I spent 8 hours trying to write a blog to go along with the below photos, but it just didn’t work out.  Whether it’s “writer’s block” or “Andy can’t write”, we’ll never know.  The problem was that I came up with a bunch of random ideas and tried to write something based on them, rather than write random ideas based on something productive.  The funniest thing I could come up with involved Simpson brand orange juice; OJ of the Simpson variety will surely make you better at football and killing people.

Without further time wastage, below are my photos of Colombia and Northern Ecuador.  Two months in Colombia and two weeks in Ecuador have left me speechless . . . literally.  And I thought Central America was fun!  Please enjoy my very amateur photography!

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First stop is Caye Culker, Belize.  This is the most relaxed spot to be found on the Caribbean coast of Central America.  Sand, sunshine and sea breeze mix with humourous and cheery attitudes to provide any traveller with the widely coveted Caribbean experience.  Cruise a sailboat to your favorite dive spot, sip rum punch and watch the sun set to the taste of homemade banana bread.  At nightfall it’s time for a search around the island for a savory, yet reasonably priced meal.  At the North end of the island is world famous Jolly Roger’s Seafood.  From the side of the road Jolly Roger will coax you to try his famous grilled snapper and shrimp.  Be sure to be truthful when telling him you will return the next day to eat.  If you don’t eventually return with money and an appetite Jolly Roger may resort to some unique sales techniques to further whet your holiday hunger.  Be on your toes, because the conversation may go as follows.  ”You boyz be f__kin wit me.  You always tellin me tomorrow, tomorrow you gon eat here.  And you neva do.  You f__ken lyin to me.”

Jolly Roger’s bicycle sitting, gold chain laden companion may add from the most heartfelt depths of his wife beater, “You boyz be liaz.  You be lyin to Jolly Roja”

If this three pronged punch of swearing, yelling and name calling still doesn’t get your juices flowing, Jolly Roger will then offer a pleasant salutation, “I’m done wit you boyz, get da f__k out my face”.

After such a Jolly experience, the rest of Belize will be a breeze.  Cruise slowly along the narrow highways behind a shark tooth painted Volkswagen van.  After a quick five days in Belize you will find yourself in Flores, Guatemala.  Another island town, it’s set briskly in the middle of Lake Peten.  There is plenty on offer here for travellers of all types.  Stroll the cobblestone streets to find crisp, refreshing mountain vistas in all directions.  Stop at a locally owned bakery or bistro to sample pleasantly prepared culinary varieties.  A refreshing dip in Lake Peten can be just what the body needs as the sun sets behind the surrounding mountains.  As day passes and the night heats up, salsa, reggaeton and electronica will get hips shaking and parties rolling until reasonable hours of the morning.  The tranquility here allows a safe return home to your accommodation.  Whether sleeping in a hotel, hostel or on the roof of a Norwegian’s 1971 Volkswagen, the island is small and the walk home leisurely.  The chirping sound of the island’s birds may soothingly wake you in the morning.  Listen carefully and you may hear the breaking bottles and passionate swears the resonate through the morning air.  What you hear are street fights amongst locals.  They are yet to return home because the night’s cocaine continues to run strong in their systems.  Fortunately they have put aside their typical partying to put on an early morning performance.  If you’re lucky enough to be sleeping on the roof of a Volkswagen in a parking lot, you’ll have a front row view of fist to face contact.  The performers’ sense of audience will be impressively demonstrated by the swearing done in English, rather than in Spanish.  Taste the sweet irony as you realize that the use of a bottle as a weapon is in fact a form of recycling.  Slip calmly from the roof of the van and ask the Norwegians politely to drive away.  A patient wait till the sun rises will subside the fighting and allow you to retrieve any of your possessions left in the parking lot.  Be it a motorbike, car or digital camera, chances are the fighters have been too busy with their violence to resort to vandalizing your possessions.

