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Los Dos AlejandrosAdventures In Mexico

Los Dos AlejandrosAdventures In MexicoByAlexander KerekesPublishedCarmel, California

Los Dos AlejandrosAdventures In MexicoAlexander Kerekeswww.alex@storiesbyalex.comCopyright © 2009 Alexander KerekesAll rights reserved under International and Pan-Americancopyright conventions. No part of this book may be usedor reproduced in any manner whatsoever withoutwritten permission except in the case of briefquotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.ISBN 978-1-9355-08-04Printed in the U.S.A.First U.S. Edition December 2009Published byAlexander KerekesCarmel, Californiawww.storiesbyalex.com

Preface: What is Mexico and who are its people?Each time my father and I visited Mexico we had no plan or idea where our journey wouldtake us. And each time that we left we never made plans to return. We simply followed a pathin our lives that revealed itself with each step we took forward. In 2008, I published FindingLost Civilizations and thought that was the end of our journey. But in 2009 my father and Ireturned to Mexico and found ourselves on a road to discovery that we had never experiencedbefore. We met many wonderful local people and we were often taken to locations where noone other than the original inhabitants of that region had set foot.Many people have said, “Write another book.” And so in these pages I will take you on thejourney that my father and I took.Thank You Dad

ChaptersPreface..............................................................1Free Spirits, Swift Waters, And Crocodiles....... 4Little Ka Ka.......................................................11Street Musicians Of Mexico....................... ......13In Search Of Opals...........................................21Be Careful In Paradise......................................27If You Don’t Mind, It doesn’t Matter...................28The Bulldozer....................................................31The Spitter.........................................................33Mexican Snake Stories.....................................35The Lizards Of Nuevo Vallerta..........................40The Hand............................................ .............42Prayers To The Guardian .................................44Sacred Hearts...................................................46Worship In Mexico.............................................48Driving To Guayabitos.......................................57Faces Of Mexico...............................................65Unexplained Flying Objects..............................89Chicken.............................................................93In Search Of Paradise.......................................94Petroglyph Photo Log.......................................97Saying Goodbye & Life’s Lost Loves..............111The Music Box................................................117Collisions On The High Seas..........................118The Ones We Love.........................................121The Time Is Now.............................................122

On The RoadOld Gringo and son of Old Gringo with good friends Jose (L) and Gabo (R) in La PenitaMarket, State of Nayarit, Mexico

FREE SPIRITS, SWIFT WATERS,AND CROCODILESFriday, 11 March: Today, my fatherand I went to the fishing village ofPlatanitos. We had been here severaltimes before and wanted to explore astretch of beach called Las Tortouguas,which means turtle in Spanish.It was a beautiful area and alsodesignated nature preserve. To getto this stretch of beach we had tocross a lagoon situated on the southside of the village. That whole areawas actually miles of mangroves andstreams that flowed like a small riverinto the ocean at a narrow point.Our hope was to cross over at low tide.When we arrived at the lagoon we tookoff our shoes and headed into the

crystal-clear shallows. We saw several childrenplaying along the shore and playfully called out totheir mothers, “No crocodiles?” They laughedand said, “No problema.” Acquiescing to localknowledge, we walked into the water and wereable to walk across three-quarters of its width.But at that point it looked like the lagoon formeda small, swift-moving channel flowing into theocean, and the water looked like it would be overour shoulders. I was ready to try to swim acrossto the far bank, but my camera was in myknapsack and I was worried that the water woulddamage it. We then looked down the lagoon anddecided to follow the shore until it reached itsnarrowest point near the ocean. From thatvantage point, we thought we could walk across.But when we actually got to the narrow spot, thelagoon water was rushing into the ocean at thesame time as the ocean waves were breaking onthe shore and flowing into the lagoon. Thegnashing waters, small whirlpools, and waveslooked somewhat treacherous. As we got closerto the narrow point we met two women who werelooking for shells. They told us that although thewater looked treacherous, if we went into thewater we should simply flow with the current,which would initially pull us out toward the ocean,but would then loop us back onto the oppositeshore of the lagoon. They told us it would be asafe crossing—if we didn’t panic. A local fellowthen appeared and told us that several weeksago he had found a dead ten-foot crocodilewashed up on the shore! My father and I decidedthat the next time we heard someone say, “Noproblema,” we would run the other way.

The fellow decided to show us how to cross overand jumped into the swift-moving waters. Downand away he went into the current, ending up onthe opposite shore. So, my father and I decidedto give it a try. Into the water we dove, tumblingtoward the ocean. Trying not to panic, we let thecurrent sweep us out and around, and then backonto a sandbar on the opposite beach. When westood up the water was still about knee deep andrushing very forcefully out to sea. We had to holdon to each other to steady ourselves. We finallywalked to dry sand and then started laughing—we both felt a sense of exhilaration. This oftenhappens when people successfully overcomesome sort of challenge that might have anelement of danger. My father is eighty years oldand I hope I have his sense of spirit andadventure when I am his age.As we walked along the beach I heard a distantroaring sound that initially seemed to be comingfrom the sky. I looked around several times, butsaw nothing. The sound grew louder and louderand seemed to be coming from inland. All of asudden, I spotted a prop-driven airplaneresembling a World War II Spitfire flying at fullthrottle and just barley skimming the top of thepalm trees. It bore down on us and then as itcleared the last line of coconut trees along the

shore, it looped over and dropped down to abouttwo feet above the water and continued along thecoastline. That was quite a sight! This is anexample of what I like about Mexico: Sometimesthings happen here that are like a form ofcontrolled anarchy. No one was calling thepolice, reporting aircraft tail numbers to theFederal Aviation Administration. There would beno investigation; no fines or suspensions; thepilot would not lose his license. If the plane hadcrashed into the ocean, people would haveshrugged and left the wreckage there until timeand the elements carted it away. This eventreminded me of a time in Vietnam when mypatrol was attacked by one of our own helicoptergunships.We were in the Central Highlands patrolling avalley called the An Loa. It was a free-fire zone,which meant that anything moving in that areawas fair game and a target. Essentially, thepeople in that valley were considered to be eitherViet Cong or North Vietnamese. Many localvillages had once dotted the valley, but since thegovernment could not control the terrain, the“solution” was to empty the valley and relocate allits inhabitants. This must have been a tragedy forthe poor farmers and locals, who had been livingin and farming that valley for generations, justlike their ancestors hundreds of years before.Anyway, if friendly forces were in the area therewas supposed to be coordination with otherfriendly units to make sure we would notmistakenly fire on each other. Apparently, in ourcase one combat assault helicopter unit had notbeen informed that we would be patrolling in thearea. At the time of the incident there were about

six of us walking in single file on top of a ricepaddy dike. All of a sudden I heard explosionsand looked to my left. Flying at tree-top level andbearing down on us at full speed and firing awaywith aerial rockets was a helicopter gunship. Itwas so close that I could see the exhaust trail ofrockets whizzing toward us, and the outline of thepilot and co-pilot looking down at us. I took a stepto my right and rolled off the rice paddy dike,which provided me a two-foot earthen wall thatshielded me from the exploding rockets. Severalrockets flew overhead and hit the ground to myright, exploding and throwing their shrapnelforward. Shrapnel and explosions from rockets tomy left were absorbed by the rice paddy dike,which saved our lives. Machine gun fire,shrapnel, explosions, and the smell of corditeengulfed us. And as I lay there I wondered if Iwould have to try to shoot down the helicoptergunship to save our lives. Instead, I threwseveral smoke grenades hoping that the pilotwould figure out that we were American friendlyforces. Luckily, he did and as quickly as thehelicopter had appeared, it left us there in themud. We were stunned, and silent in both ourdisbelief and in our prayers to God. Everythinghad happened in a matter of seconds, but it feltlike a lifetime. So, that is how friendly firecasualties occur. There were several othersimilar incidents that occurred during my time inVietnam; in one case, one of my comrades diedin my arms.Despite getting “buzzed” by the Spitfire lookalike,we thoroughly enjoyed exploring Tortuguasbeach. It was pristine, isolated, and stretched forseveral miles under swaying palm tree forests

that ran along the entire beach. During ourexploration my father and I met two sisters livingin a beautifully constructed home on the beach.They offered us cold drinks and together we satunder the palm trees and talked for severalhours. They confirmed that there were crocodilesin the mangroves, and that there was also acrocodile sanctuary and breeding station alongthe estuary.As we made our way back, the tide was lowand we were able to walk across the estuary asits waters flowed into the ocean. I looked aroundto make sure there was nothing suspiciousfloating in the water—just in case. My father andI agreed that we’d had a good day. We explored,overcame some challenges, met interestingpeople, and shared an adventure together.Crocodile Sanctuary

