Me gusta el mar, me gustas tu
Manu Chao
This morning was hard. I woke up pretty hungover, and with a frickin' cold, can you believe it, in this sauna of a place. Might be dengue, but who cares at this point. A flap-flapping sound preceded my cognition of time and space and being alive, and as I opened my eyes, there was the fan doing its thing in this crappy little room I somehow voluntarily had boxed myself into. At a distance, I may have heard Jim Morrison chanting gently, as my semi-concious mind formed the words;
Puerto Escondido... shit; I'm still only in Puerto Escondido... getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Mr. Muscle squats on the beach, he gets stronger... ...each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter...
It all started two weeks ago, when I arrived on the overnight coach from San Cristóbal, all trashed from a good night's sleep in what is, no matter what class you travel, undeniably a seat and not a bed. It was about seven thirty in the morning and I hadn't really done my mandatory guidebook research with regards to where to stay, and furthermore I was a little bit sceptical towards staying in Puerto Escondido at all, as it was known for being touristy and haphazardly developed; my idea was to have a look around and after a night or to go east to Mazunte or Zipolite, where the beaches apparently are just as beautiful, the surf just as good, and the people not so omnipresent. Anyway, there I was in the terminal, and this little girl approached me with an offer to stay at the hostal Shalom, which apparently was a little outside the town centre and close to a more quiet-type beach well suited for surfing apprentices; in other words, pretty perfect. Even though I get defensive most of the time when facing these off-the-transportation peddlers of accomodation, I went for a look, and although it appeared pretty crappy and the free surfing teacher was sick and they no longer, like the poster said, spoke Hebrew in the reception - the previous owner was long gone - I was glad to dump my stuff, of which I have way too much, and then head down to the beach to hang out in a chair, watch the never-tiring waves do their work, and finish off Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.
The beach. Finally, after five months of mountainous existence I was there, and boy did it look good. Protected by cliffs and hills on all sides; there was a fifty-meter descent down stony stairs to get down to the sand; the beach about 150m wide, there was at this point in time plenty of space for the handful - let's say about 20-30 on an average day - of foreigners, plus some locals, all scattered around in the flawless sand, or in the chairs of the little food stalls, their huts, chairs and roofs lining the back of the beach. Hardly any people down at the beach right then though, as it was still relatively early in the morning. Then I saw the sign, and it opened up my mind; Clases de surf - at the far left end of the beach, me having come down the steps in the middle. And I'll be damned if the sign isn't accompanied by this Mexican surfer chick, not so much the model type as just incredibly radiant, healthy and happy-looking, up and about already and waving me over to her domain and offering surfing classes. And the widest goddamned mouth you ever saw, sporting full lips and pearly whites. Speaking of which, I was later to learn her well-fitting name: Perla. I knew instantaneously that I would look no further; that this was to be my surfing teacher, price-shopping be damned. I remember suddenly being conscious of my appearance, all pale from bad sleep and not too much sun, as I told her that I was in no shape to commence surfing classes that day, body devoid of energy and all. Thus I spent that day in a chair not to far from the surf/food shop of the girl's family, finishing off the beautiful little Siddhartha, which is well accompanied by waves (see review under Books Afoot).
A couple of days later I'd basically been doing the same routine, hanging around, enjoying the odd swim and the sight of beauty frolicking about on the waterfront, as well as my first surfing lessons, which went half-well. Exchanging a few words more with the Pearl every day was a pleasant pasttime, and hopes were a little bit up as she asked me if I was going out monday (I came here friday). I realised, of course, that this was not exactly a date-type of question, and that I might quickly find myself in a position where I would regret not bringing friends; as it turned out though, there we were, the two of us playing pool and drinking drinks and then we went out to a party-type place called the Cabo Blanco - the place where legends are born, according to the
sign out front, and why not, I thought, as I was getting fairly tipsy at that point, having already drunk a little with some guys in the hostel upfront to fortify my self-esteem. Knowing every person in town, the girl ambulated a little but stuck to me; after a little while I threw some kisses in there; and there was much rejoicing. About that night it shall further be noted that Oh My God and that drunkenness does not necessarily impede a good night's 'sleep' whatsoever. The next day my mattress was completely drenched in sweat and I was feeling, in the midst of joy, as bad as I have ever felt the day after, probably because of additional exertion and loss of liquid on top of the excessive consumption. To further enhance my temporary grief, I also got diarrhoea that day, but I killed it off with a pill - or at least there was correlation between the taking of pill and receding of symptoms, to be all scientific about it.
