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A recent news story caught my attention, it had to do with "a school dress code" that had been upheld in court concerning a suit brought and lost by a family of a female student. It seems that the school was in the process of expelling her because she had broken a "school code" that put very strict conditions on dress while in attendance. I don't know all of the tenant's of this particular code, but I thought, well I don't see too much problem with certain restrictions when it comes to public school attendance and allowed attire. What surprised me was that this "code" restricted the wearing of all jewelry. Apparently this little addition was intend to usurp any rebellion that might arise from students trying to get around the prescribed rules by wearing some political statement, religious symbols, goth necklaces and such.

The jewelry in question was a ring. It wasn't a marijuana leaf, Nazi death head, friendship or even a class ring, it was a "chastity ring". You know, like those given when a person makes a pledge, usually with the involvement family or maybe the church, to abstain till the "right" time arrives. All codes cannot anticipate in what form their "authority" will be attacked by, but It took a suit to affirm this portion of the code.

I was reading "A 1000 Splendid Suns" at the time, not "Harry Potter", which is loaded with descriptions of "codes" etc. that have persisted in Afghanistan culture over the years and what it meant to be devoured by them. Here are some examples of Taliban codes being enforced after their accession in 1996:

In general.....

1. Singing forbidden


2. Dancing forbidding


3. No cards, chess, gambling or kite flying


4. No writing books, watching films, and painting pictures.


5. Must pray 5 times a day


6. Men must have beards with correct length 1 clinched fist below chin, boys must wear turbans


7. Don't keep parakeets, you will be beaten

Especially for you ladies......

1. No cosmetics


2. No jewelry


3. No wearing of "charming" clothes


4. Speak only when spoken to


5. No eye contact with men


6. No public laughing


7. Paint your nails, lose a finger


8. Stay in homes at all time, out alone..you will be beaten


9. Under no circumstances show your face, penalty..beaten


10. All girls schools closed immediately


11. Women cannot work


12. Commit adultery, stoned to death

It made me think some more about codes...."body of laws, set rules of principals or conduct, signals representing letters or numerals, secret meanings given to letters of symbols etc.
There are zip, bar, building, genetic, plumbing, area, cheat, dress, fire, trouble and even now bible codes that are part of the lexicon in the modern world. Earlier, Morse, ethics, black,
military, penal, Barbarian, code of Hammurabi, Navajo code talkers, plus a slew of other's have come and went or now linger somewhat undefined in 21st century life.

Hammurabi code

One afternoon I attended an "old metropolitan stadium" Vikings game, in the dead of a 1969 winter, bundled up in a cold steel blue snowmobile suit. Earlier I had accepted an offer to join my then father-in-law for an after hours dining experience at, the long gone but still culinary admired "Charlies Cafe Exceptional". My ex-in laws had many connections in the T/C sport, business and social world and they did enjoy their late night table with many "noted Minnesotans" over the years. Tonight it was, Karl Rolvagg, Fritz Mondale, Judge Eugene Mineko, Verne Gagne and wife, a few Vikings, Cal Griffin and others. I had met most of them before , but I had never had eaten at "Charlies" before, so I showed up. Turns out that there was a "dress code" enforced at this then high end restaurant, even after hours. It did not include snow-mobile suits, at least not in blue. Lucky for me they did have suit coats available for anyone who might have been misappropriatley coiffed, that was me. I remember intently selecting the loudest plaid jacket I saw in the inventory even though it was two sizes small. I rolled the top of the suit down, put the jacket over what was left and took my seat to enjoy a fine meal, for free of course. I did look good from the waste up. Later when Mel Jazz , with a knowing twinkle, joined our group and he complimented me on my jacket, or did he? I didn't stand to acknowledge his appraisal.

"No es Cancun" I heard him say as "Bob" was being escorted out of Chichen Itza. It might have been 100 degrees and the humidity was murder, but the sight of "boob' parading around an ancient religious center with a scant amount of denim covering his even more scant ass, well that was enough to try even the most inattentive attendant. With nothing on but a pair of short-short cut-off "Daisy Duke's" it became too much for even the normally complacent protectors of that Mayan-Toltec edifice. I should have said something to him earlier, like there is an unwritten code.......I remember when, as an act of defiance against an over religious guide in the highlands of Guatemala I strode around a small Mayan village that had been the scene of a vast amount of torture and violence, with no shirt on. Needless to say both myself and Bob should have brushed up on "codes" before being so wrong.

Ok, "everyone must have a code you can live by", sounds good on "Deja Vu". But, when that line was written four decades ago people believed someone was suggesting that there was a code "to live by" out there that fits just you, all that was needed was to pick from one, or maybe write one for yourself. Sooner or later most of us will hear from someone, "that is the code I live by", it is usually associated with some indefensible argument or inexcusable activity. But in some perverse and reverse fashion it means "I have one" how about you? I grew up with some also, but it never crossed my mind till now that you must specialize, specialize and specialize.

