The Write Perspective

My friend, Lennie and I went to Cabo, Mexico for five days in February. During our stay, the cartels lashed out, killing a few Americans and terrorizing the general public. Unfortunately, this was not the craziest thing to have happen to us while we were there. 

The first day, we were shuttled from the airport to our resort by a kind driver who seemed to be possessed by the reincarnated spirit of Evil Kenevel. Lennie and I exchanged tense glances as we zipped past a car on a double yellow line while cresting a hill.

Eventually we reached the resort safely and thanked the driver. Our check-in time was 4:00 p.m. and it was only noon, so we dropped our bags at the front desk, dodged a lady selling timeshares, and walked down to the pier to get lunch and see what there was to see. (A few days later her more aggressive counterpart successfully caught us and we listened to the thirty minute pitch about why we should buy these timeshares. I remain mostly ignorant about the entire idea, although I think it has something to do with clocks, and taking turns using them. If anyone cares to explain further, as Lennie did, I will be ready and willing to listen attentively, yet retain nothing.)

We walked through a busy alley to get to the pier. Three fishermen were cleaning their catch and blood and entrails spilled onto the sidewalk. It may have been our pasty white skin color, the way we gingerly skirted around the fish blood, or our attempts to speak Spanish that alerted them to our tourist status, but we may as well have been holding a banner, that said, “Americans! We will buy anything at any price!” Even the fisherman excepted this challenge and tried to sell us fish.

“No kitchen,” Lennie replied firmly. 

“But you could take them to a restaurant and get them to cook this for you!” he held up a half-butchered fish, it’s eye staring blankly at us.

Seeing his persistence, we gave up explaining and walked away. We were laughing as we stopped around the corner and entered a war zone. Streams of people filled the horizon, vendors weaving in and out of them shouting, “Water taxi!”

“Better water taxi!”

“Arch tour! You want to buy our Arch tour!”

These were not invitations, but rather hurled demands. 

We stepped into the fray and vendors confronted us from all angles. I was offered hats, sunglasses, whale watching tours, and gaudy bracelets. I looked over at Lennie, who was amused by it all. Then I saw a man holding the biggest lizard I’ve ever seen. I usually like reptiles, but this man was wielding his lizard as a weapon, so I veered out of his path and hid behind a few larger tourists. 

He caught Lennie from behind, and placed said lizard on her shoulder. She yelped, I laughed, and the man looked ecstatic. Somehow he knew we were together, which impressed me since people in the US often cast confused glances when they see a 21 year old Mennonite girl and a middle-aged rancher hanging out. He begged me to come over and demanded I take some photos. This was entertaining me when suddenly, another man with another lizard appeared and placed his pet on Lennie’s head. I snapped a few more pictures then they announced, “Your turn.” And deposited the lizards on me. I was still laughing a little, but when the slimy creature tried to kiss my cheek and demanded payment for the use of his lizard, the humorous element started to wear off. 

“Twenty dollars for picture!” They said excitedly.

“There’s no way!” We responded and quickly fled. 

All the excitement had made us hungry and we were trying to find an ATM so we could buy lunch. We asked a stranger for directions, and he pointed us into a dank, deserted alley. 

White sheep that we were, we did as directed, and were commenting on the sketchiness of the situation, when a man appeared out of thin air and stepped close to us. “Do you want marijuana?” 

I gaped and Lennie vehemently replied, “No! Weed makes people stupid!”

Not deterred in the least, he leaned closer. “How about cocaine?”

As was becoming our custom, we fled, and I was relieved to be back among the throngs of people on the marina. No bank was found. We found a taco shop that accepted credit cards and retreated into the quietest corner to debrief about what had happened in the two hours since landing. It was a mostly peaceful meal, interrupted only once by an aspiring musician, asking to serenade us with his ukulele. We declined.

The following days we embarked on many more adventures. It’s far too interesting a trip to describe in one story, so I will be following up with part two.