SAFARI, a memoir

A travel and surfing experience in Mexico.

Two of the many benefits of being in college during the middle and late sixties were: one, if you were in college then you were not getting shot at in Vietnam, and two, when Christmas break came you had a whole month off, time enough for a safari! In this particular case, I don’t mean the gun toting kind, where one was obligated to further endanger some already endangered species. Rather, the surfing safari kind, where the only requirement was to have as much fun as possible.

 

My college roommate Glenn, had a terrific VW camper, equipped with a superb sound system. The van was in excellent operating condition, at the start of the trip anyway. First, we were headed for Culiacan to look up a friend and deliver a package. After making that connection, we planned to head for San Blas, Mexico, which was several hundred miles down the west coast of mainland Mexico. We heard stories about a surf spot, (which will go unnamed) where one could ride a wave for and inordinately long way, in warm tropical waters. We found out later, the local fisherman dumped their old bait in the vicinity, and also, did a lot of shark fishing in the murky water just off the surf break. Fortunately, we were unaware of the better than average probability of being consumed by the “Men in Gray Suits,” while our legs tangled in the water, as we swapped bigger than life stories, stoically waiting for waves. 

 

That would not be the only occasion on the trip we would deftly slip through some real hazards with an expression of ignorant bliss on our faces. God looked after us most of the time, but not all the time. There were occasions when the Divine Master would give us fleeting insights into some of the darker possibilities of traveling in Mexico.

 

I can remember one incident at the beginning of the trip while we were driving through the endless expanse of the Sonora desert. One of us drove; the other would lie on the bed in the back of the camper, and immerse themselves in the sounds that were emanating from two large speakers in the roof, right over our heads. After a couple of hours of being prone and bombarded by Jimmy Hendrix, you became a bit spaced-out. I’ll be honest; there was some Marijuana involved. My turn was coming up to drive, so I decided I had better relief myself so I would be fully prepared for my two-hour stint at the wheel.

 

Glenn pulled the van over, and I headed out into the unforgiving desert, fully prepared to leave a deposit there. Being cautious by nature, I had two things on my mind: rattlesnakes and cacti. When I found my spot, I carefully perused the landscape looking for any possible hazards. Everything checked out O.K., and I assumed the position, well almost. On the way down, two inches shy of my lowest trajectory, my butt sat smack dab on top of a small thorny cactus! To this day, I don’t understand how it got there, but there it was, and so was my bottom, pierced and bleeding. 

 

My first reaction, as you might expect, would normally be to stand bolt upright and scream a long string of profanities, and that was exactly what I did. It was no simple matter to retrieve the three or four spines that stayed with me after I stood up. During this close encounter of the painful kind, I had the eerie feeling I was being observed by something. Invigorated by a heavy dose of the “Willies,” I jumped in the van, and started my two hours at the wheel, a little intimated and perplexed. How did that cactus get there anyway? Oh, Mexico…

 

         “I don’t know about you Glenn, but when I was out there in the desert I got kind of spooked. It felt like someone or something was watching me. I really checked out the ground carefully beforehand, but I still managed to sit on a cactus.”

Trying to look concerned and not laugh, Glenn said, “It’s a bit creepy out there, just dead silence. After listening to music hour after hour it’s hard to immediately switch to no sound at all.”

“I guess you’re right. That sounds like a decent explanation, but I sure had an eerie feeling.”  

 

After hours of driving, we pulled into Culiacan around noon exhausted and wondering how we would ever find Clinton, no address, nothing accept the cookies from Clint’s mother. As we drove down the main drag of town, I spotted two tall white guys with white shirts and skinny black ties; they stood out like two redwoods in the desert. We pulled up next to them, and sure enough, it was Clint, who was extremely surprised to see us, and most happy to see the cookies. 