With minimal sleep from the night before, you may not be ready for a road trip at all.  Go anyway, what better way to soak in contrast than to do it tired on foreign roads with a motorbike?  A charming town by the name of Rio Dulce awaits.  A few days spent there will prepare you for an adventurous trip into the mountains along a secluded dirt road.  As the road cuts, burns, winds and turns the magnificent Rio Cahaboncita thunders by.  Climbing higher and higher into the mountains with increasingly more breathtaking scenery, you’ll see why Guatemala has become such a relaxing destination for the well worn traveller.  Up, up the road climbs through green vegetation and steep hills that welcome all who are willing to visit.  High in the mountains Mayan villages can be found with bustling markets, traditional forms of dress and languages that stem from ancient Mayan civilizations.  As an outsider you will feel welcome.  The smiling, innocent demeanor of locals will call for you to stay the night.  Stop a moment to ask directions from a well dressed local.  He may ask immediately if you are Mormon.  Feeling that Mormonism is slightly out of place in the Guatemalan highlands is normal.  When the conversation continues it will be made apparent that the man you are talking to is Mormon.  Step back and absorb the contrast.  One of life’s important realities is that one should never underestimate the far reaching power of the world’s Latter Day Saints.  Adding further to your sense of contrast will be the fact that the Mormon you’re talking to is of indigenous Mayan decent and lives in a village of less than a hundred people, all of them of indigenous Mayans.  Before you move on with your trip, be sure to listen very closely to the Mormon’s words.  You certainly wouldn’t want to miss his advice regarding roadside banditry.  Three times he has been robbed at gunpoint in the next village.  There’s no need to worry on a motorbike, the bandits typically block the road with rocks that a bike can simply swerve around.  “Be sure to drive fast”, he may say, “for if you don’t they still may be able to take you down”.  After run ins with high strung Caribbeans and street fights in quiet colonial towns, you’ll be happy to take in the contrast of travelling 80 kilometers of mountain-set road eagerly glancing around every corner.  The anticipation of being robbed at gun point will pump enough adrenaline through your system to enhance your amalgamation with the far reaching landscapes.  Sure at a distance the machetes carried by locals look like guns, but what would contrast be without the element of surprise?  Arrival at your destination will be one of relief.  Sleep well, for after your brief stay in Lanquin contrast will continue to call your name throughout the most unexpected parts of Guatemala. . . . . . . . . . . 

I personally recommend booking with contrast tours for a visit to any part of the world.  It’s hard to imagine an island paradise with folk who ain’t dat nice.  In fact most locals on Caye Culker were happy, friendly and downright Caribbean.  A run in with the attitude of Jolly Roger was a definite reminder that although the Caribbean is beautiful, there are many Belizeans who live in less than ideal conditions.  Dare I say that the world needs more ironically named fish salesman?  Gang activity is most prevalent in Belize City and it spills over into all parts of the country.  Being exposed to such activity is bound to breed attitudes more aggressive than the ones common in Calgary and other tranquil cities.  That being said, street fights happen on a daily basis in Calgary.  For some reason witnessing one in Guatemala made me feel more exposed than usual, but much less exposed than gnarstars.com would be if Oprah were to endorse it.  Nonetheless, that exposure contrasted with the natural beauty of Lake Peten is what really opened my eyes to the fact that there is violent people everywhere.  For some reason when given an opposite entity as a point of reference, the world appears much more vivid.  When staring at the greener grass on the other side of the fence it’s always a good idea to hop over and take a look.  The contrast of beautiful foreign grass with the fear that Sting is watching creates a fascinatingly insightful experience.                       

It has been explained to me on numerous occasions how much Mexico and the United States suck. For various reasons I should apparently stay away from both countries. Parting words of a Mexican dwelling American advised me to stay away from Mexicans. As the man drove away in his pick up he affectionately added a profound “Americans are the best”, accompanied by a rather passionate thumbs up.

After hearing this advice I immediately looked for flights to Atlanta with hopes of touring the Coca Cola factory. Upon realizing I couldn’t afford a flight and I’m much more into Pepsi, I chose to continue my journey through a country of a hundred million people with whom I should apparently never associate.

