Tampico, Plus One

Tampico, Plus One

Around February, I fired out the invite to many, many friends of mine to come visit me during their American spring break. I offered a free place to stay, guided tours of the city, a celebratory party, and a guaranteed good time. One high school friend, Chris Golden, who has always been the spontaneous, adventurous type, took me up on the offer, and the next thing I knew I was answering the door to first person that I didn’t have to explain and then justify my American lifestyle to I had seen since my arrival in Mexico, which was nice.

Chris is an Industrial Engineering student at The Georgia Institute of Technology, the alma mater of my father and bitter, hated rival of the University of Georgia. He has been a connoisseur of many things in the time that I have known him, ranging from running shoes to beer. He, in preparation for the trip, had recently delved into Tequila. It took less than five minutes for Chris to start asking me questions about top-shelf tequila – where to buy it, what to buy, how much it should cost, how he would get it back to the states, if he wanted one bottle, or two, or five – all of which I was hopelessly inept in answering. I told him that I prefer the 8 dollar kind. Fun fact: one cannot purchase Patron en Mexico.

The plan was for Chris to head in Friday, before the weekend, at which point we would travel to some place cool and exotic like a deserted Mexican beach so that Chris could have a normal college spring break filled with cool exotic beaches, alcohol, and women, and then head back to Monterrey where he and I would do all kinds of activities around the city before his departure on the following Saturday morning. We made it to the beach, we did some activities, and we definitely knocked out the alcohol requirement, but it was by no means easy.

There exists a mythical place on the Mexican coast called San Blas. In San Blas, there exists a mythical place called “Stoner’s Surf Camp”, which, by name alone, is most definitely somewhere that would be on a college student’s travel list, if not for any other reason than to buy a T-shirt. The plan was to head there for the free weekend when Chris arrived and tackle the aforementioned spring break requirements. According to the website (www.stonerssurfcamp.com), it was perfect – beachy, tropical, deserted, with cheap surfboards and free waves. I booked some bus tickets for an eight hour ride, a pair of which ran a quite economical twenty five dollars, and made a reservation at the surf camp. Plans were set. Sweet. Later in the week, I was talking with a Finnish friend of mine, Atte, and mentioned the trip, at which point Atte told me that he would love to join. I said the more the merrier, and sent him an email with the bus information in it so that he could get on the same vessel. Two nights before we were to leave, I get a phonecall from Atte:

Atte: Hey man, I have some questions about the bus?

Randall: Yea sure dude, what’s up?

Atte: San Blas is on the Pacific coast right?

Randall: Believe it, I’m excited.

Atte: Right. You know, these tickets are really cheap. And the bus ride is only 8 hours. It takes 16 to get to Mazatlán (a city on the same coast, but closer to Monterrey). I think you may have gotten tickets to a different San Blas.

Randall: (like a small child about to find out that Santa Claus is fictional. Responds with shaky voice). Atte…what are you saying?

Atte: Santa’s not real.

Randall: (unintelligible rant full of profanities). Click.

And so it was. I had purchased the wrong tickets. This ranks just above the rest of the dumb things that I have done in my life, including but not limited to, running straight into a brick wall, being a Georgia Tech fan during my adolescent years, and that time that I lit someone else’s hair on fire in middle school after which I promptly lit my own hair on fire to show that it wasn’t that big of a deal.

The next day, I took a bus down to the bus station and embarrassingly righted my wrongs. The new plan was to head to the city of Tampico – a slightly less cool, less deserted, less tropical, less wavy, but just as beachy beach on the Gulf Coast of México. I Googled the place, which seemed nice, kind of like a Destin or a Panama City but with less people. I must say, however, that if we’re being real here, all parties involved knew that it wasn’t going to be Stoner’s Surf Camp. But hey, in Mexico, a falta de pan, tortillas.

Chris and I made the trip to Tampico pretty smoothly. Upon our early morning arrival, as I was stepping off of the bus and taking in the surroundings, I couldn’t help thinking that had it not been for Atte and his Finnish intuitiveness, that I would, in that moment, have been stepping off of a bus and taking in my surroundings in the heartland of Mexico, quite far from any coast. The funniest part might have been that I may not have realized that I wasn’t at the coast until I hailed a taxi from the station and kindly asked him to take me to the beach. A big thank you to Atte for sparing me that experience.