My father and I enjoying a cool beer after our Platanitos adventure

LITTLE KA KAMy father and I decided to go for a swim by asecluded cove locally referred to as Playa delBeso, the Kissing Beach, which is situated nearthe town of Los Ayala. To reach this cove youhad to follow a jungle path at the south end ofLos Ayala beach. It was a ten-minute walk andthe path paralleled a high, rocky coastline. As wecame upon the secluded cove a little dog greetedus. It was so ugly it was cute. To me it looked likesome sort of Star Wars character, like a crossbetween a dog and an armadillo. It had long,pointy ears and no hair except for a few strandson the top of its head. It was friendly, but I didn’twant to touch it for fear of possibly contracting adisease. Later, as we were leaving the beach Iwaved a stick at the dog. He came over to playand then began to follow us. That’s when I heardthe dog’s owner call out his pet’s name.“Ka Ka, Ka Ka!”- come home - he yelled.Little Ka Ka

The Mexican Hairless Dog is a rare, hairless breed of dog whose size varies greatly. It is alsoknown as Xoloitzcuintli, Xoloitzcuintle (in English pronounced show-low-eats-quint-lee), orXolo for short, or Mexican Hairless. Xolos were considered sacred dogs by the Aztecs becausethey believed the dogs were needed by their masters’ souls to help them safely through theunderworld.Little Ka Ka – One Year Later

The Street Musicians of Mexico"What I have in my heart and soul - must find a way out. That is the reason formusic..."Everywhere my father and I went we found music and every time it was a momentof joy. One wise man once said that as long as people are playing music andpeople are listening – they are not fighting.

Street Musicians Of Mexico

Street Musicians Of Mexico

Street Musicians Of Mexico

Street Musicians Of MexicoLa Bufadora, Ensenada, Baja California Norte

Street Musicians Of MexicoHuichol Indians, San Pancho, Nayarit

Street Musicians Of MexicoGuanajuato, Mexico

Street Musicians Of MexicoCentral Mercado, Tepic, Nayarit

IN SEARCH OF OPALSFrom the town of Tequila my father and Idecided to return to Magdalena to explore anopal mine. Some locals had told us that the minewas several kilometers west of Magdalena andthat it was no problem to visit. One person saidthe mine was 5 kilometers outside of town;another said it was 15. In the end, ourpreconception of visiting an opal mine and whatactually occurred were two completely differentexperiences. We thought we would visit a mineopen to tourists, all prim and proper with apurchased ticket, guided tours, and signs all overthe place, just like in the United States. However,as we drove through Magdalena and continuedfor five and then fifteen kilometers we sawnothing but agave fields and farmlands. Nomines to be seen anywhere. Eventually, I pulledover to grocery store and asked the shopkeeperif she knew where the mine was. At first she saidno, then yes and began to speak very quicklyleaving me to guess what she was saying. Ayoung man approached and indicated he knewwhere the mines were and that it would be noproblem to visit them. My Spanish is very limitedand many times I interpret a few words andgestures to mean a certain thing, which is often aguess based on intuition. But this is the way tolearn a language. My observation is that trying tocommunicate, no matter how limited yourknowledge of the language, is greatlyappreciated by the local people. Andunderstanding that local people accept andappreciate one’s efforts is the key to overcomingour initial fear to communicate in a foreign

language. Half the fun is finding out youinterpreted something wrong and thenunderstanding where you went wrong in yourinterpretation. Another challenge is realizing thatbecause you might know only a few words, theother person will assume you know more thanyou really do. This is why I often ended upreceiving long explanations in Spanish andactually understanding just one or two words andguessing the rest. The key is to forge ahead,keep trying, and learning.Anyway, after several minutes ofcommunication attempts Manuel said he wouldtake us to a mine. So, Manuel, my father, and Idrove off in our camper toward an opal mine.About 10 kilometers down the road Manuelpointed to a nondescript farm road and told me tofollow it. I would never have found that turn-off ina million years. There were no signs or anythingwhatsoever indicating that this was an entranceto a mine. As I looked up the road I saw a largecut into the mountainside indicating some sort ofevacuation. “La mina, la mina,” Manuel said. Theroad started winding up the mountain and I wasconcerned that our old motor home might notmake it up the hill. With sign language andbroken Spanish I asked Manuel several times ifthe motor home could make it up the hill. “Noproblema, no problema,” he replied each time.Although slightly worried I continued to drivesince the motor home was doing well and theroad remained passable. Eventually, we cresteda hill and entered an excavated plateauoverlooking the valley below. It was a beautifulsite; the rock in Magdalena and particularly opalsin this region has a light reddish, rust color.

The combination of red mountains, blue skies, and green fields painted a canvas for us toforever appreciate.

My expectation was that we would find amineshaft that would take us deep into theground. Instead, we were standing in an openexcavation site. But as Manuel started showingme around the area I started to notice manysmall caves along the sheer walls. We climbedto the caves and went into several of thesemountainside shafts. They were not deep and Icould see that hammer, pick, and shovel werethe primary tools being used here. As I looked atthe littered scene of broken rocks and discardedmining equipment I began to realize the timeconsuming, back breaking, dangerous, anddifficult effort it takes to extract opals from theearth. In this mine the process was no differentthan the one used hundreds of years ago.Manuel explained that the land was federallyowned and open to anyone who wanted to minefor opals.Manuel

We continued our exploration with Manuelleading me to a precipitous ledge that had anoverhanging rope from a ledge above us. Hegrabbed the rope, tugged at it, and then handover-hand,scurried up to the next ledge. Ifollowed, somewhat apprehensive. One slip andit would be over. As we continued our climb weexplored several other shafts and remained onalert for opals among the broken rocks. Manuelcalled out to several miners at the top of themountain who seemed to be cooking theirafternoon meal. He explained that he had alsomined this area and that the miners above werehis friends. He said that the mine was mostlyplayed out and that now only small opals couldbe found. We continued to climb and finallyreached the top of the mountain. I felttransported in time as I looked at the scene—thevalley below, the mine around us, and theminers. They looked just like men from thepictures we see of early California miners. Theywere friendly, seemed happy, and had beenaged by hard work and the soil around them.They were men of the earth who were digging fortheir dreams.Top of Mine

Thinking about the formal “tour” of the mines Ihad previously imagined and somewhatexpected, what I was actually seeing offered anabrupt contrast. This was real, this was raw, thiswas life in the moment and as it is.Before leaving Manuel took me to a smallmineshaft that had been converted into areligious altar. On a small ledge were severalburning candles, a cross, a picture of the VirginMary, and prayers to the departed—offerings forthe dreams of hope, for love, family, freedom,and the idea of fulfilling a dream among theelusive opals of Magdalena.I’ve been told that men have been killed inthese hills and that friends, lured by the lust ofwealth, have betrayed each other. I left this minewith a small bag in my hand, but will keep therest of the story a secret.