Manu Chao
This morning was hard. I woke up pretty hungover, and with a frickin' cold, can you believe it, in this sauna of a place. Might be dengue, but who cares at this point. A flap-flapping sound preceded my cognition of time and space and being alive, and as I opened my eyes, there was the fan doing its thing in this crappy little room I somehow voluntarily had boxed myself into. At a distance, I may have heard Jim Morrison chanting gently, as my semi-concious mind formed the words;
Puerto Escondido... shit; I'm still only in Puerto Escondido... getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Mr. Muscle squats on the beach, he gets stronger... ...each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter...
It all started two weeks ago, when I arrived on the overnight coach from San Cristóbal, all trashed from a good night's sleep in what is, no matter what class you travel, undeniably a seat and not a bed. It was about seven thirty in the morning and I hadn't really done my mandatory guidebook research with regards to where to stay, and furthermore I was a little bit sceptical towards staying in Puerto Escondido at all, as it was known for being touristy and haphazardly developed; my idea was to have a look around and after a night or to go east to Mazunte or Zipolite, where the beaches apparently are just as beautiful, the surf just as good, and the people not so omnipresent. Anyway, there I was in the terminal, and this little girl approached me with an offer to stay at the hostal Shalom, which apparently was a little outside the town centre and close to a more quiet-type beach well suited for surfing apprentices; in other words, pretty perfect. Even though I get defensive most of the time when facing these off-the-transportation peddlers of accomodation, I went for a look, and although it appeared pretty crappy and the free surfing teacher was sick and they no longer, like the poster said, spoke Hebrew in the reception - the previous owner was long gone - I was glad to dump my stuff, of which I have way too much, and then head down to the beach to hang out in a chair, watch the never-tiring waves do their work, and finish off Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.
The beach. Finally, after five months of mountainous existence I was there, and boy did it look good. Protected by cliffs and hills on all sides; there was a fifty-meter descent down stony stairs to get down to the sand; the beach about 150m wide, there was at this point in time plenty of space for the handful - let's say about 20-30 on an average day - of foreigners, plus some locals, all scattered around in the flawless sand, or in the chairs of the little food stalls, their huts, chairs and roofs lining the back of the beach. Hardly any people down at the beach right then though, as it was still relatively early in the morning. Then I saw the sign, and it opened up my mind; Clases de surf - at the far left end of the beach, me having come down the steps in the middle. And I'll be damned if the sign isn't accompanied by this Mexican surfer chick, not so much the model type as just incredibly radiant, healthy and happy-looking, up and about already and waving me over to her domain and offering surfing classes. And the widest goddamned mouth you ever saw, sporting full lips and pearly whites. Speaking of which, I was later to learn her well-fitting name: Perla. I knew instantaneously that I would look no further; that this was to be my surfing teacher, price-shopping be damned. I remember suddenly being conscious of my appearance, all pale from bad sleep and not too much sun, as I told her that I was in no shape to commence surfing classes that day, body devoid of energy and all. Thus I spent that day in a chair not to far from the surf/food shop of the girl's family, finishing off the beautiful little Siddhartha, which is well accompanied by waves (see review under Books Afoot).