Tampico

The first thing that I noticed about Tampico when we got in is that the weather was horrible. The forecast called for Friday showers, 50/50 good weather on Saturday, 70/30 good weather on Sunday, and 50/50 good weather Monday. It was cold and windy, with scattered rain and the occasional crack of thunder. We flagged down a taxi and asked to go to the beach. The taxi driver chuckled and motioned towards the weather but was met with our insistent American “we’re going to the beach no matter what” facial expressions, and eventually agreed.

To get there, we had to pass through the center of the city, which featured a nice square with a park and a Popeye’s Chicken location, as well as a large sign reading “Hotel: $150 Pesos”. I told Chris that the advertised room was sure to be pretty horrible, but he responded that he would settle for nothing different than a seedy hotel room on our frugal Mexican weekend trip. Great answer.

We arrived at the beach and were met with a billboard that featured a beautiful Mexican woman drinking a tropical drink while glistening elegantly in the Mexican rays on white, sun bleached sand. In contrast, the scene below the billboard featured a tundra-like environment with a cold howling wind, a frothy sea that was accented by a black flag meaning that under no circumstances should one enter the water, and sporadic precipitation. Not to mention zero beautiful women sunbathing. We got out of the cab and stood facing the sea; Chris in a Georgia Tech hooded sweatshirt and me in a Mexican flannel pullover, bags in hand, shivering, and trying not to think about the weather at Stoner’s Surf camp. Hours later, we decided that, while lounging on the beach in 60 degree rain can be fun, the day could be better spend seeing what there is to see in Tampico. Turns out, that’s not much. We verified the $150 peso pricetag on the seedy hotel and checked in, set our bags down, and headed out to explore. Of interest, there was a market complete with restaurants that provided delicious food at the lowest prices that I encountered in the whole of my Mexican stay, a small town square complete with Spanish style cathedral, and numerous corona sponsored signs announcing night life spots. The latter boded well for our meeting the ‘party like it is spring break’ requirement. There was a small internet café next to our hotel that I used for letting my parents know that I was alive, and Chris used to communicate briefly with his group members with whom he was building a computer database for a class at school. I stood by and played slime soccer online, feeling intelligent. We managed to stay entertained throughout the day, showered and dressed ourselves, then made further plans to grab a late dinner and investigate the nightlife.

Throughout our stay in Tampico, we noticed that there were absolutely no other tourists or Americans living in the city. Tampico is a blue collar working town epitomized by the large PEMEX oil refinery located on its outskirts. This became very apparent when we strolled confidently into the first bar of the night. We sat down in a room full of industrial looking men, ordered a beer, spoke English amongst ourselves, felt slightly un-comfortable, and then decided to look for a new bar. We repeated this process three or four times, and then moved again. Upon arrival at the new we were greeted a typical scene in which the bar was packed with the same type crowd as the others. It featured dim lighting and loud ranchero music, scantily clad women who by no means should ever dress in a scantily clad manner, drunken Mexican men and drunker Mexican men, bad dance steps, and lots of cheap beer. The place was packed. Each table appeared occupied by at least one person, everyone chatting amiably, some letting their interested eyes wander over towards Chris and me. Someone with the air of manager met us at the door and told us to follow him to a table. We took a stroll down the main aisle of the bar and discovered that there were no un-occupied tables. The manager, in a strategic business move aimed at not losing his only two American customers and their dollars, sat us at a table occupied by a semi-conscious, very intoxicated, and intriguingly alone Mexican man. In keeping with Chris’ good nature, and partly because I was myself very interested in the situation, we laughed and sat down.

I tried once to hail this man, but he was in a faraway place, so Chris and I continued to chat away in English. Looking around the bar, we saw many couples. Cute. But upon further observation, I saw that most of the men were old, fat, poorly dressed, and if you all don’t mind my saying, relatively un-attractive. The women, in contrast, were younger, better dressed, less fat but by no means skinny, and less un-attractive. When we were seated, the manager character asked, in a most nonchalant manner, “Can I get you hombres a beer? How about a woman?” I answered for both of us when I requested two beers, and then relayed to Chris that he had just asked if we wanted a woman. This experience, combined with my perception of the social dynamic present in the bar, made me realize that, in fact, these men were probably not smooth conversationalists who had attracted younger, better looking women with their witticisms and cunning.