BE CAREFUL IN PARADISEWednesday, 19 January: I was sitting in acomfortable chair overlooking the beauty ofChacala Beach when I felt a rush of wind next tomy head and then a loud thud to my right. Alarge, five-pound coconut had just fallen thirtyfeet from the top of a swaying palm tree. If I hadbeen sitting four more inches to the right, it wouldhave hit my head. And then it would have beensweet dreams for me, perhaps forever. Later, asI was swimming in the ocean and feeling verycontent and happy, a jellyfish stung me!Danger can lurk in many forms—even inparadise.Chacala Beach

IF YOU DON’T MIND, IT DOESN’T MATTERSaturday, 5 February: It had been raining onand off since Monday, but it finally looked like theweather might clear up. I decided to take a walkto the money exchange place in La Penita alongthe Avenue Sol Nuevo from Guayabitos. Lookingaround I was amazed at the planneddevelopment for this area. Initially, roads, asewer system, street lighting, and undergroundelectrical systems were installed—and everythingwas first class. However, after the initialdevelopment, which was about ten or fifteenyears ago, it does not appear that there’s beenany maintenance or upkeep of all that theinfrastructure. There are “hot” electrical wiressticking out of ground junction boxes and mostmetal manhole covers over the electrical junctionpits have rusted through—or are simply missing.Many of these electrical junction pits are severalfeet deep and situated along the sidewalks. Mostof the lampposts have rusted and rotted away, sothere is very little lighting of the streets andsidewalks. An unwary person out during theevening could very easily fall into one of theseuncovered pits. And without a doubt falling intoone of these pits would cause serious or fatalinjuries. In spite of decaying streets, missingmanhole covers, and hot electrical leads lyingaround, new homes are being built here and landprices have skyrocketed. Passing one home Isaw that the owner had spliced a wire from aworking street lamp and into his house. I guessthat was his electrical system. This reminded meof an old saying: “If you don’t mind, it doesn’tmatter.”

Avenida Del Sol, GuayabitosSidewalk in La PenitaWatch your step in Mexico

Street in La Penita

THE BULLDOZERAlone in my thoughts along Mexico Highway15, I was on a stretch of road where it seemed Iwas a solitary traveler. After a while I saw that Iwas gaining on some sort of exceedingly widevehicle in the right-hand lane. To the right of thisvehicle there seemed to be large puffs of whitesmoke or what looked like exploding bags of flourevery ten seconds along its path. I started toslow down because I was still not sure what Iwas seeing. Finally, I could make out that it wasa large flatbed trailer with a very large bulldozeron the flatbed. The bulldozer was the type usedin mining operations and was so large that thefront of the plow stuck out about five feet oneither side of the flatbed trailer. Along this portionof the highway there was no road shoulder andas a caution or warning to motorists, concretepillars painted white were imbedded along theright margin of the road at twenty- or thirty-footintervals. The white puffs or mini-explosions werecaused by the bulldozer’s front plow. Becausethe plow exceeded the width of the trailer and theroadway was narrow, the plow was shearing offthe head of each stone marker along theshoulder of the highway. The steel plow weighedhundreds of tons and every time it hit a concreteroad marker it smashed it with explosive force. Iwas amazed — this had been going on for milesand miles. I could only imagine the damage thistractor-trailer was causing. I passed the truckwith great difficulty; the overhanging plow wasalso protruding into the left lane. I could almostfeel the bottom of the plow scraping the roof ofmy car as I passed it.

Trucks pulled over to the side of the road and truck driver motioning for me to slow down. MexicoHighway 15 is definitely not a place for the tired or weary.

THE SPITTERI was returning from San Pancho toGuayabitos along Mexico Highway 200 when Ipassed a man squatting alongside the roadway.His back was to me and his hands were wrappedaround his legs. His clothes, arms, and headwere dirty and as black as soot. He lookedemaciated, abandoned, and without a prayer orhope in this world. I wanted to stop, but the roadhad no shoulder, so I kept going. I sensed hewas one of our forgotten souls wandering in theland of the living — a person whose mindtraveled in another dimension.Several days later I was returning from PuertoVallarta and traveling the same route. Highway200 is a narrow, two-lane highway, and a majorconnector from Puerto Vallarta to Guadalajara.Along this section of the road there are manyhills and sharp curves that create dangerous —deadly — driving terrain. The area is pepperedwith crosses and memorials to those who werekilled in violent, sudden car accidents. Largetrucks continually travel this route bringing lifeand commerce to the region. But the heavyvolume of commercial trucks often results in aslow procession of cars behind these lumberingvehicles as they struggle to negotiate the uphillclimb. The drivers of many small trucks, highpoweredbusses, and cars are often impatient inthese situations; it is not unusual to see a bus orcar pull out from behind a slow truck and cross adouble yellow line in order to overtake the truckas it negotiates an uphill blind curve. On thisjourney I had the misfortune of being about eightcar lengths behind a slow truck. Meandering

slowly up the hill I was lost in my thoughts whenall of a sudden I saw that the cars ahead of mestarted swerving sharply out of traffic lanes. Atthat same instant I saw the deranged squattingfellow from several days before. But this time hewas standing tall — with his arms outstretchedlike Jesus at his crucifixion. He had a wild-eyedstare, and his clothes were torn, ragged, anddirty. And as each car passed him he flunghimself with all his strength and fury into theoncoming path of the vehicle. While in mid-airand hurtling toward oncoming cars he lifted andtwisted his head in an arch and forcefully spit oneach vehicle as it passed.Misery is terrible to see. Many people believethat perhaps a better life is waiting for them in thehereafter. However, this poor, wretched, hungrysoul was living hell on earth.Unfortunately, I have seen that same soulwandering in San Francisco, in Los Angeles, andin most corners of the world where I havetraveled.

MEXICAN SNAKE STORIESAt sunset my father, Raphael, and I went tothe beach at Guayabitos for a cool beer. Westarted talking to the owner of a restaurant thereand found out that he made belts fromsnakeskin. Apparently, he captured and bred avariety of snakes. Raphael said that throughouthis world travels he had learned that therattlesnake was the purest meat known to man; italso had medicinal powers. The restaurant ownersaid he had a boa constrictor he was going tomake into a belt and offered to sell Raphael thereptile’s meat. Raphael agreed and so wediscussed how to cook it and decided thatHungarian style would be the way to go: pancooked in oil and mixed with onions, redpeppers, garlic, and a liberal sprinkling ofpaprika. We later started walking back to townalong the beach, with Raphael taking off hisshoes. As a wave swept onto the beach I sawRaphael jump high, then again. I looked aroundand saw a water snake twisting aroundRaphael’s jumping feet. As our friend leaped outof harm’s way we all bent down to look at the

snake. It was yellow with brown spots. All of asudden a large wave crashed onto the beachand threw a bundle of snakes at us. I don’t knowwho was more frightened, the snakes or us. In aflash Raphael, my father, and I were all yellingand jumping around as if we were doing somesort of Indian fire dance. The snakes were alltrying to slither back into the ocean. Severalseconds later, we breathed a collective sign ofrelief as the snakes returned to their nocturnalwaters. Was this an omen from the snake God?Stay away from snake belts and snake meat! Aswe continued our walk along the beach Iremembered that an old sailor had once told meto never turn my back on the ocean. I kept awary eye toward the sea wondering whatNeptune could throw at my feet next.The following afternoon the Mexicanrestaurant owner showed up at my doorstep andhanded me a plastic bag weighing about tenpounds. “ Fresca boa,” he said as blood pouredthrough a hole in the bag. I gingerly placed theitem into another bag and into the refrigeratoruntil I could pass it along to Raphael. I had nodesire to see what a twelve-foot, skinned boaconstrictor looked like.In 1970 I was on a small mountaintop in avillage called River Cess, in Liberia, Africa. At thetime I was working with an oil explorationcompany made up of former Congolesemercenaries. But that’s another story. Anyway,there were three of us on a mountaintop, myself,a British fellow named Jim Kinglesides, and anAfrican handyman named John who workedaround our camp. One day John showed us a