A couple of days later I'd basically been doing the same routine, hanging around, enjoying the odd swim and the sight of beauty frolicking about on the waterfront, as well as my first surfing lessons, which went half-well. Exchanging a few words more with the Pearl every day was a pleasant pasttime, and hopes were a little bit up as she asked me if I was going out monday (I came here friday). I realised, of course, that this was not exactly a date-type of question, and that I might quickly find myself in a position where I would regret not bringing friends; as it turned out though, there we were, the two of us playing pool and drinking drinks and then we went out to a party-type place called the Cabo Blanco - the place where legends are born, according to the
sign out front, and why not, I thought, as I was getting fairly tipsy at that point, having already drunk a little with some guys in the hostel upfront to fortify my self-esteem. Knowing every person in town, the girl ambulated a little but stuck to me; after a little while I threw some kisses in there; and there was much rejoicing. About that night it shall further be noted that Oh My God and that drunkenness does not necessarily impede a good night's 'sleep' whatsoever. The next day my mattress was completely drenched in sweat and I was feeling, in the midst of joy, as bad as I have ever felt the day after, probably because of additional exertion and loss of liquid on top of the excessive consumption. To further enhance my temporary grief, I also got diarrhoea that day, but I killed it off with a pill - or at least there was correlation between the taking of pill and receding of symptoms, to be all scientific about it.
Anyway, that was really a day of absolute nothingness, and the only one during this two-week period that I didn't hang out in the same place on the beach. Thus I was very happy to see that day pass and get to the next, which felt like a regular hangover, a vast improvement. Here it may be worth noting that the awkwardness of seeing oneanother again after a night of passion is not exactly alleviated by the fact that there are mothers and fathers and sisters and their husbands and their flocks of children, as well as the four-year-old daughter of the girl in question, all of them frolicking about by the seaside all day. It must be said before returning to the theme of akwardness that it does look like the good life, the one they're having, they're playing and fooling about all of them, doing a little bit of cooking and surfing and relaxing and living off it, still apparently having genuine fun after doing this for a very long time. Anyway, as the dreaded first eye contact goes, I'm not too easily startled by that or even the prospects of knowing family members, a cold shoulder from a girl realising her awful mistake of fooling around with beardy Norwegians, or whatever other perils might face me. And so it was, back on the beach, that my girl asked me for a walk on a remote beach the day after that, an inclination of hers I was only too pleased to indulge. Then came that day, the day when you find yourself with an amazing lady in a place where there is beach enough for thousands but none to be seen but her; a day where interest was confirmed and joy was drunk in the big gulps of a dehydrated Northerner at the beach. After such a perfect day - I believe I was even humming the tune - on the remote beach I was sort of thinking that this girl is very good and I'm not afraid to get to know her better, to whatever end or probable demise it may take us. Thus I hung around further, my chairs creeping up from the water and in under the family roof, closer every day until I was almost a part of it, exchanging insults with Perla's sisters, playing with all of their children and donating the odd cigarette to the dad. All of this family business was of course - at least, traditionally speaking - premature, as there was just the two mentioned careless days of joy with the mum - she's 23, by the way - before doing the friendly boyfriend thing with the daughter and all, even though I wasn't really a boyfriend, just almost.
The days went by, and even though there was a short period of holding hands and even kissing in front of the family, all of a sudden I found myself in lack 0f mum's attention, of which I got some but not the fair share I believed was due to me after deducting family and business engagements; thus, patient but active as I am, I tried finding out what the fuck was going on; as it was more than clear from before that it was not a question of liking, I asked her whether she was afraid to get involved; and indeed she was, afraid of falling in love and being left soon after, which I am sure she has experienced - or at least seen around her - previously with my touristy kind. I, being more the romantic and relatively unscathed, didn't appreciate that line of thought at all, it should be fair to say, as I still prefer the possibility of a little burn mark over a lightless life; I told her she should relax and that people don't fall in a day, let's at least get to know eachother a little bit more while the whole frickin' family isn't listening; but apparently I was special, and if I understood her correctly she was already finding herself enchanted by my wizardry and reluctant or afraid or whatever towards further involvement. Thus, from that compliment on I was banned from happyland and receiving ever-decreasing attention. Although there was now no extracurricular activity - I'm talking about hanging out the two of us alone here, nothing more - she didn't really want me to leave; I asked a few days ago if that was what she was waiting for now, but no she said; also, irritatingly enough, she would still let me kiss her if preyed upon in those very evasive moments of seclusion. I should have liked to be more decisively sent off, though, as I kept talking to her and letting her know that I would fancy staying on a bit if she would only let me closer, and I dind't get a firm enough no - or maybe I'm just a bad listener and a wishful thinker. Most of the time it's a little bit of everything, I suppose. Be that as it may, her treatment of me, it must be said, has been less than perfectly courteous.