After scanning the room for a while, everything now making sense, my attention again turned to our friend sitting at the table. He was still unconscious for the most part, resting precariously with the top of his head pressed back against the wall and mouth wide open facing the ceiling. Our compañero would shift occasionally, murmur a word or two, and then slink back to a peaceful state of repose against the wall. We had just seen the occasional murmur part of the process when Chris and I noticed a cockroach on the wall behind the man. The cockroach followed a downward trajectory and disappeared behind the man’s back. I looked at Chris and chuckled. Then the cockroach reappeared on the crest of the man’s shoulder. I looked at Chris with a confused expression, wondering what we should do. I was now faced with a situation in which I have never previously found myself – looking at a piss drunk stranger in a bar with a cockroach crawling down his chest, wondering what to do. I considered using a shoe to hit the cockroach against our amigo’s chest, killing it instantly and most likely not disturbing our friend in the least. A second thought was to revive the man and give him a shoe with which to eliminate the cockroach in the above described manner, which was very viable, as drunken people are easy to persuade. Twenty other ideas rushed through my head, ranging from lighting this man’s shirt on fire to scare away the cockroach, to telling the man that he had bought a pet cockroach earlier in the night, which he had named, and could not legally kill his new pet, but I, in the heat of the moment, was unable to act.

The cockroach eventually left, as did we, to run off and tell his cockroach friends about what just happened. As did we. The night rounded out with an un-eventful visit to one more bar – one that lacked prostitutes and cockroaches (boring) – after which Chris and I walked back to our hotel room.

The next morning, Chris and I made our way to the beach to bask in the 60 degree sea air and admire the beautiful vista of the black flag on the lifeguard stand. Apparently black means “Don’t under any circumstances get in the water”, a meaning which I fully understand, but guidelines such as these were obviously meant for people lesser than Chris and myself, so just to spite the weather gods and proclaim to the world that no matter the weather, spring break is spring break, Chris took a dip. I watched from my beach chair, cowering in a towel and shivering, like a boss.

We spent the rest of the day eating 2 peso (15 cent) churros and walking around town before we boarded a bus back to Monterrey. Even in the face of adverse conditions, largely due to Chris’s unwavering determination to have fun, we had a great weekend. I walked up the bus steps, took my seat, and slept very soundly because I knew that nothing that the bus ride could throw at me would be more mentally demanding than the cockroach-on-the-sleeping man conundrum.

A Visit

Last weekend, my dad make the trip down from Atlanta to gain some insight into my life in Mexico. My dad writes a seriously humorous christmas letter about what our family has been up to for the last year – it really is good stuff, let me know if you would like to subscribe.  When I was trying to think about how to sum up the experience of my dad visiting, I made the maverick decision to let him do it. Here is what he had to say:

I prepared for this trip by brushing up on my very limited Spanish language skills. I thought I was reasonably well prepared, but reality hit when I got to Monterrey. Sample exchange at the marketplace:

Me: Bweyness Tardies, Senoir.

Shopkeeper (grimacing to hear his native tongue mutilated by this gringo): BuenosTardes, Senor.

Me: (picking up a T-shirt): Kwando Questas?

Shopkeeper: shakes his head to indicate he has no clue what I’m trying to say

Me: Cuando Cuesta – how much is it?

Shopkeeper: doscientosyvientenuevepesos, senor

Me: (deer in headlights) um….mass dispatchio poor favoor?

Shopkeeper: dos…cientos…..y….viente – nueve….pesos,……senor.

Me: (headlights getting closer) um…….

Shopkeeper finally writes “229” down on a piece of paper.

Headlights swerve around the deer. Deer scampers away from highway.

