Viva Cancun

Alright, we were nearing the airport. This meant we were nearing a customs checkpoint. This meant that I'd finally have to scarf down the rest of my narcotics before I jumped onto a plane. This meant I was now awaiting the inevitable onset of withdrawals.

God, I hoped the excitement of exploring a new country would overshadow the malicious troll that lived in my stomach. He loves to kick the shit out of my bowels, and I knew he would  soon be awakening from slumber thanks to a sudden lack of heroin.

Our arrival in the airport signified a couple things. First, that we were, without a doubt, traveling. I took this opportunity to teach Shrimp some thrifty tactics by showing her how to save hundreds of dollars by switching to Geico - er, Garbage-co. Plunging my arm into a garbage can, I pulled out some decadent half-eaten leftovers that some rich capitalistic dinghead had deemed unfit for human consumption and worthy only of dumpster consumption. (consdumption? ye.)

Shrimp, of course, was endowed with beginner's luck, because her first trek into a garbage pit netted her a package of fresh sushi. Awesome.

Waiting for our flight (read: waiting impatiently for my withdrawals to start so I could get them over with,) a few things happened. First, we got a call from Shrimp's sister. Right. Amidst my rapid inhaling of substances, the mentoring of a previously clean citizen as to the ways of dumpster diving, and drooling over the thought of sunbathing and swimming in crystal clear waves of tequila, we had forgotten the massive abomination we'd left swirling in her toilet. Heh. Well, there's not much she could do now, unless she expected us to use our Go-Go-Gadget Plungers from twenty miles away and pray for eagle-eye accuracy. Shrimp's voice as she succumbed to her sister's rage was a stark contrast to the grin she wore on her face as we snickered.

Second, I started getting a bit stressed. Lingering memories of unflushed poop and fears of withdrawal were making me nervous. Twenty minutes before our flight, I decided to go for a last smoke. Nobody had ever told me that it's a universally understood that you have to be in your seat and belted up fifteen minutes before the fucking flight's scheduled to leave. As I returned to the waiting room, I found a flight attendant screaming at me.

"MR. FORD, YOU'VE MISSED YOUR FLIGHT." Huh. It sure looked like it - the room was totally vacant. 

"Are you kidding?" I looked at my watch. "This flight's not even scheduled to leave for another fifteen minutes."

"WELL, YOU'VE MISSED IT," she reiterated, clearly misplacing my confusion with idiocy.

"This really doesn't make sense. I paid for the four thirty flight. It should be, y'know, four thirty before I've missed it." Makes sense, no? I know it's customary to be at least ten minutes early for scheduled trips, but this was a bit absurd.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MR. FORD. RUN! RUN!"

"What?"

"RUN!" She screamed, flailing her arms like an inflated tube man outside an auto dealer, in the general direction of the pathway that led to the plane. "RUN, MR. FORD, YOU'RE HOLDING THE WHOLE FLIGHT UP!"

"Uh... okay?" I thought I'd missed my flight. Whatever. I ran. The door to the plane was closing as I sprinted towards it, but thanks to the wonderful world of wireless word transmission, the attendant inside had heard of my folly and opened it for me. Sweet. I held up a hundred people's flight to Mexico because I was too faithful and had assumed that flights wouldn't consider leaving until they were scheduled to. Shit, I don't think I've ever heard of a plane leaving on time, let alone early. 

The flight was short. I think. I'm pretty sure I slept off a wicked hangover. I woke up in a different country with much browner people. 

We slid through customs easily, much to my irritation. I found out I could have smuggled pounds of heroin with me if I'd wanted to and weaned myself off instead of jumping headfirst into a cold, turkeyish, opiate-free world. Oh well.

We left the airport's air conditioning and arrived in the parking lot's sweltering heat. We promptly flagged a taxi and got ripped off, learning our first lesson: never pay for anything in American cash, because Mexicans assume (and rightly so, except in our case) that we are all stupid and rich and don't care enough about finances to perform simple conversion calculations in our heads before passing over dollar bills worth a hundred times their face value in pesos.