"If you had to do it all over again, would you"............add codes to your youth. Here are some I missed then.

A food, talking, smelling, listening, size and borrowing code would have helped. Then I could have added a sex, drinking, smoking, swearing, questioning code. I missed the driving. Maybe follow it up with cut off shorts code and a farting code, how about a wedding attendance and funeral code, kegger code or a winking code. How could I forget a code of glancing or a mumble code and a no curlers Sunday code? Ok, I have stopped, and with good reason. This doesn't make any sense, even to me.

So to the young girl with the symbolic ring, take it off and save your parents any more wasted money on attorneys and accept the fact that you have already been symbolically screwed. And in reference to the recent news story of a 500lb plus man needing rescue on the St Croix river after spending an entire evening trying to "wade to shore" because his "inner tube was punctured by rocks in shallow water, which resulted in over 50 people, their time, effort and I would assume, money to float him out in the morning on "planks straddling three canoes, forget the doctor's advice about "swimming might be good for you" just get a hold of me immediately......I have some very important "code" ideas for you.

Tripping in Mexico

I received an email just recently asking if I had any old photo's taken from "Yucatan camping" trips that I ran while operating "On Belay". As I was looking through some of my files It got me to thinking about these "clients" and friends and what has happened so quickly since those days. Babies, new relationships, more babies then, kids growing to adults, people on the move, new jobs and some wonderful continuing relationships. When-ever I would pimp up my trips I always kept two things in mind. If someone didn't go, that was better for me, if they did go it was better for the both of us. For those of you that didn't "catch that wave" then....well I told you it was all going to expire slowly with those experiences being strangled by development. But there is hope.

"Seattle", (Chief Seatlh) wrote....."There is no death. Only a change of worlds". I believe that applies that to this little world that we all shared. And in the meantime I have found many more of those new worlds waiting to welcome the both of us.

The last time I checked I noticed that I have over 7000 photos on my computer and about 3800 are from Mexico trips. At one time I hosted many of these on other sites but have removed them since. When I started this blog I wanted to minimize the photos and concentrate on writing about what happened during the period they were taken, but here are a few.

"Say hey kid" the "Pastime of the Americas" and "Heros"

"I don't make history. I catch fly balls."

I was only five when Wille Mays debuted in MLB in 1951, and before the next decade arrived I had added a new hero into my life. I never even met a black person till about 1962. And by the time my "invitation" from Uncle Sam arrived in 1964 I still had never really spoke to a black person. Military service changed that, but before that happened I had a black man as one of my childhood hero's which also included the likes of, Davy Crockett, John Wayne, Kit Carson, Audie Murphy and Jim Thorpe. I didn't know that hero's could be of my own choosing, I thought they were selected from some type of "list" and I thought these all met my interpretations of "hero's".


Willie was in a record 24 all-star games, a 1979 first ballot Hall of Famer, ended up with 660 homers and he also may have been the first black super star from baseball that the public knew from the start to the finish of his career. "Hammering Hank" came later so did "Mr October". But because of his talent and class May's has sustained all. He was described by many as"a joy to be around." All of this was brought to mind by the recent MLB all star game and although only 74 he looked worn but happy. I always like seeing him.


The 2007 all star game held a special tribute for Mays. It reminded me that at no time in history, after the "color barrier" being broken, has the percent of American born black players in MLB been lower. The game has gone to South America, the Caribbean and the Orient for the new hero's. "Americas pastime" has changed. That's good, right. Well I'm not so sure about that. There always has been a high level of talent and interest in "Latino and now Asian" ball players and the overall hold of the game is again on the rise but the term "hero" when applied to sports is now more a description reserved of a particular act during a competition then a body of work. We now acknowledge "hero's" in all fashions within the definition of "great strength and courage, nobility, qualities, and achievements, but most hero's are defined by a protagonist, a villain by a task or action that requires that the "definitions" of a hero be applied.


A person can have hero's from all walks of life, that has always been constant. Heroism is not confined to any category, the birth can arise from a singular act or a succession of events that define the "heroic" response. So it's OK to have hero's in your life from any source, there is no select pool that we choose from. It is for an individual to decide who these hero's are and what they mean to the individual . And on the other hand it is OK to reject other's hero's in favor of yours or of someone else. But one of mine still remains, a man called Willie Mays.

Message in a bottle? A note from down under, and the bottom of the Ocean.

A new home site for Chris and Jen in Australia.

"The olds" , mom and dad with daughter Jen and Chris.

Dear family,

I can guarantee you fine folk that this is the first time you have received an email from someone 130 metres under the ocean.. or in usa terms nearly 200 yards.. haha converting for the inlaws x whichever way we look at it its deep, and of course (you know me) its weird and wonderful! deep sea 'saturation' diving in the oil and gas fields is something ive had my mind set on for some time, ive been diving professionally now for five years, having dived commercially in 5 states of australia and internationally in trinidad, thailand indonesia singapore and this last year ive spent a copious amount of time underwater in New Zealand building new fields off the west coast of the north island, new plymouth.. this year alone ive worked here over 2 months! Having reached my life long diving goal to be a qualified deep sea diver in march this year its an unreal feeling to be here now living leagues under the ocean and walking around on the seabed experiencing things only a small handful of the worlds population could begin to imagine!

