Life is pushing and pushing and pushing--and though I try, I just can't stop it.
About a month and a half of school left. That deadline seems to bring up the past months. When I think of June and the end of school, I think of this entire year, this blog, these friends, and new places. When I scroll back to the beginning of this Slow Trickle, I am reminded of all that has transpired, and how a year is a long time, and yet again no time at all.
What of the Kline's and Santa Cruz, Andy and the Ocean View pad, Shaun and his garden, Soquel High and its Delinquents, Lost Loves, Mothers and Fathers, California and the road to the East?
I have made up my mind and I am heading to Ausitn next year--why, because something told me to do so, and I abide--all dude's must. Sure I think about if I had another year in DF I would be that better with my Spanish, my friendships would have that many more memories, but again, there is always a hypothetical better future. Part of this choice is to know that my life is not stagnating, and that my life is not a contract for money or some presumed better future. Austin is going to be about music, new friends, outdoors, continuing my Spanish, and breaking the school year cycle which has dominated my life for too long now.
Last weekend, I packed up the truck, left the dogs, picked up two fellow teachers and we headed north--about 8 hours north to be exact. Our destination was the defunct mining town of Real de Catorce. Nestled high on a mountain ridge overlooking an expansive desert, Real de Catorce is accessed via a kilometer and a half tunnel, which bores directly through the mountain range which holds its remnants.
We arrived a few nights after a full moon and we stopped on the rock paved road while ascending to the tunnel. The wind howled, we cracked a few beers, and while rocking out to
Jo Jo and The Fugitives' "Fugitive Song", we enjoyed the eendlessness of all that surrounded us.
We crept our way through the puebla to the end of its main ro
ad where we docked the truck and slipped into a handmade home. The house had odd dimensions, and an intensely hand built feel. Small doorways, odd stairs, cracks where wind peaked through, but all and all perfect: a hammock chair, a vista of the desert, a fireplace, a kitchen and three beds. We slept well that night.
When I road trip--I drive. I like being behind the wheel, and I like knowing my truck at each stage of the journey--new clutch and starter, and it ran like a dream.
The next morning we awoke early, and headed for the town square. After a light breakfast of fruit and yogurt we began our search for a ticket to the
desert. The town is an odd mix of rancheros, indigenous, international hippies, Mexican urbanite families, and your typical below the poverty line Mexican working for a hustle.
We approached the guias who drive 1950 Jeep Willy's down the valley trail to the dessert. These trucks are as old as the rocks that line the buildings and streets, but they are maintained with the ingenuity of the Mexican mind. They run on a 6-cyl Cummins engine, and they are work-horses. We asked the dude about going down to the desert. He gave us the base Gringo price, and the rough time frame--their trips take you down to the desert for an hour, and then back up--the true adventure is the rough ride on the road. We weren't too impressed with the idea.
We headed back to our casita, and we asked Eduardo the helpful inkeeper, if he thought we could go down the road ourselves. I told him I had 4x4, and he said that was
definitely necessary. We also asked Eduardo about a location in the desert that he would recommend for site seeing--he told us, in his casual and weathered way, "Vas por poste cincuenta y cuatro". We contemplated the advice; I felt confident that I could navigate the road in my truck, and we felt good about getting off the “gringo trail”. So, we packed up our essentials and took to the truck.
Immedi
ately I discovered on the trail, that my 4x4 high would not be enough for this trip, I was going Low. The road was an odd mix of pot holes, dirt, rock, and insanely steep grades. We picked up two Mexican hippies on our descent. They were heading out to the small desert town of Wadley.
When we made it out of the hair pin turns, dirt, and cliffside nerves, we dropped the hippies off, and headed out on to the open carretera. The road was empty as far as you could see, except for
the numbered light posts, which Eduardo had clued us on to. I dropped the truck back into 2WD and we began our counting.
We arrived at poste 54, and I pulled the truck off the side of the road. We sun blocked up, we through on our hats, and brought our respective packs of water, fruit, books, and other personal essentials.
