Mood: Reflective
Listening to: The Chambers Brothers
"and the poets down here don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be"
(Thanks Bruce). Or, as St. Robert of Hibbing said, "try imagining a time when God and her were born - "come in" she said, "I'll give ya shelter from the storm" (or words to that effect). So, I play my air Kalimba and pretend to drink some Red Stripe. It's the rum coco's I avoid. Like that Iguana night when I got tied in the hamaca. Watching the sunset on the beach in Mazatlan drinking the mezcal the little kid brings in his shoeshine box. Worm and all. It's all very democratic, the entire town seems to drift down to take in the free show. "El Set" we call it. Spanglish at it's worst. After five or six mezcals we wander down the sand looking for beach glass. The hamaca salesmen are gone leaving the beach to the tourists and those locals with no work. The playapa beach bar is just plugging in - maybe the band will actually play tonight, unlike last night when they dissapeared down the beach to blow some smoke and never came back. So it was sweaty disco from a boom box, but with enough mezcal in us we didn't care. We danced with the locals who tried to get us to go "out back" and smoke up some ganga, but we were to drunk and knew we'd have to walk back to the camp ground. At four in the morning we stagger down the shore line running back and forth in the surf. I try to take off my clothes but she reminds me that the Mexican's will put up with a lot of silliness from us touristas, but they frown on nudity. As usual her better sense (even when drunk) keeps me from making a complete fool of myself. We'll have to wait to get back to St. John or Sand Bridge to get naked in the surf. We crawl back into the tent all sweaty and salty. The sky is begining to get lighter over the mountains. The rainbow people return from where ever it is they go in their custom bus at night. Another night on the beach. We'll sleep till noon. The little kid with the afternoon mezcal now appears with an old styro full of ice. We buy some from him for our own cooler (I need some for my head) and I begin to think about food. Get the driftwood cutting board and chop, chop, chop. Chilis, tomatoes, cilantro, more chilis, some chorizo and some of the leftover refried beans from last night. Fire up the Coleman, heat up the olive oil, toss in the tortillas - corn for me, flour for her - pop open the first beer of the day. Red Stripe. Stir fry the veggies, crack a few eggs, throw in the chorizo, pour in a dollop of brew. Fry up the tortillas, dump on the habanero sauce, add the cheese. Sauce blood red from the chili. Sun burning white hot in the sky. Azure ocean at our door step. Palm trees overhead. Warm southwest air coming in from far over the southern Pacific. Time. Remember me.