 

Clinton took us back to his small apartment and told us about the murder of the chief of police the day before. He was machine gunned to death on the steps of the police station by local drug lords, who were apparently miffed by the chief’s lack of cooperation concerning their trade. While I was taking a shower, Clint tried to explain to Glenn what he was doing in Mexico. At the time, I had no desire to be converted. Now, I wish I had taken more interest in Clint’s presentation; Glenn seemed to have been thoroughly entertained by the experience. All I know about the encounter there was a felt board involved, and some cut outs of different characters placed in some order of importance in the Mormon world order. Glenn resisted the temptation of being “Mormonized,” so we were on the road again, headed for San Blas. 

 

         As we were driving out of town Glenn said to me, “I don’t see how they get anyone to believe that stuff.”

         I said, “It’s no more radical than believing you’ll have seventeen virgins in heaven if you die a martyr, or there is some dude dressed in red with a pitchfork ready to stick you and me with what we have already done in life.”

         “What you say is true I guess. There sure a lot of oddball beliefs floating around this planet.”

         “You got that right amigo. I think it all boils down to the same thing; people are afraid of dying, so they try to carve out the best scenario for what will happen when we croak. When I die I just hope I go out in a flash of glory.”

 

The day we left Clinton, we headed directly for San Blas. Glenn and I were both anxious to get our surfboards in the water, and experience the legendary surf we had heard so much about. As I mentioned earlier, rumor had it that there was a point near the town of San Blas where a surfer could ride a wave for a half mile, or possibly more under the right conditions.

 

We pushed hard that day, and arrived at the surf spot about dusk, exhausted. Under normal California conditions, dusk was an excellent time to surf. It’s called the “evening glass-off,” when the waves are smooth and there is little or no wind. The lack of wind was what turned out to be our undoing. 

 

Between the imagined waves and us was a jungle barrier. We could hear the waves, but we didn’t know how far away they were. We never found out either. I had on a pair of cowboy boots and a bathing suit, Glenn had on similar attire except he had sandals instead of boots. We headed into the jungle like two rhinos, nine-foot-long surfboards under our arms. The first time I realized the jungle was not particularly benign, was when I lightly rubbed up against a bush and got a large scratch on my arm, it bled. That was not the last of my blood that jungle would acquire. 

 

About this time, we both started to realize that in our exuberance we might have made a crucial mistake. Then they hit No-See-Ums. They are called No-See-Ums for obvious reasons. Even with 20/20 vision, one couldn’t see the little buggers, and the b******s bite like alligators!

 

“Glenn is anything biting on you?”

“S**t yes, but I can’t even see what it is! It stings like a b***h!” Glenn screamed.

“Me too, and every plant seems to have something sharp or pointed on it, and did you see those red ants? There must have been a million all in one line.”

Glenn shouted, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You won’t get any argument out of me!”

 

We ran like two maniacs through the jungle, with the dreaded insects in hot pursuit. Sensing that we were vulnerable, the jungle took every opportunity to take a cheap shot at our bodies, as we propelled ourselves through the jungle in near panic back to the van. 

 

We left our boards on the ground, jumped into the van, and hastily debriefed on what had just transpired. Mistake number one, never go into the jungle at sunset, best time for No-See-Ums. Mistake number two, never make mistake number one. While we were working on developing our learning curve, the No-See-Ums were congregating around the van planning their next move. Strangely, they seemed to be attracted to white. Maybe that was why they liked us so much. For some unknown reason, they perched on a white decal on the van’s window. Only then could you actually see them in their black, teaming millions, and ill-defined mass of predatory life.

 

After the insect attack, Glenn and I found a place to stay near the beach called Pepe’s Colon. It was a run-down two-story hotel, administered by a likable character named Pepe. In some ways, Pepe was a father figure, and like a father, he had regulations that needed to be followed. One of the most confining rules was the curfew, in by eleven o’clock. I barely remember what the rooms were like. I know there was a shower caked with mold, it dribbled a not too generous amount of rust colored water. The room also had small beds that did little to contain my six-foot length, and the mattresses were extra thin. Better than the alternative, the not so friendly jungle, and those pesky, bloodthirsty No-See-Ums.

