Escape From Reality

This is my new place to go to escape from reality. And it's just up a flight of stairs. This is the dome/cupola at our house here in Chelem. Before it was just naked old white big round thing at the top of the house. Then along came Jim Grafsgaard and it became a tropical wonderland. If you want to check out more of Jim's art his website is http://www.jimgrafsgaard.com/ Thanks Jim! If you guys down here see a long lock of blonde hair hanging out the window of the dome, please come rescue me. The cap'n probably locked me in.

Midnight at the Oasis

We had been diligently following Dave's "Driving to Mexico" Brownsville to Merida coastal route http://www.quadro.net/~shirley/Brownsville-Merida/ today's drive had taken longer than expected and dark was beginning to fall when we hit the outskirts of Minatitlan. We went in search of the only "excellent" hotel in town but after several rounds around busy downtown Minatitlan, and probably countless passes right by the "excellent” hotel we gave up. We had spotted the "Oasis" as we turned off hwy. 145 into town. We turned back toward it.

We paid scant attention to the razor wire adorning the high walls of the compound as we pulled in because...Hell, almost every place has razor wire in Mexico. I'm thinking of winding twinkly lights arounds ours next year for Christmas.

The clerk rushed out of the building to greet us. "The people are just so darn friendly and helpful down here." I thought to myself once again.

Did we want a room? She inquired.

"Si."

"Do we require anything "special"?"

"No, just someplace soft and warm to sink into." replied the cap'n.

"Si." the clerk nods knowingly.

"Cuanto cuesta? (How much?)" inquires the cap'n.

The clerk replies with an exceedingly reasonable amount.

"Boy, they weren't kidding when they said things were cheap down here," I think to myself once again.

It takes a minute for our sluggish brains to translate. She'd said per hora not por dia! Per hour not per day! We look at each other. Disgust and dismay are racing across my features while a salacious grin is blooming on the capn's.

We've landed at one the notorious hotel de paso. "A Love Hotel!"

"We'll take it!" the cap'n announces.

We park outside our assigned den of iniquity. Because we're hauling a trailer full of treasures for our new home, we can't fit into the attached garage. It doesn't matter. Because instead of sneaking in and out of this place like their usual client the cap'n is strutting around like a rooster for all to see.

I hurriedly run in to throw back the bedspread and check the sheets. Why the hell do I do this? If you could see the "critters" I'm afraid of catching, nobody would ever catch them. I can't imagine a conversation like the following ever takes place.

"Um... I notice you have quite an infestation going on down there. But what the heck? You only live once right? Let's go for it! C’est la Vie!"

The cap’n is now inside admiring the dance pole. My evil twin Kary May would have loved it. For my my uninformed amigos in Mexico, Kary May doesn’t dance with men because they spin her too fast and dip her too low. She only dances with trees and poles. Sadly, she still manages to fall down. Thank God I left her behind on Guana Cay in the Bahamas.

While I’m checking out the bathroom, the cap’n is busy surfing the channels.

“I’ll be damned! Four! Count them! Four adult movie channels!” Talk about a kid in the proverbial candy store. I can almost see the smoke billowing from the remote. At least they don’t require subtitles.

I’m starved and am relieved to find a printed room service menu taped to the wall over the phone. When I place my order, I am informed that it would be delivered via the little turnstile in the wall. I really didn’t understand why we had to be so secretive about a dang hamburguesa. But when in Mexico...

Let’s just say an hour later when my order was delivered, my Cuarto de libro, doble carne was not quite what I expected. I later found a full color brochure in drawer of the nightstand that illustrated the other “las especialidades de la casa”. Do people really buy that stuff or do they rent it? Por hora? Ewww!

No wonder there was a notable silence when I replied to the clerk’s inquiry,

“Nessecita el condons?”

“Si. Mas ketchup.”

Obviously, she hadn’t been asking if I needed condiments.

With all my appetites effectively killed, I fell asleep while the cap’n click, click, clicked away on the remote.

The next morning I’m showering in the see-through plexiglass shower while the cap’n click, clicks, clicks.
“Sweetheart, do you remember what channel the weather channel is on?”

“Yeah, right.”

I wonder what’s on the breakfast menu.

Happy Valentines Day!

GOING COMMANDO IN MEXICO

You can take the girl out of the ship,

But you can't take the ship out of the girl.