While attempting to continue my journey I encountered another American who offered an inventory of places where Americans can be found. To my surprise the list did not include Wal Mart, Domino’s Pizza or the Tommy Hilfiger sweat shop. However, the list did come with some subjective material. This same man who directed me towards Americans also explained his frustration with the overly conservative culture in the US. If this wasn’t ironic enough, he went on to explain his disgust at the number of homosexuals and transvestites in Southern California. I think the record already shows that to dream of a liberalized America without homosexuals is to pray for a Catholic Church without pedophiles. Does the phrase “let’s grant liberty to all who are normal” sound flawed to anyone?

Speaking of dreams, are they not just a sub concious perception of reality? Can dreams eventually become reality? This is where Stoc enters. On the boat ride from La Paz to Mazatlan Stoc disclosed many points of view that came across as rather “out to lunch”. He is travelling through Mexico while volunteering very personal information to all who are willing to listen. Stoc lives off of a trust fund. When I asked where the fund comes from I was slammed with a wall of drama more complicated than a fantasy novel. Between deaths of family members and complicated pregnancies Stoc was still able to fit in spirituality and a few conspiracy theories. Here are some of his finest quotables:

1 - “We had our baby at home because I thought the Illuminadi would kill it. It ended up stillborn anyway.”

2 - “Eventually the Illuminadi will crumble and I will be left to rule as a just King.”

3- “I can surf anything. I get big really easily.”

4 - “And that was the first time a Mexican woman paid me to marry her.”

I won’t take the time to explain the Illuminadi, but I highly suggest looking them up and drawing one’s own conclusions.

If such people come out of the US perhaps its wise I stay away. Many Mexicans I have met would certainly agree. Jim the tow truck driver at one point occupied the Spanish side of my brain for several hours. He described the US as a troubled place filled with drug violence, abortion and bill payments. I consider this to be an unfair stereotype for many reasons, but mostly because the national anthem’s conclusion is yet to be changed to say “drugged up land of the fees and the home of dead babies”.

At times the US can be likened to a rich teenager with a thyroid problem. His friends hate him for being fat. They don’t understand why he’s fat. They don’t know why they hate fat people. The only things they’re sure of are his swimming pool and hot sister. Both of which would become off limits if they were to offend him to his face.

A 20 year old Mexican female once ranted to me about the racist Americans and how their laziness forces them to be reliant on Mexican workers. She also mentioned that Hitler may have been right about the evil intentions of Jewish people. This comment was based on the conflict in Israel. I couldn’t help but feel it clashed with her previous idea that Americans are the racist ones. I guess I should remove Israel from my list of places to go? The girl also believed that the drug problem is rather one sided because only Americans, not Mexicans are the ones that use drugs. This has been disproven to me many times. While sharing a campfire with Mexican students, both joints and bags of flex were passed around. The students talked about flexing passionately and even recited poems about flexing. As I started to warm up for an imminent body building competition I realized the others were rather skinny. Not only were they skinny, but breathing deeply into and out of bags that contained industrial strength glue. I enjoyed their flexing related poetry, felt no pressure to try flexing and unfortunately had no wood furniture that needed repair. How the word “flex” relates to huffing glue is far beyond my conversational level of Spanish, but at least I learned something that day.

In Guadalajara I willingly accepted a free bike tour of the town. The guide was American born and had moved to Mexico to “challenge” himself. As we approached a section of the sidewalk with an expensive car parked on it, the guide halted. He explained how the Mexican elite tend to make a point of screwing others over in pompous ways. Being a dedicated fan of the Ironicles of Narnia, the guide chose to scratch the entire side of the car with his handlebars while members of the group simply went around the car. This method of “sticking it” to the man appeared about as subversive as writing a verbose blog on a website that’s supposed to be about action sports. Look for the Ironicles of Narnia to immediately open in human behavior everywhere.