 

After situating ourselves in the room, we headed for the town of San Blas with a warning from Pepe, “I lock door at eleven.” San Blas was a typical Mexican town, built around a square where the teenagers gawked at each other and promenaded around. The boys circled clockwise, and girls, with their flirtatious looks, walked counter clockwise. We found a small bar on one corner of the plaza that would have been a perfect set for a movie. It was dark inside, with some rough looking local clientele eyeballing us as we entered. The thing that truly gave the place considerable ambiance was the alligator fenced off in the corner of the room. Customers would throw bits of food to the fellow. Having the gator there gave the place an exotic, dangerous feel; it was unquestionably a great bar. 

 

We downed a few beers, and tried to blend into the woodwork as best we could and take it all in. Later in the evening, the bar became strangely quiet for no apparent reason. Then I noticed there was a man silhouetted in the door, a large man. He wore a cowboy hat and had a pistol draped around his waist like a Texas gunslinger. His stance was what made him look impressive and intimidating, legs far apart as if he was going to pull his gun.

 

“Hey, Glenn check out that dude standing in the door. He looks like a character straight out of a spaghetti western. Don’t make it obvious, just sneak a peek.”

Glenn gave the guy a quick sideways glance, “Man you’re right. I wonder what he is all about. Definitely doesn’t look too friendly. Looks like he’s packing a forty-four magnum. That could put a hole in you big enough to toss a basketball through.”

 

The people in the bar remained quiet, as this desperado entered and began questioning a few of the locals seated at the bar. After a few minutes, he left, and that’s when we found out he was a “Federale.” Many of law officers in Mexico were corrupt. The federal police had a lot of power, and a deserved reputation for being corrupt. Occasionally, people were arrested and then never seen again. It was getting late, and Glenn and I decided we better head back to Pipe’s and beat the curfew.

 

When we got to the van, we were waylaid by two “women of the night.” By the time they finally realized that we were not interested in what they had in mind, it was too late to make Pepe’s curfew. Pepe was not going to like this, but between the horrors of the jungle, and the diminutive Pepe, what could be worse? We were fairly well inebriated, as we stood in front of Pepe’s Colon yelling, trying to get Pepe to let us in.

 

         “Pepe, Pepe let us in please,” I yelled. “Please, Pepe. We won’t be late again. Let us in.”

         Pepe eventually stuck his head out of the second story window, “I told you boys eleven o’clock, now eleven-thirty. Go away.”

         Glenn chimed in, “Pepe, amigo mio, please let us in. It wasn’t are fault, two bonita muchachas stopped us.”

         “You go back San Blas, sleep with them.”

 

He continued to yell out of the top-story window at his two prodigal sons. After reminding us again about his curfew, and generally scolding us for our bad behavior, Pepe came down and let us in. For all his bluster Pepe had one weakness, he had a kind heart.

 

The next morning, Glenn and I got up not much worse for the wear and headed for the surf break that was close by. The waves were not real big, but they had good form, and the rumor was true, one could ride them for a long, long way. In fact, you could ride for so long it was easier to get out of the water and walk back up the beach to the takeoff zone then it was to paddle back. The ride was of such duration that I became aware of the muscles I was using to control my board. While surfing a customary spot, the actual ride was usually so short that one’s leg muscles would never have a chance to tire during a ride. This place was amazing.

 

A brief historical perspective, at one time, San Blas was famous as a departure point for 49ers headed for the California gold rush. It was also a major area for sea turtle hunting. Out in the jungle, Glenn and I ran into a few abandoned turtle processing plants that still had piles of turtle shells partially overgrown by jungle.

 

After several days of surfing, we decided we should start heading back to California, and school. The morning of our departure it started raining. It was a strong tropical rain and turned out to be a serious winter storm that followed us almost the entire way north. The first omen for shadowing that this was not going to be an easy trip happened on the way out of town. It was raining hard, and I was passing something to Glenn (ok, it was a joint). One moment of inattention almost put us off the road due to the horrid road conditions. We both looked at each other and got a jolt of fear, which probably was a good thing at that point. 

 

         “Jesus Glenn, the windshield wipers aren’t even keeping up with the rain. The visibility totally sucks. Help me out brother and keep an eye out for cows or whatever,” I said with fear and concern.