How it works!? i live in a storage chamber that is in the hull of a purpose built diving vessel, when its time to dive we transfer through to a diving bell which is launched off the side of the vessel and lowered just off the seabed we then put our diving helmets suits etc on open the bottom hatch of the 'bell' and drop to the seabed getting supplied our breathing gas by a hose that also supplies hot water to our suits communications to surface, camera and lighting. we work for 6 hours on bottom then we return to bell, close the hatch and then are brought back to the ship and transferred to the living chamber where we shower eat sleep and chill out! The amount of time we are 'underwater' for is maximum of 1 month.. this particular job we are underwater for 20 days, working for 15 days and then it takes nearly five days to get back to the surface at this depth.. im currently coming into day 9!

The interesting facts - NO theres no sunlight in and down here so i come out pasty and white like an albino, but being dark skinned im not as bad as some! also, no air.. i breathe a mix of helium and oxygen which makes me talk like a chipmunk, so i dont hear my own voice the whole time either. our food is prepared on the outside and locked in through a little medical lock and once its eaten we send the empties back to the surface.. thats pretty much all the big facts and im sure youve got heaps of questions so.. buy me a beer and ill tell ya haha ;o)

And probably the biggest question you have is WHY!?? quite simply, i enjoy it! it suits my personality and the characters i meet put hollywood movies to shame, its raw and real and confronting.. im exploring the limits of my mental endurance and ability and learning so much about my being and morality every time i drop out the bell to the bottom.. not in a dangerous way but more a surreal experience type of way (its actually a very safe form of diving)

anyways id luv to keep writing but its late and we dive next, so i will leave it there but hope you are all doing awesome and exploring your limits, or at least having a blast! Love to hear from you all and yes i can receive emails down here, just reply to this one and Jennie can forward it on!

Love you all very much and hope lifes grooving X

CHRIS

Numero tres. Tacho, el hombre del perro. Historias de Xcalacoco.

Tacho and friends.

I was to find out, about 6 years after I had met him, and before many of his friends knew, that his name was Anastasio, everyone always called him Tacho, and other's called him the dog man. Before I arrived the story had always been that he just showed up one day in the woods and stayed. That was true. But, I found out one evening over beers and grilled fish that he was once married, found his wife in an affair and served around 5 years for killing her lover. At least that was the story that evening. I have no reason to doubt it, the questions of his past had never been poised in his decade in the area, I was curious, and he was talking.

Tacho didn't have "mad skills." He certainly wasn't "grueso", just a skinny brown man who almost always was wearing either lime green or canary yellow see-thru flip flops, these would last about 2 years before needing replacement and most likely that replacement was found, not purchased. His animated hands were stretched tight but still felt soft to the touch. When he spoke he almost sounded apologetic about something. His clothes always seemed clean and well kept to me, but I really don't know how that was accomplished. Tacho dressed for each day with his trade-mark plaid "camisas", cuffed slacks and his flavor of the month cap not perched, but tightly aligned, almost in a military fashion, upon his bushy curled hair. He did shoulder a "bolsa" at times, like most men in the area, but in his hands were either a paper bag with beers or a razor sharp machete, never the both at the same time. Even for Anistasio there was a time for work and a time for a party.

Oh, did I mention he was an alcoholic? Alcoholic isn't a term that you hear too much in Mexico, at least not from Mexicans, rather one might say that a person drinks a lot, as in every day. That does sound more polite in a fashion. In the case of Tacho his wasn't drunk every day but when he was drunk it was for days. There is a stereotype of Mexicans being drinkers. I guess that conclusion was arrived by all the drinking going on in Mexico. In Tacho's case I would hate to think that someone would want to ruin his life with sobriety. Every once in a while he would disappear, to the ejido, go drinking at some local saloon then ready himself to set a course back to the beach. His return was like a "weeble". He pinged along, being attracted to and then rebounding off any obstacle in a path that would lead him to a forest trail that only him and a few other local's would know of. After a few days we might worry that while drinking some local "pandilla" might have beat the shit out of him for fun, which did happen a few times. But sooner or later a word of his where-a-bouts would pop up and then he would return, at times with a bump on the head from being abused by local toughs. He was a part of the "family" Xcalacoco and people did love and worry about him. But his connections were not based on "sangre".......rather it was the flowing amber fluids that cemented his connections. Yes, his friends were enablers but they also were protectors, and provisioners. Because of his subdued and gentle nature, vulnerability, his love for animals and his knowledge of the forest and surroundings people just had to like him, I did.