We were dropped off in downtown Cancun. "No," we said politely (and very Gringo-ish,) "we don't want to go to the resort village." Gringopolis, as we thus called it, didn't strike our fancy. We left Canada to get away from the blathering ramble of rich white club-goers, not to do the same thing with a different background. If I wanted to do that, I'd just sit in a basement with a heater, drinking tequila and staring at a Coor's Light poster with some nice beaches strapped to the wall under a floodlight.

Nay, downtown Cancun it was. The place's beauty was so authentic, so rustic, and so... different, that it defies description. In this blog entry, at least, mostly because this entry's getting way too drawn out.  The most blatant gringos in town, we wandered until we found the dingy hostel we'd looked up prior to our arrival so we could drop our stuff off. Guard dogs bellowed at us from behind barbed wire fences; concrete walls adorned with shards of broken glass to fend off burglars dared us to scale them. My appreciation of expensive alarm systems was shattered in moments.

Our hostel looked like a red brick with windows. If there hadn't been palm trees dancing out front, I probably would have wanted to stay somewhere else. We made our way to the front gate - but this wasn't a cute little white gate that swings open to make way for a bubbly old lady to take your hand and guide you into her B&B so she can make you dinner and tuck you in to bed. This gate took up a quarter of the entire building, looked like it was built to keep security guards safe in prisons, and sure as hell didn't have any intercom buttons. We stood stupidly for a moment before a bent over fat dude basically crawled to the gate, slid a key into the obnoxious lock, and slid the even more obnoxious gate open to let us in.

We somehow found out through rapid miscommunications that we owed him a hundred pesos (five bucks a person. Not bad. Not bad at all) and made our way upstairs to check out the facilities. The bathroom wasn't really a room, nor did it really have a bath. There was a toilet with no seat, half a sink, and a spigot-looking thing that jutted out from the ceiling that one would assume constituted a shower. There was a communal kitchen with food that had been left by travelers from what looked like decades ago. Our room had blue walls, decorated not with pictures but cracks in the cement. Our window was barred. If not for the crisp white sheets on our beds, it probably would have looked like a prison.

AWESOME.

It was everything I wanted it to be.

Cheap, authentic, and Mexican as fuck. We weighed the risks of leaving or valuables in the hostel vs. bringing them with us on the streets, decided that we were likely going to get robbed at both places so it didn't much matter, and then promptly set off into the world of Cancun so I could replace my heroin addiction with alcoholism. 

Introducing: TimeSwap !

Hey. Haven't updated this blog in EONS. Needless to say, the amount of entries I'll need to amass due to the insanity of my batshit existence now greatly surpasses my ability to produce them at any reasonable rate.

Anyways, despite not breaking any legalities and changing the names of all peoples involved, someone had been serving me fat steaming plates of threatening shit as a reward for writing this blog. She happened to be a participant in some of the events that occurred, and was worried her name would be sullied. Or perhaps she didn't want hideous memories of my ugly unshaved mug to violate her Facebook news feed.

At the time, she was in the care of something very valuable to me. Since I am wise, and I did not want to piss her off and have her demolish/ignite/catapult/defecate upon or near/disassemble or pawn my property, my writing took a hiatus.

Now that said possessions have been returned to me, and la femme is hopefully a year wiser, I shall return to the keyboard (much to the displeasure of immediate family and people who take offense to drunken jungle-romping and vibrant sex lives described with flamboyant metaphors.) I hope that she'll realize that while our journey wasn't always picturesque (read: I am an asshole and developed anger problems mid-trip,) it was a beautiful moment of our lives and its stories should be shared with the world.

Oh, and hopefully she'll realize that I took to using pseudonyms specifically to misdirect identification. I didn't do it just for shits & giggles. (Well, actually, I did. But that made a pretty good argument, since it's totally true.) Ain't nobody gonna know who Squamp, or Ziggeth, or Shrimp, or any of these other colourful individuals are. Hell, even the tightest of my homedawgs couldn't place a finger on exactly who the main protagonists in some of the blogged stories were, despite having  had these stories vomited relentlessly upon them, ad verbatim, after my return to the First World.

I've also decided to intersperse TimeSwap entries into the blog so I can update with the current throes of my life alongside the drunken throes of a much sunnier and less expensive time.