 

The van was not in particularly good condition for reasons I won’t go into. Let’s just say we took the van places it was not designed for. The shocks were broken, and the exhaust pipe was also damaged, because of these defects, the van was harder to control than under normal circumstances, and now the wind was blowing hard, pushing all the vegetation around hysterically. This was going to be a difficult, hair-raising trip.

 

As we traveled north, it continued to rain in torrents. The possibility of road washout was extremely likely, so we both kept our eyes glued to the road. By nightfall, we were clear of the tropical zone, and now found ourselves traveling through the desert. It continued to rain. We both decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and we needed to find a place to sleep for the night. To continue under the existing conditions would be flirting with disaster, and we had been lucky up to that point.

 

One of the fears we had about sleeping in the middle of nowhere was “banditos.” In retrospect, it was probably an unlikely place for robbers to ply their trade; however, that would be an easy statement to make sitting at home with the door locked. At the time, the possibility of trouble seemed very real. We got into our sleeping bags, as the rain crashed on the top of the van, sounding like metal pellets falling from the sky.

 

In the morning, the rain had stopped, and we found ourselves in our sleeping bags. We were happy not to be hanging upside down, held captive in some raucous "bandito" camp, with pretty senoritas threatening to whittle away our manhood with their knives. It was an exceptionally clear, cold morning. There were ice cycles hanging over our heads from the ceiling of the van, the by-product of a nights breathing. We jumped in the front seats and fired up our trusty vehicle. It wouldn’t start; there was just the strained sound of the starter motor laboring against an uncooperative engine. My stomach immediately dropped to my feet, as I contemplated how screwed we were if the van wouldn’t kick over. It’s not as if we could get on a phone and call Triple A, no phone, and no Triple A. Also, there was no town, no nothing. We continued trying to turn the engine over, knowing that our battery was constantly losing juice.

 

“Holy moly Glenn, what are we going to do if this thing doesn’t start? We must be a hundred miles from the nearest anything.”

“I guess our only option Dave is to walk back to the main road and hitchhike to Culiacan and hope Clint can help us.”

“Will never make registration for next semester if we do that, but I guess that’s the cards we’re dealt, s**t, s**t, s**t!” 

 

Just as the battery was about to totally poop out, the van turned over and came to life! Oh, my god! We really lucked out on that one.

 

We quickly headed for the main highway and turned north. We were no longer leaving Mexico; we were now evacuating Mexico. Like two pieces of iron being pulled to a magnet, we were two Gringos being drawn to the border. Nothing was going to stop us now. Later that same day, we made it to the border of Arizona. Our only obstacle was to make it through immigration. 

 

As we pulled in, we could see some uniformed officers stripping a van much like ours. They were ripping out seats, side paneling, and any place where something could be hidden. They unceremoniously threw the van interior on the ground. If they found anything illegal they put you in jail. If they didn’t find contraband, the officers left you with the torn apart van that you had to put back together somehow. Neither outcome was exceptionally warm and fuzzy, so we were hoping that they would allow us to pass through. Luckily, we had what could be considered normal haircuts, and our overall appearance was not hippy like. That’s most likely what saved us. They let us go through unmolested. 

 

Once in Arizona we blasted west, heading for San Diego, and found ourselves safe and sound in our dorm room that very same day.

 

“Congratulations Glenn, we made it out of Mexico one more time.”

“Yep, we sure did. By the way Dave, next time we take your van."

Reviews

[roarke]

Great tale. Surfin' Safari... from hell. lol. Ah, to be young again.... or maybe not. Definitely stories to tell your grandchildren.

Z,the paragraphs about Clinton were surprising as he wasn't mentioned prior, so I might leave that part out or include why Glenn and you went to visit him earlier in the story.
Some of the paragraphs seem to have abrupt transitions between them, jumping from one situation to the other, outline fashion, it's an interesting tale, so go ahead and flesh them out.
Nice observations and profiles of camaraderie. Go ahead and give more detailed descriptions of yourselves in the telling of the tale.
Now go wax your board.