Tacho then lived in an unadorned "casita" located on at the rear of the property at Pancho's. Turns out that building and the piece of land was owned by someone other then Pancho's family, but they were never there, so "no problema." There was a door hung at his place but it never did close. Inside a "Xcalacoop Mayan hammock" was strung from corner to corner with a small handmade table sitting near which was piled of melted wax that anchored a couple of mis-matched candles. You really never knew when he was there. He would slip out quietly followed by a pack of his closest friends wagging their broken and tangled tails and could disappear for 5 days or so before anyone started to worry. On his "walk-a-abouts" the dogs followed and he would stop and wave his hand, mumble something and they would scatter into the forest only to return a few hundred feet later in a single file. I have noticed that the more desperate the conditions the more defined the hierarchy. Tacho came first, then the strongest of the pack, usually a male but not always, followed closely by the older females, their offspring and then young bucks wanting to get in on the action. The pack was as small as three at times but I had seen it as large as 7 or 8. When talking politics once with a local he mentioned that they called the then president....."senor perro". That because a rolled-up newspaper across the back of the head was the only way to get his attention, I would say that worked well also with Tacho's constituency.

The first couple years I made it a point to acknowledge Tacho directly, it did save me from being "comida" for his pack once or twice. Tacho wasn't too concerned with eating but when it came to the trailing covey, that was a different story. I never fed those dogs, like other's I did later, but I did send alot of food Tacho's way when-ever I could. Duke, the camp German Shepard had his territory and Tacho's flock had theirs. They knew it and respected the invisible barriers but when those blockades were breached Duke would put a crink in their waging "colas" or a perforation on a cheek as a reminder that there was a "top dog" and it wasn't one of them. Some years later "Duke" died and was buried on the fence line next to Tacho's. He would point at it and mumble something while looking very sad. That burial spot is now under the new development that has swept the area.

When ever I had extra anything I always looked forward to leaving items with Tacho. During my stays I would drop off food, drinks, maybe a small knife or even a comic book or a few pesos in his lodging, only when he wasn't there. He knew where it came from and we didn't have any need to exchange any thank you's. The special time for me arrived when I left, then a flood of items were placed on his table, including dog food. I would think about it as I started my 3000 miles drive home, it gave me a good feeling knowing I had a place to share what I would just waste. Upon return Tacho would always make special efforts to seek me out and acknowledge our friendship. His hand would gently grasp mine, not in a shake, but with my palm down, raising my arm and pressing the back of my hand to his weathered cheek while calling me ....."Patron...patron". Yes, that was uncomfortable at times. But he was right, I did feel like I was one of his protectors.

At times I asked Tacho to guide me into the forest. It was really an excuse to send a few peso's his way but it was amazing. My Spanish is limited but when it comes to nouns, I get it. He would show me different plants, how to use them or cook them, and point out a forest dweller that had slipped my attention proudly announcing that these are rare even to him. He pointed out what not to touch, what to rub on myself and where to walk. Now he was my "patron" in his environment. One day he took me to a ruin that is right on the adjacent property. I had heard about the "Tres Reina's de Xcalacoco" and wanted to know what they were, he showed me. I had walked by this area many times but when we arrived into the interior I found that the remaining ruins were just steps off a path I used many times. It made me feel in some small way like " Bingham at Machu Picchu" or "Stephen's and Catherwood" trekking in the Yucatan and Honduras. I now show people where those mounds are, exacting a little drama each time like finding a new discovery, and hope the future will provide protection to that special place.

On a typically steamy after noon in Quintana Roo I was lounging at my palapa waiting for the shade to creep closer when I heard a cry from nearby. I am always alert to sounds when living in such an open atmosphere but this one was unfamiliar. "Chachalaca's, like a Mexican pheasant range in this area, as do other birds, so, I thought it was just something Ive heard before. After a bit, a moan, that was human, I turned to investigate. It was against all comforts to bind your feet in shoes or even in "sandalia's" while living on the beach, barefooted was the way to go. And that is how I always treaded anywhere in the area, so away I went. I followed what I knew now as a plea for help and it led me through about 100 feet of sand burrs and exposed limestone before I came upon Tacho.

The look on his face was confusing, I thought, shit maybe a snake bit him...and here I am with no footwear. As I got closer I spotted a flip flop bathed in crimson, more burrs, a machete and Tacho sitting on a small outcrop with blood spurting out of the side of his foot. Now, even as he was in pain I could tell he felt embarrassed because he couldn't take care of the situation himself. His machete, an extension of his working hand and as familiar to him as his forest sites, had glanced off a piece of limestone while doing some clearing and produced a large gash on and under his foot. A few more people showed up and I had them bring some cloth to wrap up the wound.

A truck from Juanito's arrived and volunteered to take him to town for stitches, as well as the money to pay for it. He got up and hopped once or twice towards his rescuers and fell right back. After I picked him up and carried him to the truck bed, still with no shoes, I found his bloody flop, wiped off his machete and noticed that not one of those burrs penetrated my feet. Tacho stayed in his little home for about 10 days after returning with his 38 stitches, we brought him food and the like and the healing took some time. But a curious event that caught everyone in the area happened after he was finally able to mobilize himself, with considerable pain. He made it to town one night and came back with a little "companera", I never saw her but the rumor was , not bad. Maybe he told her the story of the washed up bale or she was feeling some "compassion" for him. After that little rescue, and during the recovery period, again came the "patron thing" with addition of the kiss on the hand. I let it continue on for a few days or so, only in his house, and then stopped it.

