I should just get off, find another bus. It was a two hour ride, and the drug had yet to wear off. I know cause I saw four other people I recognize get on the bus. And I don’t know 4 other people in Mexico. Christ, you should see her. Just laying there, gazing straight ahead, nothing to do, no one to talk to. One of those tight white tank tops adorned with specks of glitter could barely restrain her bronzed upper half from snatching my moribund head into it’s welcoming ravine. That thick long black wavy hear, the way those ripped jeans hugged her legs, gently crossed to reveal a gleaming pair of white leather high heels. The irony of my situation refused to escape me. I was the prisoner, locked up for 20 years, who gets castrated on his release day.
All I wanted was lights out, and a movie. I got my wish. No more distraction over on my left. Organism of the desert, I’d like to introduce you to Hollywood. We’ll see how you behave now, with no vegetation to yank us through the window, and a siren of my nirvana pinning us into the corner. Our feature presentation, Houdini. Dubbed in Spanish, ol’ Harry was quite the charmer. It wasn’t exactly a selection for the Peyote Film Fest, but I did let out the occasional Ahhh when an apparition scene appeared. As the movie went on, my taunting beauty had turned to her side, those lusciously plump lips just centimeters from the dividing line. She was practically begging me to hold her. Wasn’t that the fetal position. What if I just stroked her hair, maybe gave a gentle shoulder squeeze, the slightest of cock grazes. Something. Damn. Harry was about to hang upside down locked in a strait jacket and, and, and, I…was…losing….concentration. Would she fall over the seat barrier, land on my lap, Would Harry break free? The suspense was driving me mad. Couldn’t she just fall into my lap, with her mouth open, and in a few minutes I could go back to focusing on the main presentation.
Excuse me, could you do me a favor. I couldn’t do it. It would probably come out like, ‘Excuse me, would you bite me on my leg?’ and she would. And I would cry, and everybody would laugh at me, and of course, I would miss Houdini’s death. So I shut up, and started praying she would take an empty row. I was so utterly distracted by this sultry dame, so disgusted by my complete inability to communicate, and my growing interest in Harry’s mistress and her fraudulent behavior. I couldn’t come to grips with what I was about to do, it still bothers me. I’ve lost sleep over it. I’ve fantasized it never happened. I abused my telekinetic powers, just like Harry. I willed her to leave. To get up and find another seat. Slowly she elevated from her slouched, cleavage dripping, lip pursing pose, and began to look at the free seats. I willed harder. She put things in her purse. I willed more than Harry would will. And as she caught that last psychic wave, she was finally on the move. But to where…right across the fucking aisle, so she was still staring at me, provoking this inner turmoil of what it means to be a man. I was failing. My gender was going to dismiss me. Fine, if I didn’t look, I would have no way of knowing she was there. Even though, well, I know where she is sitting. Harry Houdini was a man. I would watch him.
I thought the affects had mostly worn off until Houdini died, and Animal Planet Survivor came on. These were people who filmed their real life encounters with deadly wild animals. I could feel the intensity of the leopard fighting the sloth, and curled up in pain when the camera man was attacked. The same for the guy in the shark cage. Every time the Great White would ram the jailbars, I would cringe convinced I it was me getting rammed. And not by my neighbor. Oh, and that enormous octopus, strangling the underwater cameraman. I had to take extra breaths. Really. Then, somehow, that program became Storm Chasers, which was probably the basis for that Oscar movie, Twister. These people would drive around sci-fi looking cars so they could get sucked up into a live tornado. And it hit me, another psychodel deep thought. All these crazy fucks were American, from Harry to the camera people to the weather freaks. A great country should be judged by its eccentricities. Mexicans would never build a car to launch them into a hurricane, or feed great white sharks in the open ocean, or attempt to lock themselves in chains, submerged in sunken boxes. Mexicans like celebrations, and ceremonies, and lots of good home cooked food, and socializing on the street. Americans don’t have time for that nonsense. We need to figure out a way that an egg shaped piece of plastic can clean your feet, and spending the day partying is not going to help.