Which brings us to the rub. Last week, as things were still looking possible, Perla, the sisters and some other young and healthy people working on the beach were starting a lifeguard training programme for an examination; in comes this stereotypical fitness-looking type with his fancy short-sleeved wet suit, sunglasses and his bloody flute. He's taking the group running and swimming and whatnot on the beach, and I do notice his apparent special attention in particular directions, but who could possibly blame him and all that. Anyway, I'm pretty confident and not too much bothered by girls to whom I feel attached being hit on or flirting - or not flirting, sometimes, it's hard to tell - anyway, I was still sitting fairly comfortable in my chair, convinced of my own magic abilities. At some point, she asked me if I was jealous, and I said, as true was, sure, a little bit, and we laughed about it, and she went on to explain more than was necessary with regard to him carrying her (she hurt her feet) and them eloping somewhere for a little while. On top of that, he was, according to well-informed sources, according to her, that is, gay. A fruitcake. A pufter. Using the outlet as an inlet, and all that. Well, that's all good, now, isn't it? Not that I needed all of that information to stay comfortable, actually it made me the tiniest bit more suspicious, but I still thought this guy basically had nothing to add to the equation exept for some platonic gymnastics, and with that, I was content.
Enter previously described period of increasing frustration and small talks initiated by me to see if there was some hope to be dug up - we never seemed to finish those conversations, though. Anyway, as relationships go, and this one with lightning speed, I was feeling more ice and distance by the day. I began to realise that this was indeed going nowhere very fast. So, with this in my slightly frustrated mind, yesterday morning I was looking forward to a nine o'clock coffee on the beach as agreed, perhaps only with her or at least usually with few enough family members around to have a chat, and to give it to her very clearly that I was leaving but preferring not to, and perhaps give her a last chance of opening the door, or otherwise, be done with it, the air again clear in my lungs. It's not so much love, you see, but rather an infatuation whose importance perhaps was amplified by the confusing situation of happiness one day and the then slow, hesitant, agonising, but nevertheless irrevocable withdrawal of the opposing army off the battlefield, leaving the officer in charge of my army with his gun waving aimlessly at the empty air in front of him.
So there he was, general Mangseth, descending the stairs for the final time to make a bid for the reinitiation of war rather than this squatting in the woods-business of the opposing army. And lo! and behold! - what does his squinting eyes spy down at the strand? Nothing much at all but Mr. Muscle frolicking about in the fuckin' hammock of the family, alone there with the Pearl before I got there. And then there were three. She hardly spoke to me. She went to sit with him, a little away from me. I was totally blown away, frustrated already by the situation without this bloody Posterboy for Baywatch en Español entering into the bleeding picture. And where was my bloody catharsis-inducing conversation gonna come from when she was over there with Dopey, not even looking at me? Jesus, it was a nightmare. I hung around, and was trying to quell my anger over this insolence while working up the energy to pull her away from his side and tell her good-bye. But I couldn't. I was sick as well, as I am today, not seriously ill - but having a cold in this heat can be taxing enough for a Viking, I'm telling ya. My usually decisive (in these matters, when knowing what to do) self was crippled by disbelief over what was obviously something that had been going on for maybe a few days with this fool behind by back, which was fair enough, but the bringing of him to the coffee date was what really took the cake. Talk about communication without speaking. Childish and slightly evil were my thoughts at the time, and I stand by it even today after a round of self-critical light. You have to hand it to her, though: she sure cleared me and the problem of falling for a foreigner, if there was indeed still such a problem, out of there in the flap of a hummingbird's wing.