It has been reported that "every dog has it's day", that goes for their master also. Have you ever seen a photo with DEA sitting atop a large quantity of illegal drugs or standing behind opened packs of "drogas" declaring another victory? This area has seen it's share of "products" dropped out of planes into the ocean in hopes that an awaiting swift craft would be able to pick it up before the local authority's claimed it for their own. At times the military would walk the beach, or drive a Hummer into the area and establish overnight posts to monitor activity. They walked right by my little abode but with my "binoculars" I was usually able to spot their hang-outs at night by the burning embers hanging from their mouths.

That taught me to keep my inflatable boat out of the water in the evening. I may have been giving up a good fishing time slot, but I really wanted to avoid the opportunity to have an AR-15 spray a warning towards me or a declaration that, we see you as trafficking.

I was told that his, Tacho's, photo had been in most of the local papers recently. He was photoed standing near a tightly cotton wrapped bale containing numerous kilos of "Columbia's" top export. The accompanying headline praise him as a local for assisting in this important recovery. What happened was......One morning Tacho was strolling on the north beach area after resting during the previous evening near the tree line when he came upon a floating figure in the early light. He was curious, but not very excited about this discovery. This was just a part of every ones day if you lived in the area and tourists weren't immune to it either, "let's see what floated up from the night before".

He toyed with that heaving mass for a short time failing to get it ashore, then retreated to assess the worth of expending all this energy for some unknown reward. Being a simple sort of fellow he figured there wasn't too much chance to there being riches riding the "olas" and landing directly at his feet. In fact I wonder if he knew anything at all about drugs. So after a short and exhausting effort he contacted some people down the beach, and they contacted the authorities, that's how he got his picture in the paper. I wish I was the first person he ran into on that day. He would own that beach, with a new home, plus all those "hectares" he has wandered during his stay there.

Tacho is a homeless man with a home. Most people don't see too much in him except the fact that he is an alcoholic, and just another drunk. This is not a defense for his faults. I have known many alcoholics, bums and drunks, some I liked and some I didn't. Just happens that I like this one. Now that you know of Tacho the future stories involving him might make a little more sense.

Los Arboles Tulum or go-green gringo

A true giant at Los Arboles.

Hand built entry road

With Cameron setting up the GPS for a "walkabout."

Around January of 2005, while looking for home-sites in Mexico, we found "Los Arboles", about 7 miles up Coba Road out of Tulum. We are in the process of purchasing a 5 acre parcel in this eco-friendly and totally off the grid project. This is a portion of that story so far. If you want more information there is a link added here, http://www.losarbolestulum.com/.

First of all when ever you mention you are buying property in MX most people are thinking right off the bat......do you really own it, are you going to be ripped off, are you moving there for good and a little what happens when you go to sell? I guess the answers are, yes, no, maybe and about the same when you sell anywhere else. Moving on, if you want to understand how to use a "fideicomiso" in Mexico to purchase property, esp in the restriced zones, which ours is in I would suggest www.mexonline.com/propmex.htm for a basic starter.

More to Come

Numero dos. Bienvenido "eh." Historias de Xcalacoco.

Yes, I do have alot of love for Canada. The lakes, SCTV, they speek engish, are masters of the "homegrown." and even with a 3400 mile shared border most people just prefer to stay there. In fact the imperial gallon doesn't even bother me. Not to mention Joni Mitchell, Linda Evangelista, Yvonne DeCarlo, Diana Krall, Shannon Tweed, Natasha Henstridge, Nelly Furtado, Shaina Twain, Rae Dawn Chong, and including Mary Pickford....... all from Canada. And a bunch of "hosers" also. (I know you see a theme working here.) The only small problem for me is when they start speaking French. I don't want to hear French people speak like Canadians, so what makes people think I want to hear Canadians speak like the French, ya betcha it's the Minnesotan in me.

About 2am "Duke", the frightening, but civilized camp 115 lb German Sheppard starting that now familiar bark that meant "no le conozco." I peeled back my shirt that was keeping the no-see-ums from flying up my nose and took a look. Didn't look like I knew them either. I saw the smoke before I saw the vehicle, sounded like a motorcycle to me. Travel Note: I have run into Canadians every where in Mexico, seems they seem to land in the same "dives" I do quite frequently. I've drank free beer, had ice cream served to me out of their motor-home and spent more than just a few evenings trying to figure out why they thought I was also from Canada? But, outside the ruins of Palenque was this very handsome lad staying at the Maya Bell campground. I noticed he was swamped with good looking women, young and old hanging around him all day. He was 22. One evening I was having a nightcap with a traveling family and they said, yup he's from BC. "He came down on a motorcycle and has been stuck here for about 5 weeks waiting for the right part from DHL, he needs a new sprocket." I was thinking, "who gives a crap about some sprocket, he gots what he needs right now."