large boa constrictor snakeskin. I recall I couldhold it with both hands over my head with theanimal’s tail touching the ground at my left footand its head at my right. The thing must havebeen about eighteen feet long. I saw that thesnout was square edged and blunt. About sixinches up from the tail end there seemed to betwo spikes, like fingers that ran out about fourinches on either side of the body. John explainedthat the boa would slither up next to a tree, its tailperpendicular to the ground and the two fingersburrowed into the earth to give the snake stabilityas it leaned against the tree. The boa would thensend out a call similar to the mating call of thesmall female African deer. The mating callsounded something like ”Weeee, weeee,weeee!” When a male deer heard this sound hewould be lured to the tree the boa was leaningagainst. As soon as the deer would come withinrange the boa would launch itself at the deer,striking it with its blunt nose. The blow wouldeither break the neck of the deer or stun it,thereby allowing the boa to wrap itself around theanimal.River Cess, Liberia, Africa, April 1970

The following morning Jim left our tent with ashotgun in hand to perform nature’s call in thejungle. About five minutes later I heard a loudscream and yelling. Running out of the tent andlooking toward the jungle, I saw Jim sprinting upthe hill in a stooped position with his underpantsat his ankles. With one hand he was trying to pullup his underpants and in the other hand he wasdragging the shotgun. When he got back to thetent he looked like he had seen a ghost. After acup of tea to steady his frazzled nerves, Jimexplained that when he entered the jungle hesquatted adjacent to a tree to relieve himself.While he was squatting there in blissful peace,over his right shoulder he heard, “Weee, weee,weee!” With a loud, fearful, and primordial yellhe launched himself from a squatting positionand ran for his life!Boa Territory, River Cess Station, Liberia

Wednesday, 23 February: Today I ate boa! Atnoontime, Raphael called us to his apartment forlunch. “Boa, Slovenian style,” he proclaimed.“But, I must admit it is a little tough,” he said. Ilooked in his cooking pot and I saw a floatingjambalaya of vegetables, soup, rice, and fourchunks of boa.The boa looked like a king-sized turkey necksplit open down the middle. I fixed a small plateand sat down to study the situation. The boa isessentially one large muscle tightly intertwinedinto one long skeletal structure best described asa tubular rib cage. These ribs were like large fishbones running the full length of the snake. Thereare no large meat pieces; it is all intertwined withthe skeletal system. I pulled and snapped a pieceof meat off the boa and bit into it. It tasted likerubbery turkey neck meat. I only had a smallpiece, which I ate reluctantly. Needles to say, Ihave no future plans to eat boa, Slovenian style,any time soon.Boa Constrictor Meal!!!

THE LIZARDS OF NUEVO VALLARTASunday, 6 February: The sun is out and I feelalive and happy! Today we decided to travel toNuevo Vallarta and visit Paradise Village. Whenwe arrived we first visited the public marinabecause I wanted to show my father the type ofboat I had dry-docked in Key West in preparationfor my sail through the Caribbean. As we walkedonto the dock my father almost fell through theplanking. What the heck?! I stopped and lookedaround. It was another broken dream. Builtbeautifully twenty years ago, but not a thing doneto maintain the pier since then. So much for that.As we walked along the dock I noticed aniguana lizard sunning itself among the rocks.These animals have the amazing ability tochange color according to their surroundings.The lizard I was looking at was gray with flakesof black and rust. These colors matched therocks and boulders, which formed the jetties. Igently pulled out my camera and eased myselfonto the rocks. I came closer and closer; thelizard eyed me. I finally settled down into asquatting position and poised myself to take theperfect shot. As I was bracketing the lizard in theviewfinder, I felt something slide across my leftfoot. Then I felt something gently slap my rightbuttock. I slowly looked around and saw that Iwas surrounded by hundreds of iguana lizards.They were slithering back and forth across therocks to my front, to my left, and rear. Oneseemed to have a three-foot tail. I looked to myright and saw an open path. My stomachrumbled, my hand trembled, and with one

one grand explosion of lightning speed and gas I flew over the boulders like Superman leaping tallbuildings and made it safely back to the staid walkways along the jetties of Nuevo Vallarta.

THE HANDSaturday, 26 February: I was in the town of LaPenita and had decided to explore the beach. AsI strolled to the north end of the bay I saw agraveyard under several palm trees. On closerinspection the graveyard area began to resemblea war-torn scene. Gravestones, markers,crosses, plastic flowers, trash, and tombsseemed to be strewn about and tumbled endover end. I could see that a powerful Pacificstorm had once surged onto the graveyard.Walking along a path I discovered a humanthighbone. A little further up the path was anotherhuman bone. Though aghast, I felt a morbidcompulsion to explore further. I was amazed thatthere were sections of the graveyard thatseemed to be well-tended and other parts thatwere in total disarray, like some sort of mixed-uppuzzle. It seemed that no effort had been madeto repair any storm-damaged graves or to cleanup any of the unearthed bones. I saw one largeoverturned brick sarcophagus at the beach line.Several bricks had broken loose from the tomb.Walking up to the sarcophagus, I could tell thatthe sunlight was reflecting a small pinpoint rayfrom something within. I peered in, and lyingbefore me was a complete skeletal hand. The leftindex finger bore a ring. Even in the semidarknessI could see a slight glint of the diamondsetting (and thought how easy it would be forsomeone to reach in and take that ring). Whowas she? I wondered. What had her life beenlike? And why had she been finally abandoned?

The graveyard ended in a hilly rock cove; nestled among these rocks were opulent Americanhomes. I could imagine the occupants of those expensive homes, looking out to the sky-blue PacificOcean, and enjoying their good lot in life to have been able to afford a mansion with such a view.And not seeing or caring about the lost souls at their feet.Oceanside Cemetery, La Penita, Mexico

PRAYERS TO THE GUARDIANWe left Guayabitos and drove along Highway200, which slowly winds from sea level to about3,000 feet at the town of Tepic. Approaching anarea called La Noriega, we saw what appearedto be a small shrine or altar built among sometowering boulders and trees.We pulled over to explore the site; there werehundreds of candles burning inside smallenclosures built within the altar shrine. As Iwalked closer to the altar, the sunlight glared offthe ground in a way that resembled slippery ice. Isaw that many years and thousands of candleshad spilled over from these little altars onto theground creating a wax floor. Among thesecandles were many religious statues, pictures,rosaries, crucifixes, medallions, plastic flowers,and offerings. The structure was painted yellowand seemed to be a place were people asked forblessings for those traveling and those whonever reached their destination. Written on acardboard box there was the phrase: ”from thepadre of the Mexican Judicial Federal Police.” Itcontained about ten candles. I lit one and placedit on the altar. As I started to pull back my hand I

saw a movement. I froze, and then looked deeper inside this altar. Two small eyes were staring atme. I withdrew my hand slowly and said my blessing to the unknown guardian as a tail slitheredinto a hole.Roadside Shrine