So I guess that means I'm still full of ship!

When I lived on a boat all my friends back in KS used to say, "Ooh la la! You live on a yacht." And of course I did nothing to dissuade them even though there was nothing further from the truth.

So now I live in Mexico and all my friends in the states go "Ooh la la! You live in Cancun!" But when I try to explain the difference between living in Cancun and living in Chelem they look at me as though I have frogs coming out of my mouth.

So in the quest for total honesty in my new life I'm going to present two scenarios and let you decide which one the "real" Mary starred in.

Scenario #1: Mary is stuck in a bathroom at a resort in Cancun

Mary glides into the marbled mirrored lavatory at the Pinche Fresa Temple Resort. She opens the stall to the gleaming fully assembled toilet and perches on the rim of the seat that is, of course, "down". Mary finishes her business. She delicately wrinkles her nose as she daintily disposes of her tissue in the receptacle (you don't flush TP in Mexico) making sure to avert her eyes so she doesn't see anything "unsightly" (shudder!). She stands and straightens her clothes and moves to leave the stall. The latch won't budge.

"Oh no! What will I do now?"

A tiny worry line creases her forehead.

"This is so mortifying," Mary cringes.

"Uhmm, Conchita?" Mary whispers.

"Si Senora. Esta bien?" replies the attendant, attentively stationed at the door.

"The latch seems to be stuck."

"De nada, Senora," Conchita replies. And with a quick sleight of hand opens the stall door from the outside.

"Oh dear!" wails Mary as she diligently scrubs her hands in the shiny gold sink.

"I think I've chipped a nail!"

Scenario #2: Mary gets stuck in a bathroom in Merida

Mary and the cap'n have just arrived in Merida on the late flight from Miami and have been transported to the rental car agency in downtown Merida. Mary waits in the vehicle while the cap'n goes to negotiate and arbitrate the pre-arranged rental contract. As usual this takes longer than expected and Mary needs to use the facilities.

No problem, right?

Every rental car agency has a bathroom and so does this one.

So what if it doesn't have a door.

So what if the doorway faces the glassfront of the agency.

So what if this rental agency is on a very busy street in downtown Merida.

So what if the rental agency shares its parking lot with an OXXO convenience store.

So what if the parking lot is teeming with people chatting and strolling and HONKING.

So what if it is 1:00 am. T.I.M. (This Is Mexico).

At this point I'm getting desperate. I don't care if the whole Mexican National Football Team shows up to watch. The manager of the rental agency however is a little concerned about this possibility. He's not the one with a bladder the size of Texas. He quickly employs his employee to accompany me to the little corridor between the agency and convenience store which conveniently houses the facilidades necesarios. However, (there is always an however) it cost 5 pesos to open the gate.

Do I have 5 pesos? No.

Does the attendant have 5 pesos? No.

"De Nada. Not to worry," says the attendant ( I think).

Apparently if you jiggle the gate just right it will open.

So we jiggle. We wiggle. We jimmy and we shimmy. Hell, we're doing the freakin' la cucaracha with it. The cabrona ain't budging.

My bladder is now the size of the Louisiana Purchase.We walk back into the rental agency.
Does the cap'n have 5 pesos? No.

Does the manager have 5 pesos? No.

The manager and employee now engage in an animated conversation that I am praying will develop into a solution of my problem. But the real translation probaby goes something like this.

Manager: "It is fun to watch the gringo lady squirm, is it not?"

Employee nods fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe."

Manager: "See how her eyes are starting to bulge. She will not last much longer. She is no longer young and her bladder grows floppy."

Employee nods fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe."

Manager: "Uh oh, she's crossing her legs. You better hurry before we have a mess to clean up. Do you still have the key?"

Employee nods even more fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe.

Employee heads for the door.

Manager: "Just one more thing. Did you remember to remove all the toilet seats and toilet paper?"

"Si, Senor!" Nod. Nod Nod.

After a quick sleight of hand the employee opens the gate. Relief is at hand. I am unprepared for the lack of clean up accessories as usual. After several minutes I decide air drying is not an option in this humidity and pull up my pants. I move to unfasten the latch. De ja vu! The cabrona ain't budging.