Turns out he had never rode a m/c till he bought that one in Canada and both ended up in Chiapas. It was a 250cc. Now I know why all the lady friends, don't make me explain. That's quite an inaugural cruise on a bike sized to go 50 mph in ditches, but it came to a temporarily happy amorous end when he discovered the horrible vibration he was experiencing was not the Mexican roads. His drive chain had been so loose for the last 800 miles that the rear sprocket took the shape of a ripe mango . But man, that guy was good looking.

"Christ, that ball of smoke is backing down the road towards Pancho's." I flashed my then "pie-sized" REI headlamp at them and they stopped, for good. "Don't worry I'll help you dig it out in the morning, see ya then." I took a last look at that Winnebago Brave and, yep, those are Canadian plates, BC. But it was the bumper sticker that said, in bold Canadian colors, INVADE CANADA that caught my attention. I stayed up till about 3:30 just staring at the faint starlight skipping on the tops of waves and with myself in my hammock and Duke underneath we both fell asleep that evening to the sounds of pop-tops and "The Guess Who." streaming from the Winnie. I'm just happy it was pre Avril Lavigne and no one was speaking French.

Mornings are quite predictable around Pancho's. You have collected one more layer of salty paste from the evening on shore winds and then greet the new day by squinting thru the loops in your hammock. It's too early or too late or too hot for barking dogs. Beachcombers have taken their booty, and workers are gathering on site or waking up where they dropped the night before. The transient construction labor force is usually gathered from some very tiny villages in the Yucatan or maybe from as far as Chiapas. Many can speak Yucatec Mayan and about 100 pesos a day would be tip-top wage. Either way they both usually shared the same accommodations while working a job, not much or none. These little brown gangs would wander out of the forest at the end of each day and then head to the beach. On the way someone picks up a couple of 40's and then with timid motions they swim and prance together in their underwear like pre-teens that had never been in the ocean before. Turns out alot of them had not.
This morning I hooked up a rope to my van, tied it to the Brave and after some digging we got it out of the sandy beach at 9am. "Thanks pal, were going to make a beer run, need anything." Just a bag of ice will do, thanks. Before they drove off a large wooden box was slide out the door and there it sat till their return, on the side it said "ball-bearings" crossed out and replaced with Jon's tools (his father).

It took about 3 days to get to know the new arrivals. Generally I have found it best to be polite but not encouraging to new people at campsites. If you make it sound too terrific people will just stay longer or end up bringing other's. I was to discover this was to be the case this time. But during the two years I saw them off and on I found their ingenuity and work ethic far exceeded most people I meet on the road. And even though I never saw the "finessed project" I had seen enough to know that they grew up like I did and they knew they were doing something different maybe even special, something that dad, grandpa and the uncle's would be proud of.

The contents of that tool box reminded me of my "Dad's." Hand-me-downs, broken screwdrivers, many modified by grinding and bending, a hammer with a broken claw, cracked handles and chipped tines, barley a match in the lot....something you would typically see at an estate sale, in a cardboard box, the sign reading "25 cents each or the entire box for five bucks." These boys weren't the first to handle those tools, just like dad and myself back home.

Jumping ahead here I guess I now see why I was sometimes thought to be a countryman. A little too Midwest friendly, good with crap tools and mind full that I can do it better then most. I had introduced myself as Stephen but that didn't stick, so one night as we were adjusting the illumination to the area, by adding beer cans to the candle light string, I adopted the nickname LC after being called that for an hour or so. Later and just about every morning, LC (little Canada), would see "pops", we both liked to take our morning whiz near the same palm instead of waiting for the restaurant to open.........if it did at all. Even now my 84 year old dad finds the woods side of his garage more accommodating then the walk into the house, and he still uses those same old tools to get the job done, so do I on both counts..

In the long run it turned out they didn't speak any French, but a host of other languages. Two of the initial four had worked cruise ships from Perth to Tierra del Fuego and beyond, canned that action, bought a motor home, uprooted Mom and Dad off the sunflower farms in Canada and headed south. Dave and his lady friend were full of energy and they had a plan in mind. Not exactly what I initially thought but certainly something very original. They were going to stay as long as it took to totally strip and gut out the Brave, replace everything inside with local furnishings and then continue to South America. This was the plan, and after seeing that old chest slide out the door, I was a believer. Travel Note: While at Agua Azul between Palenque and San Cristobal a van pulled up next to me. Out piled about 8 "flower children" from Argentina. This was followed by flutes, drums, rain-sticks, gourds, candles and bags of copal. At the moment "Manson family, or maybe it was "Brady bunch" crossed my mind. What really caught my attention was the van they were driving was a copulation of symbols and glyphs that you would encounter at the ruins of Palenque, Copan, Tula, Monte Alban and Tikal. Attached to the exterior of the van there were snakes, the heavens, warriors, scribes, macaws, ball courts and various hieroglyphic renderings all done in plaster, wood, fiberglass and even paper mache. Now "Up in Smoke" came to mind. I stayed a few days. During that time a box was brought out and while working out of it they repainted, replaced and repaired their traveling museum.