In the last two months my eyes have been opened to many types of people to avoid and places that suck. It’s incredible how awful my life would be if I were to believe everyone’s stories. I may take that job at Websters after all. My first task would be to align “opinionated” and “misinformed” as synonyms. One’s perception is their reality no matter how narrow or broad. My perception is certainly changing. When a man from LA explained to me that Mexicans are poor because they’re an inferior species I realized that we are all wrong. When he followed up that he hates Mexicans as much as he does blacks I dreamt of a place we can all go to be wrong together. In this place we will worship the gods we have within, rather than fight about who’s invented gods are correct. If everyone kneels before ignoraitis, prejudonomous and hipocrates maybe they will all get along. Only then will Mick Jagger admit that getting old really isn’t a drag. The song can then be rewritten to say “the racist dragon is getting old”.

After a two week trip inland, I’m surfing my way down the Michoacan coast towards Ixtapa. It’s a hell of a time despite spending more time under waves than on them. I have uploaded photos for your viewing pleasure. If you don’t understand my references to the Rolling Stones, please continue to enjoy your childhood.

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In late February there was no hot water, the toilet was clogged and I remained in Ensenada/San Miguel without a licence plate. Each day’s activities would be interfered with by planning time and place for bowel movements and watching for neighbors while urinating in the garden. However the surf was great and the cold showers weren’t so bad in the warm Mexican climate. Most importantly my surfing was improving and good times were rolling.

The transition from February to March presented three good things. A toilet plunger was found, the hot water connected and my licence plate was on its way. No longer a public urinator, I surfed and it was good. I tracked my licence plate online which was also good. As I arrived at the beloved post office to receive my package of freedom all was good. The good became fear minutes later upon the realization that my new plate also had a new number on it. A new number meant I needed new registration.

An extra five days wait was written in the stars. I stressed, whined and complained for the whole time. Never before have I acted like such a spoiled brat. Billions of people who work 18 hour days for under a dollar a day and have never taken a vacation will surely feel my pain?

Departing from San Miguel allowed me to reflect. I had met mostly Americans. All of them generous, some of them story telling alcoholics. One of those alcoholics directed me to Campo Cuatro Casas. Knowing first hand the intricate relationship between drinking, storytelling and short term memory loss, I questioned the director’s credibility. I questioned it not due to prejudice, but because he polished a case of Cerveza Del Pacifico that day. Nonetheless the man meant well, gave a great deal on surf gear and saved a bunch of money on his car insurance.

After reading online that Cuatro Casas exists and is not the destination of an alcoholic’s practical joke, I set off from Ensenada on March 3 2009. The ride went smoothly, but Cuatro Casas was empty and had very little surf going on. It was still a beautiful place to be and I took a dramatic photo of an old set of free weights. Realizing that my chances of someday governing California were slim, I decided against working out.

March 4 2009 took me to Santa Rosalita. In Northern Baja, this empty fishing village is close to a surf break known as “The Wall”. Failing to find the wall allowed me to run into friends from San Diego. A few beers ahead, they spoke of the inconceivable. They spoke of a myth. They spoke of a girl driving around Baja looking for surf who happened to be camping on the point a kilometre away. In movies, dreams and strange lands such as British Columbia women like this exist. In most realities they can’t attend a public washroom without a friend going with them. Knowing first hand the relationship between drinking, storytelling and short term memory loss, I questioned the credibility of the story tellers.

The next day she appeared from the hills. A white van with surfboard and kayak strapped to the roof drove passed my camp. Her story of breaking down, running five miles, swimming a couple more and climbing onto a fishing boat to ask for help is not mine to tell, but is definitely worth mentioning.

In La Paz succesful tire changing and import permit purchasing occurred in quaint harmony with intrusion on tattooed men viewing homosexual fetish pornography on the hostel’s public computer. With the momentum of these three good things I left quickly to tour the southern cape of Baja California.

First stop was Pescadero. Thanks to great surf and awesome people I stayed for five nights, pitching my tent at Pescaero Surf Camp. Since the area has more theft than if the Cookie Monster lived in a girl guide camp, I was more than happy to spend 100 pesos a night for some security. During my time spent in Pescadero four of my friends were robbed five times. After witnessing three break and enters into trailers and two into cars I was glad to have avoided camping alone on the beach. It would later be made clear that the cookie monster owns property in the area and his love of sugar led to love for a different white powdered substance. With his pension from Sesame Street dwindling he has resorted to robbing tourists to support himself. He will soon star on the hit TV show “Intervention” in an episode titled “Snow Monster”. It is still unknown to the public whether or not he intends to clean up his act.