I survey my options. Correction. Option. Yep, looks like there's only one way out of this predicament and it's through that 6" space under that 12" wide door. ( You know that measurement dyslexia problem us girls suffer from swings both ways. Some days it's longer, some days it's shorter. It just depends on how you treat us.).

Time to go commando !

Now I just want you to picture this in your mind's eye for a minute. A blonde gringo chica whose most apt body description is ample is down on her elbows with belly on the floor of a Mexican toilet stall that is built for the very petite Mayan people. And she's trying to wiggle her way out. And she's wearing white. Of course.

So did you guess which one is the true story? It was the chipped fingernail that gave it away, wasn't it? You all know I'm a biter. I don't have any freakin' fingernails.

As the Cap'n used to say:

"You can dress her up, but it doesn't matter what country you take her to, she's going to end up crawling around on the floor at some point."

Adios & Vaya Con Dios!

P.S. Sorry to disappoint all my pervert friends who thought this article was going to be about the other kind of commando. Maybe next week.

A HEARTBREAKING DANCE

I am going about my usual business this morning, listening to the news on the TV with about a half an ear and an even lesser percentage of my mind when the newsperson announces,

"A roadside bomb killed three U. S. soldiers this morning,..."

Everything stops!

"Where?"

"Where?" my mind screams, now on full alert.

"in Northwestern Pakistan," the announcer continues.

"Oh good," my mind thinks. "Far away from Iraq or Kuwait where Matt is."

A few seconds later my heart catches up and I realize for thousands of soldiers' loved ones the hell of this day is just starting.

Every Mom and Dad wonders if one of the fallen soldiers is their son or daughter.

Every wife and husband wonders if one of them is their husband or wife.

Every daughter and son wonders if one is their Mom or Dad.

Every sister and brother wonders if one is their brother or sister.

Every grandmother and grandfather wonders if one is their grandaughter or grandson.

Every boyfriend and girlfriend wonders if one is their girlfriend or boyfriend.

Every friend wonders if one is their friend.

For most of us the day will end with relief, elation and a little guilt that we feel this way.

For the loved ones of the three heroes, their everlasting heartache is just beginning.

And this is the dance we do.

Everyday.

Vaya Con Dios
Go With God.

P. S. The above picture is my son, Matt, who is currently serving in the Air Force in Kuwait driving supplies through Iraq, my grandson, Landon, and my daughter-in-law, Chantel. Chantel is also in the Air Force and was stationed in Afghanistan last year.

Alive and Loving Life SOB (South of the Border)

She's Back!!!! I can't believe it's been so long since I've written. I have been busy and I've got a lot of catching up to do. But guess what? I'm going on vacation back to the Abacos. I can't miss Pete's Birthday Party down at Pete's Pub. If you want to read a modern day Swiss Family Robinson story just google Pete Johnston or his father Randolph Johnston. If my math is right this is Pete's 15th annual 50th birthday party. But just so you know I've been busy, here is a link to check out what I've been up to and after more than a year of doing this blog I've finally posted my pic. The people that know and love me will recognize me right away. Just to see how well they know me, let's ask them what's in that glass. Here's the link to the Chelem Kids' Christmas. The guy that did this video did a fantastic job. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQeYlW8eKgw

Survival 151

How did two 80+ year old nuns end up sitting in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kalik at Baker’s Bay?

Now remember, what happens in Abaco stays in Abaco. No calls to the Vatican, please.

I am about to share with you my most valued advice. A treasured piece of advice I share with only my closest confidants. It is………………………………………………..

How to throw a great party in the islands.

What?

You say you’ve heard that all you have to do is make an announcement on the radio and people will come from islands unseen just to party.

Damn! Somebody must have leaked my secret.

The cap’n and I had been hiding out at Baker’s Bay for about 3 weeks and were running dangerously low on the essentials of life like coconut rum, anejo rum, spiced rum, dark rum, light rum and just plain old rum. We were contemplating doing something desperate like pulling up anchor and heading to civilization and I was looking forward to putting some clothes on when the cap’n came up with one of his brilliant ideas.

“Let’s have a party!”

“Honey, remember how we just discussed the fact that we don’t have any booze. Can you tell me how many bottles of booze I’m holding up?” I patiently ask my obviously sun-addled cap’n.

“Uh…, Zero?” guesses my proud cap’n.

“Exactly!” I sneer. “Which is exactly why we can’t have a friggin’ party!”