SACRED HEARTSWe came upon the outskirts of Ixtlan Del Rioand noticed a small sign indicating anarcheological site called Los Toriles, which wasnear the town. We decided to visit and when weentered the area we saw a level, deserted 8-hectare field dotted with excavated buildings thatonce housed the original ancient inhabitants ofMexico, the Nahuatl. I closed my eyes and triedto transport myself back in time to envision whatlife was like thousands of years before.When I opened my eyes I saw an old manstanding by the central altar. He looked like hewas dressed in feathers and held a large staff. AsI walked toward the altar the old man walkedaway. I slowly walked up to the altar and wasshocked to see a bloody, fist-sized heart lyingthere. I quickly turned, but the old man haddisappeared. I called to my father and waved himover to the altar. We could not tell if the heartwas human or animal; all we knew was that aheart was before us. No one else was at the site.Are ancient religious rites still practiced? After all,the Christian ritual of the drinking of the symbolicblood of Jesus Christ is two thousand years old.The Aztec religion is much older. Should I havebeen surprised at what I had seen?I remember patrolling the Bong Son coastalplains in Vietnam in 1969: we were sweepingthrough a village at around dusk. Many huts hadBuddhist shrines and the air hung heavy with thesmell of incense and earthen stoves cooking theevening meal. Mid-way through the village a loud

gong sounded. Then again and again. Everythingwas still except for the rhythmic, repeatedsound. There was an eerie feeling; we all movedcautiously. Suddenly, after the last beat of thegong, we heard a frightening scream, cry, andthen a sadistic laugh. We stopped in our tracks. Isensed we were in for a rough night. Just beforedark our patrol separated and two overnightcampsites were set up. Later, in the dark nightthe gong started beating again and we started tohear explosions and the sound of gunfire fromthe other campsite. Throughout the night thatpatrol was surrounded by movement, sniping, abeating gong, and the sound of screams andcries.I thought about how man has always usedreligious symbols and signs in the name of glory,God, war, and self-righteousness. With thatperspective, what I had seen on that altar in LosToriles was not really so unusual.Back in our motor home heading towardGuayabitos we felt a sense of relief. But fromthen on I was always wary of old men dressed infeathers.Los Toriles - Altar situated in the main hall of thetemple for the wind god, Ehecatl / Quetzalcoatl.It is known as the Round Pyramid

Worship In MexicoNo sooner had the Spanish conquistadores vanquished the Aztec Empire militarily, thanthe spiritual conquest of Indian Mexico began. The Spaniards were devoutly RomanCatholic and colonization brought Roman Catholicism to the country, which became themain religion of Mexico. Today, 92% of the population are baptized Catholics, making thecountry the second largest Catholic nation in the world.

Worship In MexicoAtotonilco, State of Guanajuato, Mexico

Worship In MexicoVirgin of Guadalupe, Town of Tequila, State of Jalisco, Mexico

Worship In MexicoCrucifixion Figure in the Jose Cuvero Chapel, Tequila, Jalisco

Worship In MexicoPedro’s Cross, Town of Guayabitos, State of Nayarit, Mexico

Worship In MexicoGuanajuato, Mexico

Worship In MexicoTown of San Miguel Allende, State of Guanajuato

Worship In MexicoReligious Store, Town of Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Worship In MexicoNative Altar used by, Huichol, Cora, and other Indigenous Indians, Alta Vista SacredSite, State of Nayarit, Mexico

DRIVING TO GUAYABITOSMexico Highway 15Sometimes as we voyage along the path lesstraveled, it is simply luck or divine interventionthat delivers us to our destination. This journey isnot for the faint of heart.Driving on Mexico Highway 15, about twentymiles past Hermosillo, I got caught behind alarge, lumbering truck. The struggling truck wasfilled beyond capacity with pieces of junkedautomobiles. Old car parts were layered overeach other in a happenstance manner withnothing but rickety sideboards holding everythingtogether. It felt dangerous being behind the slowmovingtruck; I was concerned that an unsecuredmetal object could fall off at any second. Theopposite lane was clear, so I started to speed upin order to pass. These moments are alwaystense; I gripped the steering wheel, my mind fullyalert to all the potential problems of the situation.Getting closer, I could see that the very top pieceof the truck’s junk pile was a complete car axlesystem. And at that same instant, this piece felloff the truck — on the driver’s side. I figured Iwas doomed, a dead man. As the left wheel ofthe axle system, which still had an inflated tire,hit the road it bounced ten feet into the air. Andat that exact moment my car hurtled forward andunder the airborne axle. My car had completelypassed beneath it by the time it hit the groundand then continued to tumble down the highway.Everything happened in about two seconds flat.At first I was dumbstruck, but when I realized Ihad just missed getting killed I cheered — loudly.

“Elation” barely describes how it feels to survivea near-fatal event.Road shrine for travelers along Mexico Highway 15Virgin of GuadalupeI remember the sense of euphoria I felt as ayoung paratrooper after participating in a massparachute drop with the 82nd Airborne Division.As hundreds of us hung in the air with ourparachutes deployed, I could hear countlesscheers, yells, and shouts of joy while we slowlydrifted toward the ground. In times like those, youcan either enter into a state of paralyzed shockor simply look at the Grim Reaper and tell him togo to hell! Dag Hammarskjold once said, "Do notseek death; death will find you. But seek the roadwhich makes death a fulfillment."Although driving long distances can be tenseand tiring, something I enjoy about that is that itgives me the chance to journey within myself.Many people don’t appreciate or have not takenthe time to understand that our minds also offer aself-contained world of exploration and wonder.

Through our senses the mind records everyaspect of our lives. Everything we experienceremains within us, but for the most part we livewithin the near present influenced by our pastexperience. I learned that through meditation, wehave the ability to travel within. We can becomelike spectators, watching, learning, listening,reflecting, and discussing within ourselves theevents of our lives that we travel back to. For me,this occurs as if in the third person — I am awareof the conscious moment, but at the same timethere is a second entity within, like an observer.I mention this because shortly after myexperience with the flying axle and my feeling ofeuphoria at having survived it, I recalled anincident I’ll refer to as the Primal Scream!In 1970 I was on the west coast of Africa on asmall hilltop adjacent to a small village on theriver Cess in Liberia. As nighttime fell I couldhear drums, chanting, and singing from thevillage below. I’m not sure why, but as I sat atopthat hill drinking tea and gazing at the stars, mythoughts meandered to various theories aboutthe psychology of mankind. For some reason Iremembered the concept of primal screamtherapy: that a person could yell or scream witheverything in their body to attain a sense ofinternal relief. I laughed at the vision of groups ofpeople yelling and screaming at the top of theirlungs. But I was curious about the validity of thetheory. It seemed that this type of behavior didnot occur in everyday life; we were discouragedfrom screaming except in “fight or flight”situations. However, having recently returnedfrom Vietnam and completing three years ofmilitary service I knew that the “war whoop” (and,

I assumed, its peacetime equivalent) could stirup good feelings.So, alone under the African stars and withoutthe constraints of modern society, I stood up andwith everything I had in me I let out the loudestprimal scream possible. When it was over I feltelated. Something inside me had been releasedand I felt a sense of euphoria, contentment, andwell-being. The African drums fell silent as mybody let that bloodcurdling sound. Feelingmischievous that evening, I waited until thedrums and singing resumed. The crescendo ofthe drum continued to a heightened frenzy —and I let out another primal scream. It felt sogood! And again the drums and voices stopped. Iwonder what those people thought. I was treatedwith reverence, kindness, and respect during mystay.River Cess Station, Liberia, Africa