Hey there. Its ok. You can come back now. I’m not that messed up anymore. We can talk. I’ll stroke your hair lightly while you tell me what a bad bad man your boyfriend is. As I gently rub the backside of my hand against your sliding tear, a moment of recognition will flash before you, one where I become your living symbol of Security and Provider. We’ll both sink lower in our seats together, the sides of our foreheads locked, as we giggle about our first kisses. You’ll allow my left hand to remain on your thigh. I’ll continue petting your hair, while you tell me about the boss who makes inappropriate passes and won’t let you handle the big accounts, and the story of your sister who still won’t invite you to her house, after four years, because she thinks you’re trying to steal her husband. At some point, shortly after you express hurt at the way your mother was left out of her parent’s will, I’ll slide my thumb gingerly along the periphery of your ear. Then, suddenly, with no advance notice, no enriched physical contact, you’ll allow me to penetrate you.
And…. lights. LIGHTS. What the fuck. Who turned on the lights? I was about to commence insertion into a Mexican cover girl. Where was the manager? An usher, somebody? Help. Hellllllpp.
She vanished. Most of the bus vanished. The Captain, up front, was looking at me. Where the hell were we? Should I run? Were the Federales here? But…but, I’m not ready to go. Can’t I just stay on the bus a little longer. I can’t handle it out there. I don’t need another girl, just give me a movie, and please, for the love of your god, turn out the lights.
No, senor. Adios.
What had I done. I was back in San Luis, the magical desert daisy still blowing around my head. People, traffic, noise, smog. I thought I’d catch a local bus, but apparently the taxi mafia mandates local buses stop running by 10pm. 11. Shit.
My texted instructions said, “Santa Bar, Downtown.”
We passed the long rectangular park, the one bursting with palm trees, that signified the entrance to the Old City. Downtown. I wanted to stop the driver and run in the trees. I didn’t want to go hang out in some place called Santa Bar. Obviously, I expected Christ kitsch draping the walls and reindeer drawings on the tables. And a fat white bearded Mexican man to greet me at the door.
A short wiry dude stood watch, donning a biker’s leather jacket and tight jeans that made a fine urban adaptation of Ol’ Nick. After taking my 2 dollar cover charge, he asked in English where I was from.
No man. Shit. I from Chicago too.
Estas bromando?
Shit man. No. 20 years. South Side. 51st and Wood.
Peligroso, no? No hay muchos mexicanos alli?
Man. I tell you. I be telling these young guys here what it be like in the hood man.
This was too fucked up for me to believe. Even after the absurdities of the last several hours. Off all the places in the world, this guy comes from the same city, and he speaks English. Two things not common here. He calls his friends over, presumably to prove that he lived in the states, and that his English is functional. They shake my hand and ask about ghetto life. My new friend starts telling his near death gang stories. I gain amigo points by exclaiming the superiority of Mexicans over Puerto Ricans in their daily ritual of who is the city’s King Hispanic. You can see the eyes of Santaland’s young bouncers widening in anticipation of their eventual illegal arrival in the Windy City, where they too will supplement shoddy drywall work with low quality marijuana sales, and walk the streets with hormonal raging pitbulls while feverishly chomping away at a mini bag of the always coveted Extra Cheesy Cheetos.
Where the hell was my friend? I just hauled myself back from the desert, still flying around on peyote, to celebrate something or the other, and now I’m trapped at the door, witnessing the moral decay rap music has implanted in the naïve skulls of the developing world’s young male population. Or was I being a bit hypocritical. I supported the Rock world. Wasn’t rap just rock re-packaged? --a way for a segment of society, normally shunned by the mainstream, to stand up and say, ‘Fuck off, we don’t need you, we’ve got our way.’ Wow, another heightened illumination: Rap = Rock. + a little murder here and there. But Rock has been known to encourage strict obedience to the Dark Lord, well, when played backwards by people on, well, substances not that different to this.
Have you seen my friends?
No. I can’t describe them. I don’t know. A guy with hair and clothes, and there might be a girl with him, same idea, but she’s a girl.