The cap’n waggles his finger at me and raises a diabolical eyebrow.

"Just watch."

He picks up the VHF mike and makes our distress call.

“Party at Baker’s Bay at sunset.”

Later that afternoon I’m dessicating in the cockpit and contemplating which finger I’m going to prick to suck life-saving sustenance from. The capn’s finger, of course. His blood has gotta be at least 90 proof. I’m licking my cracked peeling lips when a mirage appears on the horizon. White billowy, puffy things shimmering on the waves. I lift my weak skeletal arms and give out a pitiful croak.

“What the hell?” “They’re real!”

I jump up and holler down at the cap’n.

“Put some clothes on, for Chrissake!”

We’re saved.

An hour later there are close to 40 dinghies pulled up on shore. There is live karaoke, thanks to our best friend Tom on sv Becky Thatcher, there is meat sizzling on the grill and best of all there is rum.

Glorious, makes-life-worth-living, rum!

And that is how two 80+ year old nuns ended up in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kaliks at Baker’s Bay.

Mary and the Cap’n got thirsty.

P.S. We weren't sure if the cap'n was channeling his inner Elvis in the lower pic or if he was having some sort of seizure. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

P.P.S. These pics are stolen from the website of Patrick on Synchronicity. I'll make you get in touch somehow, Pat.

Paradise Lost

“Memories are the playground of the mind.”
(From a fortune cookie given to me by a very special someone.)

From the log of Agur’s Wish:

January 6, 2004

As we approach the deserted beach we spy structures peeking through and, occasionally, towering above the dense foliage. We pull up to the abandoned dock. Alongside are the remains of pens that we imagine used to house winsome sea creatures forced into captivity for the pleasure of the inhabitants of this deserted stretch of island. Legend has it that one of these charming creatures escaped after being abandoned and left in the pens to die after the former occupants disappeared and never returned. Now locals tell how on sunlit days they catch glimpses of her and her offspring frolicking in the sparkling turquoise water that is their rightful home.

We creep our way into the dense jungle. The tall casuarinas filter the sunlight into shadows and their needles muffle our footsteps on the well worn path. The only sounds are the calls of the birds and insects and the roar of the ocean crashing on a beach we have yet to discover.

“Wow!” the cap’n whispers.

Before us is a huge amphitheater built with rough hewn logs. What did they use it for? Ancient rituals? Human sacrifices?

As we continue along the paths we come upon more ruins. Large open air structures perhaps used for communal meals and celebrations. A large tower that may have been used to spy approaching enemies or to send signals to neighboring islands. Rusting modes of transportation including a cart on a rail that might have been used to transport the weaker members of the tribe.

Eating and cooking utensils are strewn about. It looks as if they left in the middle of a big party. Where did they go. What happened to them?



“We could just settle here.” says the cap’n. “We could live off the sea and the land like Brooke Shields and Chris What-ever-his-name is in Blue Lagoon. We’d never have to put a stitch on!”

I actually consider it for a moment…until I swat my 457th no see-um.

And always that distant roaring ocean is calling us. We look for a break in the verdant overgrowth that will allow us access to this elusive beach but can find none.

We head back to the beach to see if we can find a path there. We come across two more settlements. These are small and rudimentary. Obviously camps for transient tribes in search of shelter and sustenance for a short time on their voyage to somewhere else. Each has left his mark. Their homelands are far-flung and their destinations unknown.

Finally we come upon another path. We wind our way through mangroves and past a tree adorned with an array of moldering footwear.

Finally we reach.

Endless beach and ocean greet us.

A beach that is unblemished except for what the ocean has cast upon her shores.

We are full-up with the wonder of that majestic ocean. She made this island and the reefs that protect it. She and her creatures are the only true stewards of this place.

But for awhile we’ll make it ours.


We were very blessed to have called that place our own for a time. Of course, we shared it with a lot of people who also thought of it as their own. Times change though. And now that place is just a fabled memory for those of us that loved it.

Remember though, even if we can’t call it ours anymore, we still have the responsibility to act as stewards to it and places like it.

Yes, there are still magical places out there.

NOW GO OUT AND MAKE SOME MEMORIES!

P.S. Jumping off my soapbox now. Can anybody guess where in the world Agur’s Wish was on January 6, 2004?