Nightfall approached as I neared the town ofLos Mochis, Mexico. Slowing down as I cameupon a pedestrian zone with speed bumps, Istarted to hear what I thought were screams.Ahead of me was a very large, two-tiered truck— the source of the screams. Both levels of thetruck were crammed beyond capacity with pigs.Some of the pigs had already been trampled.Whenever the truck hit a speed bump there wasa collective, ghastly squeal as more pigs felldown and were trampled. Pandemonium, fear,terror, and death reigned. How many pigs willsurvive the trip? I wondered. It brought to mindaccounts of how humans have treated eachother in similar fashion throughout our history:wars, death camps, ethnic cleansing — thewhole host of horrors we have inflicted on eachother. I was amazed at the utter depths of crueltythat we are capable of and at the same time ourtremendous capacity for kindness. I saw thiswhile serving as an infantry paratrooper inVietnam. Some men simply became cruelsavages while others gave candy to children.Dusk turned to nightfall, and I decided to stayovernight in Los Mochis. The following morning amist was slowly ascending from the fertile fieldsas the sun rose to warm the cool earth. The townwas stirring just as I was leaving; I was happy tobe back on the road and eager to reachGuayabitos. It was hard to see through the risingmist in some places and I started to slow downwhen I entered an area with severalintersections. I was in the left lane and as Iapproached a large intersection, it looked likethere was some sort of large plastic bag flutteringin the wind in the right lane. But coming closer I

could see that it was actually a large white dogsitting up on its two front feet, rocking from sideto side and howling with excruciating grief. Sadly,in that mist a truck or car had run over the dog’sbackside. After passing the dog, I looked into myrearview mirror and saw a large truck run overthe dog again.I continued to drive slowly even though themorning mist was interspersed with some clearpatches and good visibility along the roadway.Entering a factory zone, I noticed that the fourlaneroad was divided by concrete, fence-toppedbarriers. Again, I was in the left lane in a verymisty spot when all of a sudden I saw a quickmovingblur ahead in the right lane. I hit my carhorn. The object immediately stopped and cameinto view. It was a man — separated by less thanan inch from my bumper. Passing him, I breatheda sigh of relief. There was a pedestrian overpassdirectly ahead. I also noticed that there weresections of the fence atop the concrete roadbarriers that had been torn aside for people tocrawl through. Rather than walk another hundredfeet to the pedestrian overpass, people wererisking their lives every day by running across thefreeway. It is perplexing to see what people willsacrifice for convenience. When I was the Chiefof Police at the Presidio of Monterey I receivedcountless phone calls complaining aboutinsufficient parking at the teaching institute.Students, professors, workers, or visitors —everyone seemed to want special parkingdispensation. I always found a place to park. Itwas not a matter of insufficient parking spaces.The problem was that everyone wanted to parknext to the entrance. This same phenomena

happens all the time at shopping center parkinglots. People circle the lot for thirty minutes sothey can park near the entrance although thereare plenty of spots farther away.Road Shrine to the departed along MexicoHighway 15It took me three days to drive to the HotelRobles in Guayabitos, Mexico, from Monterey,California. On the first day I traveled fromMonterey to Phoenix. On the second day fromPhoenix to Los Mochis, where I stayed at theCessna Motel. And on the third day I arrived atthe Robles at five in the evening.My father had arrived three days before andwas checked into the Hotel Robles in the sameroom that we had the year previous. As I enteredRoom 31 I found my father sitting at the diningtable where we greeted each other warmly. Wereminisced and we were both amazed that a yearhad gone by since we had last stood in thatroom.

My old room was just as I had left it and welaughed when we saw that the night stand stillbore the coffee stains from our previousresidency there and those of countless otherguests over the past year. Both our bed sheetshad large holes and in the bathroom a towelhook was missing from its base, replaced with atwisted and rusted coat hanger. But we were notdeterred and reminded ourselves of an oldsaying that said something to the effect thatwhen you travel, remember that a foreign countryis not designed to make you comfortable. It isdesigned to make its own people comfortable.Hotel Robles – My Bed Sheet – Viva Mexico!

Faces Of MexicoThe face is the index of the mind.A man finds room in the few square inches of his face for the traits of all his ancestors, forthe expression of all his history, and his wants. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson,

Faces of MexicoMy Father and I with good friend Don Phillipe the Stone Carver, Messillas, Mexico

Faces Of MexicoLa Bufadora, Ensenada, Baja California

Faces of MexicoHuichol Indian, Las Varas, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoSan Pancho, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoThe Old Communist, Tepic, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoGabo, La Penita, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoFisherman, Los Ayala, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoMercado, Tepic, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoSister & Brother, San Pedro de Lagunillas, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoYalapa, Jalisco

Faces of MexicoPuerto Vallarta, Jalisco

Faces of MexicoLa Penita, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoIce Cream, Las Varas, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoStreet Vendor, Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico

Faces of MexicoDon Phillipe, Stone Carver, Messillas, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoEnsenada, Baja California Norte

Faces of MexicoGuadalajara, Mexico

Faces of MexicoOld Gringo & Fisherman, Guayabitos, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoAlejandro and the Rasta Man, La Penita, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoAlex At “La Cantina” - San Pedro De Lagunillas

Faces of MexicoCarnceria, Las Varas, Nayarit

Faces of MexicoZapateria, Compostella, Nayarit

It was a difficult moment and I looked at Manuel and said, “Sometimes life ishard.” With a big smile, he said, “But it’s beautiful.” I was struck by the powerand inspiration of what Manuel had said. Life truly is beautiful. Viva Mexico!

UNEXPLAINED FLYING OBJECTSOn the way home from Ixtlan Del Rio we sawa beautiful lake surrounded by farmlands, so wetook the turn-off to San Pedro De Lagunillas. Iwas convinced we would be able to find a nicespot near the lake where we could spend arestful night in our motor home. Following theroad that circled the lake, we saw a sign for alakeside restaurant. We followed the road until itended in a gravel parking lot, which had a smallboat launch area. It was secluded, remote, andlooked peaceful. After parking the motor home Iwalked to the lake’s edge and saw thousands ofsmall birds flying amongst the reeds growingalong the banks. I also heard the croaking ofthousands of frogs. So much for a quiet night.Later that night my father and I stepped out togaze at the countless stars above us. As welooked south we saw the outline of the mountainsthat ringed the valley. We noticed what wethought was a very bright star above a southernmountain; the star suddenly dropped very lowand then at a right angle quickly moved to theleft. What?! Were we seeing a plane, a satellite,a helicopter, or a balloon? We watched closelyas the object continued to drop, go left, up again,and then remain stationary for a while. It alwaysseemed to return to its original place. We couldnot find any rational answer for what we wereseeing. The swift maneuvers and perpendicularturns the object made could not be accomplishedby any aircraft that we knew of.In June 1989 I was in the Sea of Cortez andhad dropped anchor in a small, shallow cove on

an island called Calita Partida. Something wokeme up that night, and I went out to the cockpit togaze at the stars. I noticed a bright glow aroundthe boat, and leaned over to look beneath theboat. The complete underside of the boat wasemanating an aquamarine translucence. It wasslowly moving and eventually disappeared outtoward the sea. It looked like some sort of largesaucer.As I dozed off that night in the motor home Ithought I noticed a green glow settle over ourvehicle. Nevertheless, it was the most peacefulnight I’d had since arriving in Mexico. Was it aUFO? Was it some type of alien? That night wasno different from the experience in the Sea ofCortez years earlier. There was no rationalexplanation for what I had seen either time.My father and I shrugged our shoulders andwent to sleep. And luckily, so did the frogs.

Lake Birds – San Pedro De Lagunillas

Cerro Grande (UFO Mountain) and Lake, San Pedro De Lagunillas

CHICKENWhile driving from San Pancho to Guayabitos Inoticed that several cars in the distance werebraking and swerving. I soon saw a donkeystanding in the middle of the road. I slowed,breathing a sigh of relief as the donkey startedwalking left, heading toward the edge the road.At the same time I noticed a bus barreling downthe highway from the opposite lane. The busnever slowed down. And just as it was about tohit the donkey, the animal leaped like a highjumper and cleared the bus within a hair’s breathof being churned into a burrito.Donkeys shouldn’t play chicken with Mexicanbus drivers.This Mule Did Not Jump Fast Enough!

