It's arrived!

Because this seems to be a favorite for a few people, I will let you all in on the story.

For those of you that haven’t been to Bara Bara, it’s the local watering hole for the younger crowd. It opens when all the other bars and restaurants are closing and it stays open until everyone leaves. On a weekend this might not be until 5a or so. Gabo owns it and is there 6 days out of the week, so I got to know him pretty well. The bar has a very artsy-fartsy dive bar feeling. Palapa style roof, with many much needed fans blowing downward for the dance parties.

I was Gabo’s early drinker. I would be in when he opened, have a glass or two and chat with him and his friend, Roberto, and then I was usually tuckered out by the time everyone started showing up. Not really normal behavior for me. Gabo is great and all, but I cannot stand his choice in music. I think I am the only one that carries this feeling so I choose to keep my mouth shut.

Now for the good stuff.

I had just gotten to Puerto Morelos, I had been there maybe two weeks.   As it seems to go for me, there was a hurricane on its way and it was going to pass right over Puerto Morelos. I am nervous as all get out. I have never been in a storm that could even be considered severe. There were a few dooseys in northern California, but nothing to these proportions. Before the storm even got close, you couldn’t go on the beach for too long because the wind was blowing so hard that the sand assaulted you, which did not make for a relaxing experience.

Naturally, I was really anxious about the impending storm so I would spend a good part of the evening asking Gabo and Roberto about the hurricanes, what I should do, where I should go, do I need any provisions? They were very calm about the whole ordeal and that did nothing to easy my worrying mind.

If the storm was going to hit, it was going to hit any day now. So, here I am, at the bar, standing next to Roberto asking him the same questions I’ve been asking for the past 3 days, it’s raining and windy, typical for a tropical storm. Then it happens. The wind picks up speed to epic proportions (at least to me). I grab the bar with both arms, brace myself, and look at Roberto. “Oh my god. It’s here!” My fear is not mirrored in Roberto’s face, what I am seeing from him is confusion. “Do you not feel the wind?!” He is looking at me with amazement and then slightly glances up. I follow his gaze. Gabo has turned on the fan above me.

Color me embarrassed.

This ranks right up there with drawing in Romanian. That’s a whole other story that is outranks this one, but not my much.

Ay! Gringas estúpidas!

We left off at the Great Flood of Palenque and now we move on to the “War” of San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico.

We survived the 7 hour bus ride through the curviest road I have ever come in contact with. This was by no means an amazing trip and I hope that it will one day soon make it back to the recesses of my mind, never to be thought of again. We had the privilege of riding with about 20 French kids that were not as wise as myself and possessed no knowledge of Dramamine and all of its wonderful powers. Lucky for us, we were positioned right next to the toilet, front row seats to the terrific things that were going on in the bathroom, smells and all.

Moving on from that, as I said, I would like to delete that memory from my mind. We arrive at San Cristobal. Thankful for fresh air and in need of a place to store our packs, we head for the massive, pink hotel on the mountain. Great views and according to Lonely Planet, cheap.  It was half right. We had a decent view, but it was a little more than we wanted to pay. We take it anyway. We had no idea what was in store for us.

A little sight-seeing, some food (I’m pretty sure where we ate was anti-gringa), a little more walking and back to the room to finish our bottle of wine from Palenque and sleep. Everything was going great. Good conversation, not too disgusting of wine, and finally, passed out. That is until about 4:30 in the morning when Kelly sits straight up in her bed “What was that?!” “What was what?” I answer her. And it happens again. It sounds very similar to a gun shot, but I try to brush it off as a back fire. It made sense, we are in the poorest part of Mexico and the cars are not in the greatest of conditions.

Just as she may be agreeing that it was probably a car, the noise happens again. This time though it’s different. There are many of these back firing cars at once. Panic sets in. Holy shit, they are f-ing guns.

Now, we are all well aware of the drug war that is happening in Mexico. I have been lucky enough to be in some very safe places, but I was unsure of what the situation in Chiapas was. I know that tourists are not usually a target, but we are 2 cute girls traveling through a very male dominated culture so you can imagine the images that were flying through my head. I was sure that there were going to be masked men breaking down our door at any second, but I couldn’t let this on to Kelly. What good is it if we lose our mind to fear?

Now the shots are going back and forth and they are sounding much closer. Is there seriously a gun battle happening outside our hotel? Now remember, we are up on the face of the mountain, close to town, but still in the trees.

We need a plan of attack. What are we going to do? My heart is racing a million miles a second and my legs are weak. I can’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure Kelly was feeling the same. We wait for a break, in our minds thinking they are reloading and it would probably be the safest time to get the hell out of dodge. The break comes and we head for the door. “Grab your money!” Kelly yells just before we are out. Who knows, we may need it to get the F out of this country.

We sprint down the cobblestone stairs and head to the reception. It’s locked. Awesome, they have barricaded themselves in the office and have left us to our own devices. We ring the door bell and wait as patiently as humanly possible for people in our situation. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a sleepy man comes to the door. It isn’t even 5 am yet, I’m terrified, tired and if I was hungover that had been cured. What I’m trying to say is that my limited Spanish was even more limited. I am trying my damnedest to ask this poor man that we just woke up what the hell that noise is. “It’s was the thunder” he tells me in sleepy Spanish. I try again. This goes on for about 3 minutes or so before he puts his head in his hands. “Fiesta.”

It was a party for one of the saints. And those gun shots. Fireworks.

Sleep was not an option, nor was staying there another night in hopes to save a iota of dignity.