A Rude Departure

Twenty four hours had passed since Shrimp and I had adhered ourselves to each other's company. Not a long time by any means, but I'd already begun to question her motives. Why? I couldn't quite say. I wasn't sure. Our conversations weren't quite... fluid. Something was missing. I didn't want to spend any time figuring it out though - if problems would manifest, they would do it of their own accord. I wasn't ruining my trip by being over-analytical. Not yet, at least.

Maybe the excitement of our journey was being diluted by the fact that I also had to look forward to detoxing from a six month heroin binge. I'd just eaten the last of my kratom (a wonderful herb from southeast Asia) that was easing my would-be withdrawals, ate my last ativan (my anxiety medication prescribed by the ol' Doc which I didn't want to fly with since my name had worn off my med bottle) and was ready to face the music.

We spent our last night in Canada at Shrimp's sister's house with her and her brother. Their family was reunited. I felt like an outcast, listening to them share gossip of people I'd never heard of before and laugh in the tight-knit way that only a comfortable family can do. The floor didn't even pay any attention to me, so I serenaded the room with some soothing guitar in a malicious attempt to send them all to sleep.

It didn't work, but something strange happened. Be it the alcohol, the deceptive intent behind my music scheme, or a fucking perverse poltergeist, I found myself rudely awakened after we'd gone to bed. I wasn't woken up in the couch where I'd passed out though, nay - I was awoken to Shrimp's brother and sister, shouting at me through half-opened eyes and pulling me by the wrist through a door I didn't recognize.

I was so baffled and haggard that I couldn't even get a word in edgewise. Turns out the door they were pulling me was the neighbour's. Turns out they were yelling at me for something I'd later find hilarious.

I didn't remember any of this though. I woke up the next morning early with a sense of disorientation, discomfort, and  a rampant desire to take a shit (this is necessary for the furthering of this story.) I shat. Turns out, Shrimp's sister's toilet was clogged. I didn't know this until post-shit. I fiddled around with the bulb in the back until Shrimp woke up, with no avail.

"We've gotta go." She didn't seem happy with me.

"The toilet's clogged." I noted an undertone in her voice. "You okay?"

"Am I okay? You broke into our neighbour's house to try and take a shit last night!"

My gaze flatlined. My brain hesitated before bursting out into the only response I could consider - laughter. "Really?"

My laugh bounced off her and landed in the toilet with my shit. She didn't smile. "Yes."

"Well, damn. On top of that, I just clogged your sister's toilet. She's really not going to like me."

"That doesn't matter. Let's go."

So, we went. Thanks, Sister of Shrimp, for your hospitality. I'm sorry I left such a shitty memory.

At least the adrenaline rush of our fecal escapades left me nearly oblivious to one hindrance: I was supposed to be going through withdrawals. Oh well.

Time to catch our flight.

BLACK & UNLICENSED.

I always say that a true friend is one you can reunite with after eons feeling like no time has passed, and that's certainly how I felt when I rejoined forces with my old friend spontaneity. Having quit my job at the first mention of a travel opportunity, thus sacrificing any tentative plans for the next month, I was eager to plunge off society's diving board and back into the pool of freedom.

Shrimp, my soon-to-be travel partner, had conversed with me a total of about three times in the past. One of those times ended up in us sleeping together. Another of those times resulted in us deciding to tether ourselves together for a month as we climbed and cavorted and crawled across vast and unfamiliar central American landscapes.  The latter was, obviously, the most recent discourse.

Any travelling  veteran can spot the idiocy of this decision. Travel partners should be meticulously chosen, if at all. Many prefer to travel in solitude and rely on the beauty and unfamiliarity of those they meet on the road to keep them socially satiated.  I should have realized the error of my ways - in hindsight, I realized I'd been working to convince myself that Shrimp and I got along better than we actually did - but I had itchy fucking feet and I didn't care who I went traveling with or to where.

This was our fourth time conversing. In our excitement, we made sure to test our sexual compatibility and rocked my van back and forth for a while. Alright. Compatible, to some degree. It wasn't like  trying to screw in lag bolts with a Philips head - we could have fun.