Anyway, I'd just like you to picture it. I'm lying there in the hammock under the roof in front of the shop, the two newfound friends just outside hearing distance, situated in the waterfront chairs with their backs to me. I'm feeling very angry, sad, and exhausted, in brief, I was stabbed in the pride. I'm working on the pulling her aside thing in my head, but I can't see it not getting a little bit ugly as I am in too bad of a mood not to give her some lip, which she deserved but which would not have been constructive. As this goes on inside me, Mr.Muscle suddenly raises himself from sitting position by the arms alone, his body then curled up under him and swaying above the chair a little bit, before somehow his face is down and his arse is up and he's doing the fucking handstand off the armrests of the chair, then flipping over and landing on his feet in the sand, laughin' and flexin' and all. It's like a fucking cartoon, unbelievable, and I can't help myself but to cough up a sort of sardonic, disbelieving loser's laugh at the whole situation. Then I left the beach and had a really shitty day, this was yesterday, but I came back today to say goodbye, which passed relatively impassionately and uneventfully, as no questions were asked or accusations made. I'm fairly happy with myself, though, if not the situation itself. Now it's off to greener pastures in Cuba, with a few ruins and shit on the way. Right now, though, I just want my mum. Or a hooker. Or something.
I know the Guatemala blog is not yet published; so it is when there's stuff keeping you on the beach all day and there is analogue life to be led; due to reasons of remaining passion this had to be written today and the other will come in a few days, me being alone, and hopefully less sour, in Tuxtla Gutierrez.
The days went by, and even though there was a short period of holding hands and even kissing in front of the family, all of a sudden I found myself in lack 0f mum's attention, of which I got some but not the fair share I believed was due to me after deducting family and business engagements; thus, patient but active as I am, I tried finding out what the fuck was going on; as it was more than clear from before that it was not a question of liking, I asked her whether she was afraid to get involved; and indeed she was, afraid of falling in love and being left soon after, which I am sure she has experienced - or at least seen around her - previously with my touristy kind. I, being more the romantic and relatively unscathed, didn't appreciate that line of thought at all, it should be fair to say, as I still prefer the possibility of a little burn mark over a lightless life; I told her she should relax and that people don't fall in a day, let's at least get to know eachother a little bit more while the whole frickin' family isn't listening; but apparently I was special, and if I understood her correctly she was already finding herself enchanted by my wizardry and reluctant or afraid or whatever towards further involvement. Thus, from that compliment on I was banned from happyland and receiving ever-decreasing attention. Although there was now no extracurricular activity - I'm talking about hanging out the two of us alone here, nothing more - she didn't really want me to leave; I asked a few days ago if that was what she was waiting for now, but no she said; also, irritatingly enough, she would still let me kiss her if preyed upon in those very evasive moments of seclusion. I should have liked to be more decisively sent off, though, as I kept talking to her and letting her know that I would fancy staying on a bit if she would only let me closer, and I dind't get a firm enough no - or maybe I'm just a bad listener and a wishful thinker. Most of the time it's a little bit of everything, I suppose. Be that as it may, her treatment of me, it must be said, has been less than perfectly courteous.
Which brings us to the rub. Last week, as things were still looking possible, Perla, the sisters and some other young and healthy people working on the beach were starting a lifeguard training programme for an examination; in comes this stereotypical fitness-looking type with his fancy short-sleeved wet suit, sunglasses and his bloody flute. He's taking the group running and swimming and whatnot on the beach, and I do notice his apparent special attention in particular directions, but who could possibly blame him and all that. Anyway, I'm pretty confident and not too much bothered by girls to whom I feel attached being hit on or flirting - or not flirting, sometimes, it's hard to tell - anyway, I was still sitting fairly comfortable in my chair, convinced of my own magic abilities. At some point, she asked me if I was jealous, and I said, as true was, sure, a little bit, and we laughed about it, and she went on to explain more than was necessary with regard to him carrying her (she hurt her feet) and them eloping somewhere for a little while. On top of that, he was, according to well-informed sources, according to her, that is, gay. A fruitcake. A pufter. Using the outlet as an inlet, and all that. Well, that's all good, now, isn't it? Not that I needed all of that information to stay comfortable, actually it made me the tiniest bit more suspicious, but I still thought this guy basically had nothing to add to the equation exept for some platonic gymnastics, and with that, I was content.