Before going to Monterrey, I read some news articles about powerful narco-terrorists waging vicious gang wars in northern Mexico. The Mexican army was sent into some cities to battle the gangs, and the gangs allegedly organized “citizen protests” against the troops. This must have been in the back of my mind when I went jogging and took off up a dirt road that climbed into the hills. I found myself running on a rutted dirt road through trash-strewn fields, well away from any houses or buildings. (The kind of place where bodies get dumped.) After a mile or so of this, I noticed a helicopter landing pad (with helicopter) and a Benz, BMW and Jag parked nearby. There was a nice house with a half-dozen muchachos standing around in front of it and watching me with great interest. When I realized that the path I was running on was the driveway to this house, it seemed like a good time to make an abrupt u-turn and head back to town. No point in getting be-headed by narco-terrorists my first day in Mexico.

I also found that my rudimentary Spanish was good enough to ask a passerby for directions, but I was totally incapable of understanding the response. I would just listen until they pointed somewhere, and then walk in that direction until I found what I was looking for or felt lost again, when I would repeat the drill.

The first thing you notice in Monterrey is the gorgeous mountains. These rugged 5000 footers of the Sierra Madre Oriental range surround the city. They are stark and jagged like the Rockies, not rolling and tree-covered like the Appalachians. As soon as you see these beauties, you know you MUST climb them.

We visited Chipinque Park to see the mountains up close and personal. We rode a bus about 30 minutes from town to the park entrance. Everyone got off the bus and we purchased tickets to enter the park for a very reasonable 20 pesos. We grabbed a trail map and started walking. After 2 hours of walking up some really steep trails, we arrived at a big clearing and a big parking lot. (Then we realized that everyone else had gotten back on the bus and and RODE up here.)

We knew from the website that there was a trail to the top of the mountain. The website said you could not hike to the peak without a special permit, and that you had to start before 10AM. (It was now after noon). The ranger at the park entrance told us we could not hike to the peaks. The sign on the trailhead said that we could not hike to the peaks. I was willing to overlook these warnings that were obviously meant for other less competent people, but then we noticed there was a locked gate blocking the entrance to the trail. We were trying to find a way around the locked gate when I experienced a rare attack of good judgment/maturity/common sense and we decided that maybe we shouldn’t hike to that peak after all. Instead, we hiked to a different, more accessible peak (El Pinar), which was steep enough, thank-you. But the view of Monterrey was outstanding and well-worth the 20km trek.

The house where Randall is staying, Casa Azul (spanish for “the house of empty bottles”) is wonderful. There is a beautiful courtyard with an inviting hammock strung between two palm trees (Randall’s work area). There is a rectangular swimming pool in the courtyard, which the landlord thoughtfully filled up when I arrived (It was 95 degrees. In February!). Inside is a small living room with a few chairs centered around a TV that spoke mostly Spanish. The kitchen looked like the kitchen in a fraternity house the night after a big party, but not as neat. The only way from the living room up to the bedrooms is a two story circular staircase with little triangular steps and a metal framework that always seemed like it was an inch from your head. Not something to be trifled with when drinking or hungover.

“I really want to go back to Arkansas”. This was from one of our Mexican taxi drivers talking about the good old days when he lived in Ft. Smith. Randall and I looked at each other and resisted the urge to tell him that Arkansas is considered one of the worst possible places in the whole USA. If he likes it, why crush the man’s dreams?

Another cultural surprise came from the auto mechanic’s shop / outdoor saloon next door to Randall’s house. I would have expected Mexican ranchero music, but the whole time I was there, these guys were playing 1970’s classic rock, in English! Creedence, Doors, Eagles, I felt right at home. Muchas Gracias, Amigos!

If you go out Randall’s front door and make a left, the next door is a little convenience store, like a Quick Trip without any gas. The store was centered around 6 huge coolers full of ice cold single beers. They would give you half off the price if you brought empty bottles back. If you went out Randall’s door to the right, there was a small bakery where you could score a half dozen tasty Mexican pastries for the equivalent of one American dollar. Beer and pastries -what more could you need?