IN SEARCH OF PARADISEMy father, our friend Rafael Augustine, and Ileft Guayabitos for a sojourn to San Miguel DeAllende. Rafael is a Slovenian who as a youngman was jailed numerous times by thecommunist regime for trying to escape from theformer Yugoslavia. He eventually did escape andmigrated to Canada, which has been his base ofoperations for the last forty years. Raphaelclaims he has been semi-retired since his earlytwenties. What Rafael had done throughout hiscareer was to work only long enough to financehis next adventure. He therefore never held along-term job, but instead worked as a contractdraftsman for several hundred engineeringcompanies. He has traveled around the worldthree times and has been visiting Mexico sincethe early 1960s. He has native fluency inSpanish and decided that he wanted to find hisShangri-La in Mexico. After months of researchRafael believed his paradise was possiblysituated near a lake close to the town of SantaMaria Del Oro.He said his goal was to buy a small home orplot of land to settle on. However, by this pointwe had visited over a dozen locations and I wasnot convinced that Raphael would buy anything.Anyway, Rafael wanted to go to Santa MariaDel Oro because of the “climate.” Del Oro issituation at an elevation of approximately 4,500feet, which Rafael believed provides a good allyear-round temperature range. Raphael is fairskinned and worshipped the sun in his youth. Hisskin is now aged, spotted, and hypersensitive tothe sun and heat. Consequently, mild and

pleasant weather is Rafael’s criteria. He is an oldtiger whose day has come and gone. Once agreat dreamer and traveler, he now spends mostof his days indoors, watching Mexican soapoperas.I was a little concerned about the uphill routeto Santa Maria Del Oro because our motor homewas thirty years old and had had overheatingproblems on the drive into Mexico. Once wearrived in Guayabitos I installed a radiatoroverflow in hopes of solving the problem. Luckily,the long and winding climb from Guayabitostoward Del Oro went smoothly. It was a clear, butslightly hazy day and the scenery along the routereminded me of California’s central coast. Whenwe arrived in Santa Maria Del Oro we followed asign that read “Laguna.” The highway led us to alarge bend in the road, which opened up anincredible view. We stopped to survey the sceneand then decided to eat lunch. It was verybeautiful and I was very surprised; the viewreminded me of a Swiss alpine lake. The lakewas several kilometers below us and was ringedby a mountain range. It reminded me of a type oflake that would be described as volcanic inorigin. The mountain edges were well worn andprobably several million years old.

After lunch we decided to follow the downward,spiraling road to the lake. We arrived at thelakeshore area, which had numerous palapatyperestaurants. They were all empty. Welearned that the weekend crowd from Tepic orGuadalajara was the sole source of business.Part of the area surrounding the lake appeared tobe farmland; I could see large agave fields. Wasthis Shangri-La? The area was beautiful, but itwas like many lakeside retreats—away fromtown. How comfortable is life in semi-isolation?For some people, it’s Heaven; for others, Hell.We explored the lake, and then retraced oursteps back to Santa Maria Del Oro. We saw asmoky pallor rising by the roadway as we lefttown. Driving nearer, we saw that it was from thetown’s smoldering trash—including thousands ofplastic bags—all of which was littered across afield that was being scavenged by childrenwithout shoes.So much for Shangri-La.Rafael (left), Me and My Dad, Santa Maria DelOroIn the end, Rafael found his paradise in thesmall village of San Pedro De Lagunillas,Nayarit, Mexico. His motto is “Simplicity.”

Petroglyph Photo LogFollow Us As We Visit Ancient Sites And Follow The Pull Of LostCivilization

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoPetroglyph of a Face (Upside Down). The Spiral Sunburst Is The Eye, Above And ToThe Right Is The Nose, The Chin Is At the Connecting Spirals

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoSpiral symbol, Luz Del Mundo Site, Guayabitos, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoSpiral & Cross Symbols, Alta Vista, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoSpiral Symbol, Luz Del Mundo Site, Guayabitos, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoLarge Boulder Containing 14 smooth And Hollow Areas Used for Grinding Corn,Ancient Village Site, Zacualpan, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoLarge Boulder Containing Peyote Symbol (Top) and A Spiral SymbolLocated Below The Peyote Symbol, Zacualpan, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoAncient Manos And Metates Lying On Ground At A Site Of an Ancient Indian Village,El Monteon, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoGuachimontes Pyramid, Teuchitlan, Jalisco

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoSpiral Symbol Along Stream At Alta Vista Sacred Site,Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoAncient Boulder with Petroglyph Symbols Of An Alligator (Red), Spiral(Blue). Warrior (Green), Deer (Yellow), Arrow (Orange)

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoShaft Tomb, Tepic, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoPetroglyph Of A Standing Warrior With A Shield, Pecked Style,(Top – Down, Head, Shield, Legs), Alta Vista, Nayarit

Ancient Sites & Petroglyphs of MexicoDad And I Visiting The Ancient Sacred Site Of Alta Vista, Nayarit

SAYING GOOD-BYE AND LIFE’S LOSTLOVESThursday, 17 March: My father was returningto Montreal, so we decided to spend our last daytogether at San Pancho. From there we plannedto visit Puerto Vallarta for a cold beer and a nicedinner along the malicon, to watch the sunsetover the Pacific. We would then drive to theairport where my father would check in for hislate-evening flight home.The day at San Pancho was wonderful—clearsky, bright sun, pleasant temperature, andsparkling seas. We arrived early and walked thelovely beach admiring the view and agreeing thatwe were lucky to be there. We then had a latebreakfast at a quaint bistro. Life was felt verygood at that moment.Afterward we did some souvenir shopping:Dad bought several Mexican shawls featuring theimage of Frieda Kalo. I bought one too, and aGuatemalan shirt. I don’t know why I bought theshirt—I already had three. And I had a dozenshirts that I didn’t wear. But I loved the colors andunique style! I guess that’s called “impulsebuying.”We often buy things because we want them,not because we need them. It’s amazing to thinkhow many of us buy frivolously, when in someparts of the world people are walking around inrags and starving. Overall, my countrymenshould consider themselves fortunate for theopportunities that America has provided. But myobservation from my time in the workforce andfrom watching the TV news is that today’sthemes are: the government owes us something,

don’t take responsibility for your actions, and bequick to blame others for your problems. A doctoronce told me he preferred treating patients whohad endured the World War II era. He said thosepatients were stoic, grateful, and self-reliant.Many people today are quick to complain and toblame. The American personality had once beena force that forged ahead westward, enduredhardship without much complaint, and was selfreliantand independent.But I digress.After buying the shirt I went to an Internet caféto check my e-mail. One of the messages wasfrom Katie, who had been my girlfriend before Istarted the journey. We had known each otherfor eighteen months. She loved me and wanted apermanent relationship. Prior to my journey Ibelieved that if I met a lady whom I loved I wouldgladly follow that path. However, with Katie Imade a conscious decision to pursue my travelplans. Katie had said several times that sheloved me more than I loved her. And although weended our relationship before I left, I somehowfelt she would still be there for me. As my journeyin Mexico evolved, I decided to return toCalifornia in April to visit some good friends, andhad asked Katie if I could spend the week withher. In her e-mail, she told me she would lovefor me to visit, but that she had become involvedwith someone else. Katie was perfectly right inher pursuit—she wanted to have a loving partnerat her side and I had no right whatsoever to denyher that. But, yet I still felt a loss. Did I make amistake leaving her? Or should we have tried toreach some sort of arrangement where I couldpursue my journey and at the same time