Fine, I’ll go inside, and look over there. Next to the who?
The shamanes.
Wait a second. Are you fucking with me? My friend is with The Shamans. The Shamans. There are Shamans inside that bar. Right now. I’m going to find real Shamans.
The bouncer swore it was all going down inside.
A scattered group of leather and eyebrow rings showed no signs of my mate. Until finally, right next to the stage, we locked, and I knew I was home.
My trip, the physical one anyway, was over. Finally. But I had to find these Shamans.
Have you seen the Shamans, I mean are there really Shamans here?
He pointed to the stage.
Those guys are the Shamans. When does the ceremony start?
And before he could answer, I looked up from the stage to see walls covered by swirling orange flames and dancing blue skulls. And the fire would spring up, spring down, while the skulls spun around, stopping long enough to make eye contact.
Lucky for all, my slight bouts of paranoia had dissipated, and what should have been an omen of impending death turned into a round of really cool visuals. Yeah. In a place where you can’t here anybody, and your mind warp medicine hasn’t warn off, nothing beats a 30 foot wall smothered in psychedelic death symbols.
Then something snapped, a new dimension had been opened, and the music finally made its way in. Mexican headbangers were singing my high school anthems. Iron Maiden. Ozzy. Metallica. Motley Crue. Guns and Roses. These were not avenues I wanted to explore. But my core had been touched, and Seek and Destroy had me snapping my head around in epileptic fits of joy. Music. I had denied myself the auditory pleasures included in the hallucinogenic experience. It may not have been an old tribal man in his loin cloth creating howling wind noises on his hand carved wooden flute, but The Shamans had me singing The Scorpions Rock you Like a Hurricane. And if anyone needed proof of the deleterious effects drugs have on the mind, look no further than the unabashed sing along to a group of questionably talented Mexican metalheads playing one of rock-n-roll’s most nauseating anthems. Here I am, rock me like a ……
The infernal wall finally stopped its gyrating, a living barometer to indicate the waning moments of peyote’s hold over me. Between sets, my buddy Ricardo motioned that a nearby mare was interested, and I should go talk to her. So, eager to vanquish that embarrassment from the bus journey, I eagerly headed over to my suitor’s table. My first lines were ready for launch, the world was coming back together, and I was inches from her back. As I rounded her table, entering her periphery her friends inching forward on their chairs, I realized something: u-g-l-y.
She was a real live Scorpions groupie from 1987 who flew in all the way from Hamburg just for the show.
It’s never an easy thing to do, the Speed Shift. You see your prey from across the room. Sometimes, a little eye play, maybe a smile. You decide the time is right, the hunt is On. You glide casually across the room, a mixture of confidence and nerves fighting for supremacy. As you gain ground, sometimes just mere inches from the Kill, something changes. The light isn’t the same. Is it even the same person? Your Wonder Woman turns into Werewolf Woman. Acne, whiskers, a missing eyelid, overgrown incisors, maybe an adam’s apple. There is little time to think. You try to avoid the rude maneuver of ‘sorry, I thought you were better looking’ for a simple smile at some imaginary person behind your soon to be free prey, and then you swiftly increase your foot speed so that what almost happened never happens.
Soon, we were free. Away from the Shamans, the groupies, the spinning blue skulls.
We headed for home, or what I had been temporarily calling my home. It was one of those late night philosophy talks, the one where you solve the world’s problems and figure out who’s been playing God all these years. The natural speed of the drug kept me going so sleep wasn’t an option. Right about the time we figured out a solution to the botched Nafta agreement, a group of 11 drunks, all 25-30 years old, immediately surrounded me with introductions, and forceful invites to join them in 4am carousing.
You don’t want drink after this day, you want sleep. But the laws of hospitality state When Offered, You Accept.
These rodeo clowns, leather cowboy boots and untucked button downs, pulled me off the couch and started the interrogation.
The spokesman was the lead singer of a local 10 piece band, tall for a Mexican, square jaw and a stringy soul patch, still dressed in full regalia, his bands name embroidered on his shirt, like a bowling team captain.
Que Pedo, he shouted enthusiastically.