Randall speaks Spanish very well, but he is never going to blend into the crowd in Monterrey due to his height and his curly red hair. While walking down the street, I glanced through a window to see a semi-conscious man laying on a sofa, who looked at Randall and shouted “GUERO!” in the same tone of voice you would use if you saw a ghost. We walked down the same street a few days later, and the same man on the same sofa shouted the same thing: “GUERO!”. (Randall told me this means “handsome foreign person”). Once this happens a few times, you just have to accept the fact that you are a GUERO, and just be the best GUERO you can be.

My “final exam” in Spanish language survival was to take a bus downtown by myself while Randall was in class. I did great. I found the right bus, took it downtown, walked a dozen blocks to the shopping area, and picked up some souvenirs. I was feeling so good I decided to treat myself to a cold beverage. We had been eating Mexican food all weekend, even food from roadside stalls, with no ill effects. So I didn’t give it a second thought as I purchased a large “melon punch” from a vendor on the street. By the time I walked the dozen blocks back to the bus stop, I knew something was terribly wrong. Suffice it to say, this gringo was greatly relieved to make it back to Casa Azul.

 

-Charlie Bourquin

 

Tuesday morning rolled around and it was time to see Pops off to the land of the free and the home of the busy. I was sad to see him go – it had been a really fun weekend. This, however, I say in hindsight because my genius of a father booked a 7:00 AM flight, which means at the moment of goodbyes -4:30 in the morning – while waiting for a taxi that may or may not show up, all I really felt was a burning desire to return to my bed.

Monterrey

Hola a todos, I’ve been in Monterrey a few days now and each one of them has been crazy in its own little way. After flying in, I hailed a taxi to take me to the hostel that I had reservations at (turns out I didn’t). This man was perhaps the fastest speaker of the spanish language I have ever met, which made our conversing look something like the scene from Billy Madison in which the gardener tries to teach Billy Spanish and all he is able to say is “slowwww downnnn”. We eventually found the full hostel that I didn’t have a reservation at, but I survived. I woke up in the morning, looked out a window, and saw the mountains for the first time, which provide a pretty awesome vista from almost anywhere. It is much like living in the foreground of a postcard.

Here are a few pictures http://picasaweb.google.com/RJandsomenumbers/20090108FlightFirstDays?authkey=Y0nJfYM_yU8#.

All of the international students are awesome, there’s about fifty of us form all over the world, and in meeting them I have learned a lot. First and perhaps foremost, never tell an australian the the coffee you are drinking is very good, unless it is Australian coffee, which, by the way, was described to me as a latte. After they tell you in the nicest little australian accented way that the great coffee that you are drinking sucks compared to an Australian latte, DO NOT tell them that you know what a latte is and that you drink them from starbucks frequently. If you do, you’re in for a thirty minute coffee lecture.

I’m very partial to the french students because I’m fluent in French. When I say that I’m fluent in french, I mean that Isabelle Bouchard taught be how to say “I don’t know where my hat is” and that I remembered for some strange reason how to say “I am not in the garage.” from 7th and 8th grade french class. I’ve found that all one has to do to start an interesting conversation is approach, say bonjour, and as fluently-sounding as possible, state one of the previous facts. This will result in a confused look followed by an awkward pause, at which point I will state the other. By now, the frenchie with whom I am speaking has figured out that I don’t know french and laughter ensues. I now greet my french friends by reiterating that I am not in the garage.

They speak spanish in Mexico, which I realized as soon as I tried to do anything that wasn’t in the airport. This has been going pretty well. Taxi drivers as universally hard to understand, but I have been hanging in there. I received perhaps the biggest compliment that an American can get in Mexico the other day when Carlos from Chihuahua told me that I am not a gringo. This made me happy. Mexican slang is pretty awesome, I’m starting to pick up on that. My favorite saying is “no mames juey”, literally meaning “don’t suck me dude”, which is the mexican equivalent of “no way”. Unfortunately, the things one learns in spanish 1, a class that I paid no attention in, are extremely important. I’ve had to re-learn how to say the alphabet (I spell my name for someone 4-5 times daily), the days of the week, and numbers. Luckily, I retained “Dónde está el baño”, which I use quite frequently, and “Cerveza, por favor”, which I hope to utilize soon.