continue our relationship? Could we have donesomething different? Hindsight is perfect visionand I can now see several different paths wecould have taken together. Or was the truthsimply that I cared deeply for Katie, but not to apoint where I could offer her a lifelongcommitment? I’m not sure what the answer is.Either way I felt a loss and a sense of sadness.I remembered when I was in Vietnam some ofthe married men or those with girlfriends at homecarried a great burden in their hearts. I recall oneyoung infantryman blowing himself up in abunker at Landing Zone English after receiving aletter from his girlfriend telling him that she wasleaving him. When I heard the explosion I ranover to the bunker and crawled over to themachine gun port to see what had happened. AsI cautiously peered in I saw a perfectly formedkidney on the ledge and human remainsplastered against the walls. I am glad that duringthat period I did not have a loved one to thinkabout. In some ways I feel that being emotionallyfree while embarking upon an adventure keepsthe mind clear. Unfortunately, that is only goodfor the short term as we mostly seek, want, anddesire the comfort of a loving relationship withsomeone special with whom we can share ourlives.In addition to feeling sad about Katie I also feltsad that my father would be returning home thatevening. We had traveled together and sharedmany experiences since January. I left homewhen I was seventeen and this had been themost time I had spent with my father during theprevious thirty-eight years. The dream of thisjourney had highlighted my preparations for

etirement. And now the journey was coming toan end. I stared out at the ocean, dazed at therealization that he would be gone in a few hoursand that everything would soon become amemory. If only time could stand still.As we started to leave San Pancho to see thesunset at Puerto Vallarta the alternator gauge onthe motor home showed a discharge. I thoughtthat the problem had been repaired several daysearlier, but obviously not. Because of thisproblem I would not be able to drive at night—theheadlights would drain the battery and stall themotor home along the road. We decided to drivestraight to the airport so my father could catch hisplane, then I would quickly return to Guayabitosbefore nightfall. “No problem,” my father said.“That’s life and these are the cards we weredealt.” I, however, was angry at the motor homeand cursed the continuing old-age problems thataccompany a motor home that’s been around forthree decades. I wanted to spend the last fewhours of the trip with my father reminiscing andtelling him how much I enjoyed our time together.But that was not to be—we said our good-byesquickly in front of the airport with the enginerunning. I cursed my bad luck; there was much Iwanted to say to my father. I wanted to tell himhow much I loved him and I wanted to apologizefor those foolish moments when we argued. I feltthat I could have, and should have done betterduring those moments. And so our journeyended with an embrace along the highway infront of the airport.I struggled for many months afterward trying tounderstand how I could love my father, but yetengage in painful, confusing arguments. Later, I

told my father that I believed we argued becausewe miscommunicated. My father agreed; Englishwas his second language and he had a thickHungarian accent that was hard to understand.But, it was more than that—it was more than thespoken word. I realized that our communicationhad a lot to do with our perceptions, experiencesin life, and the way we actually processed thespoken word into a meaning or thought. We tendto think others see the world through the sameprism that we do. But, often we are surprised thatthe interpretation of events, or even somethingas basic as two people speaking to each other,can result in very a different experience ormeaning for each person. This realization led meto conclude that instead of recognizing andworking with this dynamic, I had actually beenintolerant. I thought of the events during mylifetime and those of the world around me andwondered if much of our suffering was rooted inour inability to communicate, our intolerance, andthe false assumptions we often create abouteach other.I made it back to Guayabitos just beforenightfall and felt very sad. That evening in ourapartment, I felt very lonely. Lonely for my father,lonely for Katie, and lonely for being alone.

I knew my adventure in Mexico was ending and that it was time to go home.Our motor home, bought on the Internet for $1,600. It is a 1974 Dodge, Melmar modeland is parked in front of our two-bedroom apartment in Guayabitos, Mexico (the apartmentwas rented to us by old Ramon for $225 a month).

THE MUSIC BOXFriday, 18 March: I woke up thinking about myfather, Katie, and the troubles with the motorhome. However, my first order of business wasto repair the motor home. I decided to visit Allan,a Canadian living in Guayabitos who was familiarwith mechanical and electrical issues. After Iexplained the problem Allan said he would driveover with me to an electrical mechanic namedBedo who lived in La Penita. I didn’t realize it atthe time, but Allan was fluent in Spanish. Bedolistened as Allan explained my problem with themotor home and agreed to take a look. After tenminutes of circuit testing Bedo identified thesource of the problem as a bad battery isolator.These items are not common in the smallertowns, but Bedo thought he had a used one lyingaround his shop. After two hours the motor homewas running like new again. For the diagnosis,parts, and repair, Bedo charged me a total of justthirty-two dollars. He handed me the defectiveisolator and showed me how a charging testrevealed that the isolator would not allow acharge to pass through it. I told Bedo he couldkeep the isolator if he promised to give it to ateenager who needed one for his boom box carstereo system. No sooner had I said that than ayoung teenager in a pickup truck blaringexcruciating loud music pulled up to Bedo’sshop. By the divine heavens, the boy asked ifBedo had an isolator for his car stereo system.Bedo, smiling broadly, handed the kid mydefective isolator. I laughed all the way home.

COLLISON ON THE HIGH SEASSaturday, 19 March: I decided to return to SanPancho to reflect upon my journey, the departureof my father, and my relationship with Katie.While sitting on the beach and looking out atthe Pacific I watched pelican and frigate birdsswooping down on a run of fish. It’s an amazingsight to see a frigate bird roll into a dive fromseveral hundred feet above as it swoops downon its prey in the water. Their wings fold backand their beaks and neck are extended as theybegin to dive. They remind me of World War IInews clips showing German Stuka dive-bombersgoing into their targets.Watching one frigate dive into the water, I sawa small hump rise from the water at that sameinstant. I then noticed a whale tail. Wow, Ithought, somehow the bird had miscalculatedand collided—with a whale. I never saw thefrigate surface.Later that day I found a frigate bird washed upon shore. Its broken neck hung from its shoulderlike a rag doll.I did not want to return to Guayabitos thatevening because the town was rapidly filling withtourists for a three-day weekend celebratingEmilio Zapata’s birthday. So, that night I slept inthe camper on the beach at San Pancho. I wasthe only person there that night and although Ifelt great personal turmoil, the sound of breakingwaves and the ocean lulled me to sleep.

Collision On The High SeasSan Pancho, Nayarit

FOR THE ONES WE LOVESeveral years after my mother passed away Iwas visiting Montreal and stayed with my sister,Helen. One of the things Helen had kept from ourmother’s old apartment was a small picture framethat held a photo of our mother, which ourmother had kept on a nightstand by her bed. Thispicture frame was now on a nightstand in Helen’sguest bedroom. One evening I picked up thissmall picture frame. Holding it in my hand andlooking at the photograph of our mother, I felt theback cover of the picture frame move. Out ofcuriosity I turned it over and took off the backing.Hidden there was a small strip of paper with apoem titled “The Time Is Now.”To all of us who have regretted our actionstoward the ones we love, and for my father andmother—to whom I dedicate these writings—I willalways love you.My Father & Mother – Circa 1947

The Time Is NowIf you are ever going to love me,Love me now, while I can knowThe sweet and tender feelingsWhich from true affection flow.Love me nowWhile I am livingDo not wait until I am goneAnd then have it chiseled in marbleSweet words on ice cold stone.If you have tender thoughts of mePlease tell me nowIf you wait until I’m sleepingNever to awakenThere will be death between usAnd I won’t hear you thenSo, if you love me even a littleLet me know it while I’m livingSo I can treasure it.

My Favorite PhotoThey say it is the journey and not the destination that is memorable. We thankthe wonderful people of Mexico and to Mexico for opening its wonders to us.But, most of all we thank the Gods that we were granted the time to take thisvoyage together.Don Alejandro (The Old Gringo) on Right & Son Of Don Alejandro on Left, Alta Vista, Nayarit

This Is Not The End

A Beginning Without An EndThe Journey Continues