When the Canadians finally unloaded that crate it was clear to me that forethought was in their travel plans. There were no electric drills, saws, lights, grinders not even a blender. Yes there was a generator in the "Brave" but.........it was a "Hach Winik" thing. This project was going to be done by hand. That's good because electricity didn't come to this portion of the beach till at least six years later. After a week of evisceration the guts of the "Brave" were neatly piled about 5 meters from their hollow home and all of it got there by the use of 2 claw hammers, a crow bar and tin snips. After waiting for some time, for "menos viento", it was finally torched with curt permission from Pancho. That night we carried "cubito's" of water from the nearby well and doused the side of the "Brave" while the heat tried to blister the surface. I was thinking maybe I should mention that van I saw at Agua Azul.....don't worry about the slight damage, just consider it a "tabla rasa" for more creative ideas. The pump at the well ran out of gas and we all turn into a Mexican fire brigade to keep the "Brave Cool." It was too striped to even move, no steering wheel for one. The only damage was that they had to replace their "Chinese patio lights" that were formed from beer cans over the past week or so. The strings that laced the cans started on fire.

Some of the best times were after mom and pop arrived in a 1985 Ford pick-up, this after they had spent their first 78 years on the farm. Neither one would have been allowed a drivers license in most places, even in Mexico, so it did take a few more days to catch up with their son in the Yucatan. Turns out that a short time later dad died and one of the kids drove mom all the way back in that pick-up. I think at that point another pyre should had been constructed. It was nice having them there. I have more stories of those days and other "extra-Canadian" experiences to share later.

Congratulations, now over a year and counting.

Twas the night in Appleton when a decision was made,

to break away from that couch where long he laid.

He had wanted to escape for many years,

but instead found friendship with a couple of beers.

His life had spun out of control,

but his heart still beat with the Warren of old.

A day consisted of blur and regret,

with feelings of loss and goals never met.

The years of isolation were mixed with remorse,

but the bottle and depression has set well his course.

Each day we hoped he'd survive,

but the problem was more then just staying alive.

A broken heart was unable to mend,

he felt he had lost his life's best friend.

Deeper he dove not caring that much,

why even try when your so out of touch?

Where are my friends he said to himself,

they were always there but he rejected their help.

The days counted on in the room where he lie,

the questions were poised but no-one knew why?

Answers seem easy with a look from afar,

but the time mounted on like pennies is his over sized jar.

Days to months and then onto years,

the time took its toll and added to fears.

Efforts were made with little reply,

maybe the solution was to just die?

His love for himself was never so dim,

But outside that pit there was still love for him.

A decision was needed and that meant now,

so up he stepped and asked how?

Nothings for certain that we all know,

but asking for help showed his was ready to go.

So out of that hole there came such a rumble,

one step at a time he learned how to stumble.

No leap, no glide no running the race,

the last time that happened he fell flat on his face.

He said he would try and then do his best,

a sense of anticipation swept over the rest.

It is easy to say what you would like,

but a goal so difficult is so hard to strike.

That day in June a meeting was met,

a paper was signed and the path was set.

Failure was the easy way out,

but in our hearts we hoped he was stout.

Now Warren, now Stephen now hopes for success,

on family and friends on all the rest.

to treatment, to care, to medical attention,

Now dash away, dash away all reprehension.

The days at first were long and confusing,

but the gains he achieved help explain his using.

He is Warren and a part of the tribe,

an important piece that must survive.

He opened his mind and accepted direction,

his efforts were backed by family connection.

The examples were many and he took them to heart,

he saw bad endings that showed him the start.

A chance was given to help change his life,

to help other's, show courage and challenge his strife.

Not all of his mates are achieving like him,

but he stood by them thru the thick and the thin.

200 days have rapidly past,

the question, will this be the last?

Take a look at your self and I think you'll agree,

you've shed alot trying to be free.

Nothing has changed and nothings the same,

we loved you then and we do again.

You had faith in us and we in you,

and we support you in all that you do.

So, spring to your life and avoid all the thistle,

got a problem, I know how you can whistle.

A missing part has now been restored,

and know we love you Warren, the same, just more.

"Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans."

John Lennon.

Numero uno. Su amigo Pancho. Historias de Xcalacoco.

Pancho's place, watercolor by my friend Cedar.

A dusty hand painted sign with an arrow pointing more to the heavens then to it's advertised location was planted in the hard ground off the main highway. A like dusty Mexican fan palm cast shade for people to gather near and as a bonus the vibration of the passing semis gave life to a slight cooling breeze. Near that location local workers gathered while waiting for the buses that would take them away.