Under the barb wire we went, and the ambling search began. Why were we here? Why had we driven 8 hours north and descended a treacherous canyon road? Well we were in the sacred desert of the
Huicholes. We were there to investigate the ritualistic consumption of peyote. The Huicholes have embraced the plant within their culture as an all encompassing medicine. Aside from its hallucinogenic qualities derived from the small percentages of mescaline found with in it, it is a bunch of other alkaloids that provide a host of medicinal purposes. Annually, the Huichol people walk to this desert to harvest peyote, and to embark on a spiritual journey. Children are brought a long and are taught the benefits of the plant with in a safe and ritualistic environment. The cactus is used as a ritual means for conquering an issue in one's life. The Huichol believe that the psychoactive components of the plant allow you to communicate with the gods. I interpret it as this: If you enter that land and that experience with a genuine sense of "buena onda" (good vibes), and you intend to use the plant to open yourself up to what is around you and inside of you, than you are communicating with the gods, because you are allowing yourself to be freed from the fear and misconceptions of societal norms and propaganda. I approached this experience with the intent of freeing myself from within. I was not taking this as a psychedelic holiday, or some teenage joyride of excess. I personally have great respect for hallucinogens and their ability to open one's mind up to the infinite possibilities of this world.
This thought is actually trickling into mainstream medicine. I approached my consumption of peyote with great respect for the land, my fellow travelers, and myself. I had the intention of only cutting what I needed, only consuming the peyote itself (no alcohol, marijuana, etc.), and I would not eat any peyote if I did not encounter it myself---all of these things were put into action.
Ten minutes after crossing into the desert we were approached by two police officers. I was thoroughly patted down, and questioned as to why we were there. We answered with genuine honesty. The police officers, pointed us to the direction of the peyote, told us not to cut it, and to enjoy ourselves. They spoke a little English. We all joked a little bit. I walked with them back to my truck to put on my tennis shoes--I had gone in flip flops, and the thick spines from the various cactus were not working out with my thin rubber soles. We joked on the way back. They could sense our good intentions.
We continued back into the desert. Guy, my department head and spearheader of this expedition, made the first discovery. He showed us how to cut it, leave the root, and rebury it, so that it may grow again.
5 minutes later, I found my first button, and I said nothing. I simply and quietly removed my knife from my pocket, knelt down, and gently cleared the dirt from around the base. There was no need to scream and make a scene, in that moment I said thank you and I cut two of the three cacti that I found--leaving the 40+ year old peyote with a pink flower, in order to grow for another day, week, year, lifetime.
As we ambled through the desert we all encountered our portions. We meandered deeper and deeper into the desert. I spotted a line of green trees, and deduced a stream must be produ
cing a small grove of trees on its banks. We made our way across another fence, and encountered a beautiful cove of green. We nestled up on some fallen trunks and began cleaning our bounty.
Gently removing the center flower, and various spines the small cactus showed its inner juiciness. The taste is bitter--like chewing on a piece of bark or other chlorophyll laden object. I took the taste in stride; although not pleasant, I was conscious to not fight the taste and to allow it to wash over me. Some were fighting it hard. We chewed and chewed, and we sat.
20 minutes later, a familiar white shirt and rifle appeared approaching casually--the police were back. I had just began to feel slightly present, and was gently noodling on my harmonica. The police approached us from two directions--I continued to play. Tess, the other English Teacher and I, locked eyes, and there was a deep understanding of what needed to be done.
The cops asked what we were doing, and Tess and I offered up that we were seeking refuge from the heat, and that we were enjoying the desert. They asked if we had eaten peyote, and we said yes, but only a few small ones--which was the truth. I noodled a half hearted rendition of “Amazing Grace” on my harmonica. Guy sat in the background and his face was a tangled mess of frustration, fear, and anger. The head honcho sat down on the log next to me. He had a rabbit's foot in his hand, and stroked it methodically while he was thinking. Tess offered the rifle holding gordito who had patted me down, a cigarette--he accepted. Tess and I locked eyes again, and new that the "buena onda" was all that we needed. The chief showed us a bag that he had just taken from a group of hippies in the same area--in the bag were about twenty cut buttons, and some with the root--obviously the hippies’ intent was to take them home, sell, and gr
ow. That bag, which held the moniker of "Smoke hard", was a symbol of no respect. They also had marijuana in the bag, and the cop showed it to me. I told him that is looked bad, too many seeds, and that there was no need for that out here. Tess questioned the chief about his stellar fur boots. Turned out they were bear fur; he had shipped his boots to Leon for the sweet upgrade. He got up, raised the cuff of his pants, and showed us the nice stitch work. We talked about our favorite tequilas, and I played a few more bars of “Amazing Grace”. The chief asked us what was wrong with our angry friend--we said that he was just nervous--Guy replied, "No quieremos problemas."--implying that we wanted to pay a mordida. It was not what the moment needed, but Guy could not be blamed, he was just too stuck in his head to realize where we were and what was going on. Eventually, rabbit foot in hand, the Chief and his compatriot wished us a "Buen Viaje" and left. No threats, no negativity, no bribes, no nothing---just "buena onda".