Huh?
Que pedo.
Uh, that wasn’t me, I haven’t farted since yesterday.
Man, your crazy. Nobody is talking about that. Its how we say ‘what’s up’ to our friends.
Seriously? You have taken the Spanish word for fart and given it a double meaning. Isn’t that a bit, well, strange. Couldn’t you have chosen something a bit lighter, like ‘air’ or ‘wind.’
No man. That’s what Mexican friends say to each other. Que pedo.
Well, with my luck, I’ll say it to a woman, and she’ll slap me.
Man, we don’t use it with the women.
What do you say, ‘What a queef?”
What is that?
It a fart that only females make. But it doesn’t smell.
Bullshit.
No really. Some girls can even queef songs.
I knew a girl who did almost our entire national anthem.
White people are crazy.
The group of 11 broke out into some high pitched song, leaving me trapped in the middle of their flatulent greeting circle.
My bed would not be getting any closer. Another interrogator stepped forward, shaved head, his shirt half unbuttoned, speaking in the early stages of a drunken stutter.
Hey hhhey, what you thththink about the Mexico ssssoo far?
I like it. Especially the desert.
Oh si, the ddedesert, you wwewent tto fffor the pppepepeyote?
No, I went for the sand, but I came across the peyote.
Yyouyou try it you try it?
Yeah.
And then, as if the puppet master pulled their strings at once, the entire group wailed with laughter and hoots and back slaps.
The lead singer resumed his role as public relations officer.
You’re a real Mexican now [followed by laughter all around]. You understand our land. Our way of life.
Really. I kind of feel like that. You like the peyote too?
Not a chance. Even the donkeys won’t eat it. Stuff will make you sick man. Only some old Indian people, and you crazy gringos eat that garbage. You want to be Mexican man, come drink with us. Cerveza and Tequila, that is Mexico.
For the next hour, in the last of the pre-sunrise darkness, liters of beer were passed around, and everybody took turns singing something very Mexican. My Spanish had returned, nobody looked familiar anymore, and the potted plants were just, well, potted plants. Mother peyote left me here, alone in the chaos, unconnected from her unique perspective. And I liked it. Life was good. The slowly intoxicating beers didn’t affect your ability to talk, and the world was a simple place, a land where deep thoughts were unnecessary and your fellow humans brought you the emotion that those silly little plants used to.
Something else, something I really really needed: FOOD. Damn holy little shrub robbed me of appetite for the last 12 hours. Maybe these off duty mariachis would want some food.
Is there a good taco place at 6am around here?
Tacos. Tacos. TACOS!!! Vamos for tacos.
The madness ensued. A few members had faded away, but nine others crammed into a little sedan, lying on top of each other, passing around glass beer carafes, as we headed for Mexico’s best drug, Tacos.
As the group gathered around the crowded late night trailer, singing songs to the tortilla girls behind the counter, I took one of my juicy pork pastor tacos, topped with a thin slice of glazed pineapple, cilantro, onion, and lime, and headed over to the bushes. I figured, what the heck. In all the revelry, nobody would notice.
Face to face with one of my prized agaves, dead pig thigh stuck in the crevices of my teeth, I questioned her about my journey today.
I used to feel so strongly about you. You were everything to me. But now, when I look at you, I don’t feel the same anymore. I mean, you still look great. I’d put you in my house, and all, but those feelings, those overwhelming urges to be with you, they’re gone. It hurts, I’d like them back, but I don’t know how.
Eat more peyote.
Again. Now.
No. That was a joke. Can’t plants have a sense of humor. Look, our love is forever. We’re here until one of you accidentally runs us over in a drunken rage. Its better to take this piece of advice from your voyage today: Whatever your doing, make it the best thing to do. Don’t fight what’s happening, don’t think there is something better, just find a way to enjoy whatever moment you’re in.
Another voice was yelling at me from a distance, in Spanish: Hey gringo, what you doing over there? Come here. The taco girls want to here you fart that song you told us about.
Mexico, it doesn’t matter what you’re on, it’s always an interesting place to be.