Most rose around 6am worked the typical day, walked to the highway and now were returning home to either prepare a meal or share in one. The signs that were posted declaring friends, paradise and excellent accommodations were at the end of the road were not for them. If you stopped and asked anyone near these markers if this was the correct road to.....you would probably get a shrug of the shoulders with an exhausted look like didn't you see the sign? I wasn't all that alarmed, I could smell the ocean from a mile away so I just nodded.............gracias amigo.......and headed dead east. Workers in commute are pretty much the same over, tired of the day, tired of the waiting to get home and just plan tired of stupid questions.

I had once written in a travel log something like: You can travel with your cell phone, I-pod, digital maps, travel books and supposed expert guidance, but you still don't really know what awaits you around that next corner. This utterly applies to Mexico. A check point, a dead donkey being towed behind a vehicle, aggressive hookers at truck stops, a rapidly moving sugar cane blaze across the road, a couple of logs laid over a 12 foot chasm for a bridge ( that was preceded by a couple locals expecting tips to guide your wheels over the planks) fire breathers at stop lights and country folk driving with only running lights after dark....it helps to extend the life of the headlamps. Keep your nose in the wind and your eyes on the ridge while driving in Mexico, pilgrim's.

I was almost sure that this road wouldn't be accommodating large campers, scores of day-trippers and construction equipment waiting for launch. Over a period of years my favorite bivi/camp areas died the death of development or at least the pretensions of such. For example Chemuyil and Xcacel are in slumber now, but awaiting the alarm of construction. I knew of the last man to camp there. He was said to chain his motorcycle to a palm on the last day before shut-down. He poised this question to his evicters. "What about the 1000 feet of turtle nesting areas." The reply was there would be lights installed to help the nesting turtles find their way back to the beach and the new hotel I persume. While sneaking back there some years later I found it like Hitchcocks, "The Birds", just replace birds with scores of large iguanas and you will get the picture. That was in the daylight hours, so I didn't see how well the lights were working for those returning turtles. Hell, a little more then decade ago I stayed in the combi on the current site of the Hard Rock Cafe in Cancun not to mention camped around Xel-Ha, or as we now call it, "Xel Hell." Now that's what I call "car camping."

The road all looked grand so far, no traffic, Ziegfeld Line sized pot holes , no light no information , water filled depressions and dead 'silenciador's' stacked up on the tree line, this place had definite possibilities. After re-discovering a unique combination of idle in low gear with no pressure on the foot-feet and daft taps on the brake pedal I was always able to keep a steady rate of speed down that local "sacbe." Eventually I was able to get good indications of the water depth by listening to how much steam was generated by the contact of my VW engine with the surface. Travel Note: Once on a trip back to the states I used this same technique but did use the accelerator while dry shifting, no clutch, for 900 miles because of torn cartilage in my left knee which was aggravated in Palenque.

I crept on noticing no power lines, numerous "sucker roads" to nowhere, typical plastics using local vegetation as an anchor for their new home but no traffic. About 1/2 mile into the ride I noticed that the tops of the trees had suddenly turned from dust gray to bright green, I must be close now. A sound that resembled bedsheets being shook out caught my ear, that was followed by a green mass of parrots lifting off those dusty perches and rocketing down that trail before going into a steep climb, hard to port and disappearing. I spit out "did you see that." I knew there was no one there to listen but it was just another one of those times when you really wanted to share an experience.

He drank, chased the young ladies, maintained a family and was fascinated with work, he could watch it for hours. Pancho was in his mid forties with a vessel that more resembled a cask of rum then God's creation. An oval face was supported by a stout powerful neck while perched upon a barreled chest that was being attacked by the ever increasing girth of his stomach. Even by now his knees were weakening but the day I met him I sensed a strong heart.

Pancho had a schedule. When to rest, to drink, to eat, to entertain and when to tell other's when he needed some work done. He spoke English and didn't mind to. He spoke with gentle tones and his laughs were short and sincere. At this time I didn't know of his connections with the family that were long time property owners at Punta Bete. That story is long and inviting. No one was staying at the site when I arrived and during that first month or so no one else arrive. The price was 12 pesos a night. We didn't talk much initially, he just said put it up anywhere. Instead I choose the palapa with half of the roof blown off and leaning about 30 degrees to the lee-ward side. It was on the end, furthest from the restaurant and the middle shelter that I suspected would be busy sooner or later.

20 paces to the open ocean, the evening light of Cozumel in the distance, a reef less then a half mile from shore, doce pesos por noche and an endless supply of Havana Club rum just 10 minutes away. Estoy aqui.

The Lacandon Indians of Chiapas prefer to call themselves the "Hach Winik" or the true people. Although I never heard that term while traveling in their homeland I just figured they were too polite or maybe unaware of the importance of using that description. But it had meaning to me and I was going to show all that I also considered myself different. I may be a gringo but I had alot of Mexican running in me. All was going great, then, the Canadians arrived.