Tess and I smiled again, for we knew that it was us and the magic of the desert, which had allowed us to see the possibilities of our encounter with the cops. Magic.
The next hours were spent in conversation with ourselves, each other, trees, flowers, and life. It was a magical time. I sat for a long time atop an old weathered tree--what type I could not tell you, I want to say birch, but that is only because of the sound. I sat in the tree and swayed in the breeze. I discussed ambition, fear, talents, and honesty with myself. I spoke out loud and listened to myself speak like a young child listens to his kindergarten teacher read a moralistic parable. It was enlightening. I could see Tess in the distance communing with a great Joshua Tree. I watched guy stumble through the peyote fields and admire the plethora of families that hid in the shade of the great gobiernadoras.
After hours of thoughts, we individually made our way back to the road. I walked at a speedier pace, and I bobbed and weaved through the gobiernadoras and cacti. I realized that if I did not fight to make a path, but rather followed the path of least resistance, the path that continued to present itself, well then I would make it out of the desert without a scratch, and so I did.
I made it to my truck first. I sat down on my tailgate, and took of my shoes one at a time, in a very Mr. Rogers type fashion. I massaged and cleaned my feet, and then slipped on my sandals. I did this while admiring the low hanging sun. I turned and snapped a picture just as Tess and Guy breached the threshold of the highway.
Guy lay down to admire the long view.
Tess and I joined him for a look-see at the endless landscape.
On our way back up top we encountered a train from Kansas City making its way South. We picked up four hippies on the long road up. I felt at peace with the treacherous trail, and deduced there was just as
much joy and fun to be had driving up, as there was fear and nerves--I chose the former, and it felt great. We summited the mountain in darkness, and all was well. I was definitely the only Gringo who dared to drive that pass in his own car, and that was a small accomplishment in and of itself.
The evening was nothing more than a shower, some food, a fire, and deep sleep.
The next morning began with breakfast, a leisurely hang out in the backyard, as we recalled the events of the day before--Why did I keep playing that harmonica while talking to the cops?
We then set out for a hike to Puebla Fantasma, the ghost town remnants of when Real de Catorce was booming in the silver industry. It was a long hot hike, but we stopped often, drank plenty of water, and continued the introspection that seemed to abound.
All and all the trip was a magical meditation in positivity. I felt so good about who I am,
who I am becoming, where I am, and where I am going--Life loves me and I love life!
I have carried those smiles into this week, and although a bee stung me in my foot yesterday while playing ultimate frisbee barefoot--I still caught the game winning touchdown. I feel damn good about it all. I also left the lights on my car on, so I have dead battery at the present. But I did go to Costco with Kristen, Siri, and Jordan, and had a blast--so life continues to roll on.
Too much good to worry about the small mindedness of the bad.
Much love.
The greatest extended family I got. The conversation, humor, and life musings, as always, was absolutely phenomenal--Love those folks! We ate at Oswald's in Santa Cruz. B Man (Brian) wasworking and we chopped it up. He sat down and shot the shit for a minute or two, and then he sent us three exquisite desserts. a beautiful little moment in time.
Stopped over and saw the Klines at their respective places of employment. Stopped at Soquel and saw some familiar faces.
Made it to the wedding reception, and it was a blast. Great food, great dances moves, made a toast to the bride and groom, and smoked an authentic cuban--it was a damn good time. I found my way to bed by 10, and it felt so so so lovely.
were great. We came back to my truck, I hopped in, sans dogs, and 4 other people, and I fired The Whip up. I eased the clutch in, and it caught, and we made a hasty exit home--all down hill. I have been nervous to take my car to any of the local mechanics--although I admire Mexican ingenuity and craftsmanship, I am also aware of the often trial by fire, and haphazard nature of their work. That fact, coupled with my car not being a common car here, makes me nervous. Turns out, the Toyota dealership can order my part and do the work, all under the umbrella, of "Toyota Certified". I am waiting for a quote, but anticipate that it will be cheaper than work in the States, because the labor costs are far lower here. More expensive than going to the mechanic on the corner, but cheaper than the arm and a leg lifestyle of the States. I hope to get it in this weekend, and have it back by next week--before Shaun's arrival, which is going to be a little bit of a road trip.
