7/20/05 Mexican Motorcycle Diary pt.2

(continued from 7/20/05 Mexican Motorcycle Diary pt.1)

Then, there is the fact mushrooms apparently grow there as well. I asked a group of young Mexican guys smoking grass along the trail toward Las Pozas and they claimed the hills above are covered with little bajarito mushrooms that are red with white spots! I only needed to hike up into the hills and pick them off the ground. I had a plan for the next day. ;-) I also asked one of the jewelry-selling hippies in the plaza about srooms as well and he said you can actually get them at Las Pozas as well by hiking up the mountain a little bit. But, this is where my "trip" seemed to take a turn. I don't know what happened. But, for some reason I now had an aversion to taking any drugs at all. Perhaps I've been like this for awhile and was only just then realizing it. Or, perhaps the higher planes I achieved with the peyote in the desert spoilt me? Or, the rush of being one with the motorcycle and open road has surpassed any adrenaline high I've experienced on drugs? For some unknown reason I began to be honest with myself and felt the problem with getting high is that it's just plain unsustainable. You can only fly so high for so long and then you have to come down and face the real world. Add to that, eventually the drugs don't quite get you there anymore or the place you go becomes so familiar it is no longer so interesting.

In any case, it felt like the "Skip" I have previously been and believed myself to be, was only a habitual facade going through the motions. And, I must confess... I wasn't entirely keen to take peyote this time either. I delayed several days before going out into the desert to greet Mescalito. Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed our little rave in the desert with cocoyote, but somehow the thrill was waning. I lied to myself that in a few days I'd wake up from this stupor and be hungry to rearrange my brain's chemistry once again. But it never happened. I waited, one... two... three days in Xilitla for the desire to "get off" to return. It never happened. I made excuses for myself and took little excursions by foot hoping the old "Skip" would return. He didn't.

There was an older American chap named Chester that the woman at the hotel introduced me to. At first he didn't seem interested in talking and he stayed in the same hotel in one of the dark lower, cooler windowless rooms. But soon he hunted me down at every turn and talked incessantly about the 12 years he lived in Costa Rica, how he had to leave the country in a hurry due to false immigration papers... how he'd taken a Nicaraguan wife but she now wanted to claim half of his assets... how his back was troubling him... how his blood pressure was high... and how he wanted to find a nice place to build a simple house in Mexico... etc. It was all very entertaining the first time he told me, but I heard the exact same story every time I saw him. He'd stop me in the plaza, pop into a cocina where I was drinking coffee, and eventually he'd invade my very room and begin the same story once more with only minor variations. I tried to imagine when I hit 65 and want to share my stories that I'd hope someone might be interested in listening... so I remained polite and listened again, and again, and again. Good chap that Chester, but I felt like he was stuck in his own recent past and just needed to move on with his own story. Bingo! That was my problem as well! I'd been stuck in my own recent drug-laced and alchohol-laden foggy past and it was time to move onto the next chapter in "Skip's story". I don't know if my old pals Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Mohammad were tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "Enough's enough old boy! Time to get on with it." Or, if they'd been there all along and I finally stopped to listen. Or, if I was finally "maturing"? Or, just plain gettin' old. Quien sabe. But as a champion of truth, I had to be honest with myself and the truth was that I no longer was interested in driving in the fog. I don't know how long it will last, and it poses a new problem, what to do with my time? Perhaps I'll finally do some of the things I've always aspired to? Or, perhaps I'll just sit and observe others and remember when. I don't know, but without a desire to "get off" or drink myself into oblivion, I find myself seeking refuge in my own clear thoughts and longing for nothing more than a good ride in the sun, a restful night's sleep, and a strong cup of coffee. For the moment that is. ;-)

(continued in part 7/20/05 pt. 3)