We slept together that night in my camper van, having packed our bags and readied everything for the morning. Well, we didn't sleep together, per se, but slept close to each other. Sort of. We weren't cuddling, but we weren't in different beds. But we might as well have been - we wouldn't have been any less connected.

I chose not to analyze our sleeping positions. There would be plenty of time for that.

Six AM rolled around. Blaring alarm clock shrieks rolled around the van. Me and Shimp rolled out of bed. Jumbled thoughts rolled around my brain. We climbed into the front seats, my thoughts steadying themselves enough for me to realize how excited I was. Shrimp was up and at 'em; yammering excitedly about the prospects of the journey. My eyes were glazed and I felt like I was watching the world through a broken set of binoculars. 

Mornings were not my fortè, and this morning acknowledged that and chose to mock me. The van wouldn't start. I tried the ignition a good half dozen times in the stupid semi conscious state that everyone seems to fall into when their vehicle won't start. A million thoughts coursed through my mind. 

It's too good to be true. I'm dreaming. This trip's not happening.

Another episode of BLACK AND UNLICENSED: DESTROYING THE ASSROADS OF NANAIMO.

Shrimp's going to hate me. This is my fault. She's going without me.

I'm an idiot. Why hadn't we checked the batteries?

I wish I was stuffing my face with boobs.

Fortunately, Shrimp's morning amiability (or other such optimistic synonyms for excessive blathering) was inherited from her father who was more than eager to come jumpstart my van. He was there by quarter after, we were at Shrimp's house by six thirty where I left my van parked, and her mom had dropped us off at the ferry terminal by eight. The sun had hardly risen.

The island waved to me as it always did when I embarked on another journey. I was awake enough now to grin a bit as Shrimp and I leaned against the ferry's upper railing, watching Vancouver Island shrink in size while forever retaining its majesty.

Goodbye, home. I'll see you in a couple months!

...so I thought.

A New Crutch for New Legs

The Sweet, Sweet Home Harbour

It had only been half a year since I'd returned from my last cross-country hike. Half of a damn slow, mundane, and self-deprecating year. Six months, and I was already completely sick of Nanaimo.. I needed to be free. Free from my solitude, free from societal chains, free from the pallid life I'd built for myself.

Nanaimo had been great when I'd first returned; it always was. One with enough patience to dig through the crusty exterior of Nanaimo's scene will find a endless wealth of love - and a reunion with that kind of love is impossible not to enjoy. A reunion fades quickly though, and while the love never faded, my connection with it did.

I tripped over my own life. I stumbled and fell for months, deep into the dankest of pits populated with the masochistic musings of my own psyche. I became stuck in the stagnant and painful grip of addiction, I was tossed into a destructive whirlwind of abusive friendships.

The sun was shining, but down here at rock bottom I could barely see the rays.

So, needless to say, I was eager to jump free at the first opportunity that presented itself. I didn't care with whom - and this was a bad decision. Any seasoned traveler will attest to this - if you're embarking on a closeknit journey with any one individual, make sure you know them damn well.. Even the tightest of kin will discover dark parts about their other half when they're stuck on the highway, stressed and thirsty, being flogged by sunlight and mocked by the laughing engines of passing cars,

So distraught was I that I didn't care. I wanted out, wanderlust had me gripped by the balls. So, when Shrimp and I were halfway through a bottle of Jagermeister, a conversation stumbled between our half-slacked lips and changed our lives forever.

"Guess what - I'm going to Central America soon!"

"Yeah? Cool. Hah - I'll come with you." A brief stumble.

"Hell yeah! Do it!"

Consciousness soon eluded me. I'm sure we spoke more of the idea that night, but I'll never remember. Drunken promises are made to be broken. Regardless, I woke up the next morning fortified by the prospect of travel and messaged Shrimp over Facebook to see if she still remembered the plan. It seemed that she, too, was just as curious.

Turns out, we were both a hundred percent into it.

I quit my job the next day, sent half my paycheck to Shrimp and watched her turn it into a plane ticket. I had $300 left in my pocket, a heart full of promises, and a week and a half to kick an addiction I'd been struggling with for five months and to say goodbye to the only ones I loved enough to help me do that - to set out across five different countries with a stranger I'd only met twice (albeit very drunken and intimately.)

Things were finally getting interesting.