The food here is phenomenal. I eat at the café at the university for lunch, where one gets a bowl of soup, a plate of rice, beans, and a beef or chicken dish that changes daily, a dessert and a 16oz fountain drink for 54 pesos, or 5 dollarsish. By far my favorite part about mexican food is that no matter what is on one’s plate, it does not matter if it touches, mixes with, or is consumed at the same time as whatever else is on one’s plate. This fascinates me, and I often draw pictures with my food as beans are very malleable.

They insist in playing the most horrible american music here. So far I’ve heard Celiene Dion, that song from grease, and soldja boy, amongst others. This saddens me profoundly. On another americana note, all taxi drivers in monterrey know who the atlanta falcons are. Everyone else knows atlanta for coke and CNN. One of my roomates, Juan Pablo from Chile listened to my band’s new song last night and loved it, so I’m hoping to fly the boys down for low end honey’s Mexico world tour 2009. A new song from our recording session is up at http://www.lowendhoney.com .

There is much more that has happened and is happening, which is fun and exciting, so I will keep you guys updated with a post later this week.

-Randall

Expectations

As you all may or may not know, I’m headed to Monterrey, México for the semester. I’ll be studying at the Universidad de Monterrey, living in an apartment (which I haven’t leased yet) with roommates ( that I haven’t met yet) and taking classes ( that I haven’t been able to sign up for yet). I’ve been doing paperwork and research about programs since August, so I’m pretty excited to finally be leaving. It hit me hard that I won’t be in Athens next semester this past week when I had to say bye to people like Burgis, Jones, Lyndsay, Becky, and Choo Choo’s, but it just recently hit me that what goes along with not being in Athens is actually being in Monterrey. Here are some expectations that I have:

1. Food – I’ve been wrestling with the concept of “don’t drink the water” as it pretains to Mexico. I don’t think I will be able to avoid everything that has been touched by water for five months, so I have made the executive decision to go all out when I arrive and let montezuma ruin my life for a little bit. I predict that this will suck. Once I get past that little hiccup though, i’m sure the food is going to be exactly like the menú at taco bell. Ok I’m kidding. The mexican food is going to be awesome, but I am extremely worried about the availability of cheap chinese food. I’ll keep you updated on this.

2. Class – My classes will be in spanish, so I see myself following along adequately with the lectures and discussions, hearing something slightly wrong, raising my hand to comment about it, then telling the professor that his or her cow is going to be sick when I meant to say that water bottles require more water to produce than is actually in them, only to be answered by him or her saying, “that’s nice, but we’re talking about the mexican war for independence.” I really do foresee that I will have things that I want to say that I will not share because I won’t be able to translate the thought or just straight don’t want to embarrass myself.

3. Social Life – I fancy myself a pretty outgoing, funny person…In english. Not only will I have to translate my life into spanish, but I will also have to remove any pop culture/obscure movie references, which (experiment and try this at home while talking to someone) is like, hard. I see this resulting in many awkward silences and “eh…ehm…no entiendo”s. I’m banking on the fact that the population thinks I’m cool because I’m taller than 5’10”.

4. Assimilation – being taller than 5’10”, the national maximum height for mexican citizens, I don’t know how well I will blend in. This, however, has its advantages, as I will be able to view concerts with ease, get gatos out of trees, and ride all of the rides at Six Flags, mexico. I plan to tan a bit, and do my best to grow a mustache, which will result in my looking like David Mullen the week before spring break, but with a bad mustache.

5. Escapes Back to Things American – Depending on how I deal with the shock of lifestyle change, I could see myself doing a number of things to stay in touch with my inner Amurrrica. My first thought would be to watch the Daytona 500 in a public place on ESPN360, screaming “Go four car” wildly while wearing jorts and my favorite cutoff (already packed them). Other things will include McDonalds, Budwieser, and perhaps a trip to the great state of Texas, where the only thing bigger than its’ land area is its’ ego. Sorry Texans.

I fly (for essentially, the first time) out on the 6th, and will be in Mexico until May 31st. I’ll miss everyone (sans Daniel Lewis), and it’d make my day to see that anyone reads this. Happy New Year, Go Dawgs, Love and Respect, Salutations, Long Live America, -Randall