From Pescadero I headed South to San Jose Del Cabo a day late to get massive surf that had just passed. Most surfers still spoke of the day before and those who didn’t obviously had a bad day on the ocean and could no longer talk or breath. Looking at my intended campsite, I calculated the probability of theft to be higher than the Cookie Monster. Instead of risking it, I asked around about shipwrecks beach.

Enter American generosity. Or is it West Coast generosity? Three guys from California and Washington took interest in my travels and offered a place to sleep two miles from shipwrecks. As self proclaimed funmakers of those who are undeserving, the identities of Wight Rodd, Dickr Hardbern and Roty Turd have been disguised using pseudonyms. It should be clear that these three certainly do not deserve to be made fun of. Great surf and great laughs were had with them and I won’t forget their west coast generosity.

I waited at shipwrecks for a climber from Squamish and two Aussies with a motorbike. They arrived with thousands of Pesos in beer and demeanor that spread beach parties like wild fire. I had met the trio in Pescadero and upon their arrival we partied like Scientologists along the East Cape of Southern Baja. We found surf, snorkeling and camping the whole way and thoroughly enjoyed this group of three good things.

Now hanging in Mazatlan, I’m happy to be on the mainland. I’d like to tell everyone that with Australians I’m in good hands, but I don’t want to lie. They are currently generating travel income by attending paid time share sales presentations.

I should also mention that I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. If anyone has suggestions for what to get please keep them to yourself because I already have Carpe Diem on my neck and a chick with a laser gun defending a moon on my back.

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Pronounced “La pildora del manana siguente”, the morning after pill in these parts is similar to the one in Canada, but when describing it the word “women” is replaced with “men” and the phrase “accidental pregnancy” with “inevitable growth of harmful microorganisms”.  It should also be noted that the words “prevention of” are held constant.  That being said I was out of money.  This was not only why I couldn’t take a cab home, but also why I ran blisteringly fast away from the transexual.  I slowed down upon the realization that the night yielded a quarter moon.  My years of experience have taught me that a transexual’s high heels will turn into rollerblades only if the moon is full.  For more on this topic one can attend a viewing of the film “An American Transexual in Paris”.  With nothing of value on hand besides my Lunar Alternative Lifestyle Behavioral Information Chart, I entertained the idea of walking home along the highway.  I began the 11km journey from Ensenada to San Miguel on foot and had plenty of time to reflect on the night’s events.  Somewhere between the thief, the faggot and the fiesta I had lost Tim and blown all my cash.

It was to be our first night at Carnaval.  We decided this as the beers started flowing.  While moving from our living room to our car we were stopped dead in our tracks by a Mexican Premonition Spirit.  The spirit strolled comfortably into our apartment and placed his beer on the kitchen table.  His blank, bloodshot stare went well with his frail body, patchy facial hair and clear desire to remain silent.  The conversation began with the realization that the bringer of our premonition was not in fact a spirit but was able to float by consuming recreational drugs.  After some introductions and peaceful ice breakers we understood that the premonition drug addict was trying to quit drugs and was also seeking spiritual counsel from our apartments’s previous occupant.  As the premonition peacefully left in his car, we remained unaware that the universe had just delivered us a message: “You’re about to be slapped in the face by the Ensenada experience”.

Being out of touch with our spiritual selves, we were unable to understand the premonition at the time.  We continued into town as planned.  However our plan never involved picking up an attache.  He appeared from the shadow as we parked the car and he began insisting we drink from his mystery cup.  While claiming the cup was full of tequila, he explained that he was unable to drink from it because tequila is too strong.  Since I was wearing my “I like to be Drugged and Robbed” T-shirt in harmony with my “Easy Target” male thong, I drank from the attache’s mystery cup, passed out and woke up robbed, naked and dead in the ocean.  My fanny pack, camera case and Lonely Planet guide to being mugged in Mexico were nowhere to be found, but my socks were still pulled up almost knee high to where the gap between my shorts and socks began.  I no longer had my suncreen and couldn’t figure out how the attache had chosen me as a target.  As I laid dead in the ocean I floated passed the drug addict from earlier in the evening who laughed and cackled with an “I told you so” look on his face.  He was also dead because his role as a pro tourism drug addict premonition had been fulfilled.