Enter previously described period of increasing frustration and small talks initiated by me to see if there was some hope to be dug up - we never seemed to finish those conversations, though. Anyway, as relationships go, and this one with lightning speed, I was feeling more ice and distance by the day. I began to realise that this was indeed going nowhere very fast. So, with this in my slightly frustrated mind, yesterday morning I was looking forward to a nine o'clock coffee on the beach as agreed, perhaps only with her or at least usually with few enough family members around to have a chat, and to give it to her very clearly that I was leaving but preferring not to, and perhaps give her a last chance of opening the door, or otherwise, be done with it, the air again clear in my lungs. It's not so much love, you see, but rather an infatuation whose importance perhaps was amplified by the confusing situation of happiness one day and the then slow, hesitant, agonising, but nevertheless irrevocable withdrawal of the opposing army off the battlefield, leaving the officer in charge of my army with his gun waving aimlessly at the empty air in front of him.
So there he was, general Mangseth, descending the stairs for the final time to make a bid for the reinitiation of war rather than this squatting in the woods-business of the opposing army. And lo! and behold! - what does his squinting eyes spy down at the strand? Nothing much at all but Mr. Muscle frolicking about in the fuckin' hammock of the family, alone there with the Pearl before I got there. And then there were three. She hardly spoke to me. She went to sit with him, a little away from me. I was totally blown away, frustrated already by the situation without this bloody Posterboy for Baywatch en Español entering into the bleeding picture. And where was my bloody catharsis-inducing conversation gonna come from when she was over there with Dopey, not even looking at me? Jesus, it was a nightmare. I hung around, and was trying to quell my anger over this insolence while working up the energy to pull her away from his side and tell her good-bye. But I couldn't. I was sick as well, as I am today, not seriously ill - but having a cold in this heat can be taxing enough for a Viking, I'm telling ya. My usually decisive (in these matters, when knowing what to do) self was crippled by disbelief over what was obviously something that had been going on for maybe a few days with this fool behind by back, which was fair enough, but the bringing of him to the coffee date was what really took the cake. Talk about communication without speaking. Childish and slightly evil were my thoughts at the time, and I stand by it even today after a round of self-critical light. You have to hand it to her, though: she sure cleared me and the problem of falling for a foreigner, if there was indeed still such a problem, out of there in the flap of a hummingbird's wing.
Anyway, I'd just like you to picture it. I'm lying there in the hammock under the roof in front of the shop, the two newfound friends just outside hearing distance, situated in the waterfront chairs with their backs to me. I'm feeling very angry, sad, and exhausted, in brief, I was stabbed in the pride. I'm working on the pulling her aside thing in my head, but I can't see it not getting a little bit ugly as I am in too bad of a mood not to give her some lip, which she deserved but which would not have been constructive. As this goes on inside me, Mr.Muscle suddenly raises himself from sitting position by the arms alone, his body then curled up under him and swaying above the chair a little bit, before somehow his face is down and his arse is up and he's doing the fucking handstand off the armrests of the chair, then flipping over and landing on his feet in the sand, laughin' and flexin' and all. It's like a fucking cartoon, unbelievable, and I can't help myself but to cough up a sort of sardonic, disbelieving loser's laugh at the whole situation. Then I left the beach and had a really shitty day, this was yesterday, but I came back today to say goodbye, which passed relatively impassionately and uneventfully, as no questions were asked or accusations made. I'm fairly happy with myself, though, if not the situation itself. Now it's off to greener pastures in Cuba, with a few ruins and shit on the way. Right now, though, I just want my mum. Or a hooker. Or something.
I know the Guatemala blog is not yet published; so it is when there's stuff keeping you on the beach all day and there is analogue life to be led; due to reasons of remaining passion this had to be written today and the other will come in a few days, me being alone, and hopefully less sour, in Tuxtla Gutierrez.
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