Fortunately this is not the script of a B-rate hollywood film.  My life does not star Brendan Fraser.  Nor does it involve innacurate portrayals of “hostile” foreign countries interspliced with ignorant one liners.  In fact the creation of this B movie fell through when Brendan Fraser wouldn’t drink the tequila based on his scientologist views.  By that I mean I didn’t accept the mystery drink because I didn’t want to be drugged and robbed.

We entered the Carnaval grounds and it became clear this man was armed with substances to allure all ages.  When he realized tequila wouldn’t work he began to offer us chocolates.  Once again the B-movie had an opportunity to move towards climax, but neither Tim nor I accepted chocolate or tequila from the stranger that had been following us for about 20 minutes.

As the attache followed us he rambled about “all the girls that we can meet” and “how many people he knows” and “which bars we can get into for free”.  He told us he was from South Central LA.  This was believable because his english was fluent, but it didn’t do much for his credibility.  It wasn’t clear whether or not he was friends with Dr. Dre.  We stopped many times to buy drinks at the roadside bars, but I refused to consume anything or spend money with the attache around.  Something had to be done.  I considered telling him to go away, but got some advice from a bartender.  After having a brief conversation with the attache, the bartender confirmed that the attache was out to use Tim and I for our money.  He suggested going to the police.  To the police is where I went with the bartender as a translator.  Within minutes the attache was gone, lost in a group of armour clad riot officers as they coaxed him into the darkness behind the rock and roll sound stage.

Relieved, we retreated to the edge of the festival grounds and sat down inside an empty bar to evaluate our situation.  If the attache was released would he know we had sold him out?  Would he come looking for us?  Would he be waiting at Tim’s car offering us cotton candy?  As time passed we worried less.  We decided to leave the bar and return to the party outside.  This proved difficult because we ran into a homosexual who simply couldn’t admit to himself that Tim and I were straight.  I drew an imaginary line between us and explained to this man that he was on the gay side and we were on the straight side.  Despite my best efforts he didn’t seem to get the point.  I was eventually able to bypass the homosexual by distracting him with a photo of Boy George.  I didn’t stick around long enough to explain to anyone why I had such a large photo of Boy George in my wallet.  I was also unable to explain the large bundle of sticks in the middle of the street outside the bar.  It was the largest faggot I have ever seen at a festival.

Throughout the streets were drink bars, snack shacks and sound stages displaying an array of music.  We parked ourselves at the electronic stage and went crazy with the massive crowd of locals.  Tim and I agreed to meet at the hot dog stand if separated.  I checked back at the stand many times and never found Tim.  It was difficult to make Mexican friends with my terrible spanish, but I enjoyed a few terrible conversations with some locals.  The police cleared out the streets and Tim was gone.

After my previously described transexual run-in I chose to walk home.  After 3km I started hitch hiking.  I was picked up by an SUV with a 300lb human in the back.  I couldn’t see well in the dark but the human very well could have been a woman with manly features or a wig wearing fat dude.  Regardless of genetic details I was uncomfortable with the repeated hand hold and knee touching attempts.  I knew there was whale watching in Mexico but I never thought it possible to get so affectionately close to one.  The ride became much more pleasant and spacious upon beaching the whale at the side of the road and continuing on to San Miguel.  Being environmentalists, the driver and I made sure the whale was able to get to his or her car safely.

Before going to sleep I referred to my Lunar Alternative Lifestyle Information Chart.  The quarter moon for the week of Carnaval indicates “all lifestyles active and vigilant during night time hours”.  If there’s ever a full moon for Carnaval I’ll be sure to bring bear mace and a chastity belt.

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