Jessica’s Travel Log

Someone once told me that in Mexico, if you can reach the bar you are old enough to drink.  

Apparently that rule applies for selling alcohol as well.

Tuesday night in Guadalajara is Lucha Libre night.  It’s the Mexican version of WWF but the wrestlers wear masks.  The lucha, or fight, involves a lot of slapping, fake jump kicks and head butts.  And don’t forget bravado.  The crowd loves the scantily clad ladies escorting their meaty masked heroes in spanks down a runway reminiscent of a disco club.  Each luchador has their trademark: one has the moves of a stripper, another a fairy (pun intended), one looks like a cowboy, the other like a comic book villain.  The fairy, of course, tries to steal a kiss from the overly macho cowboy – or at least bend him in a compromising position.  The crowd goes wild.  

All that spectacle makes for a rowdy show and long lines at the bar – which isn’t really a bar but a glorified beer cart. 

I chose the quickest moving line and slowly shuffled myself to the front.  I looked straight ahead for the bartender expecting to meet his eyes.  Where was he?  Out of my peripherals I saw a small hand grasp two beers by the neck and in a snap pop off the caps.  The tiny hand grabbed a 24 oz cup and dove the beers nose first into it.  Before I even saw him completely, I knew this was no amateur.    

I lowered my gaze a good foot and a half and saw a boy in an oversized t-shirt, eyes wide, waiting for me to tell him what I want.  The counter was almost as high as his chest.     

“Dos cervezas por favor.”

An adult stepped in to take my fifteen pesos.  I moved to the side so the next guy could place his order.  The kid strained to hand me my beers.  

I crouched down a little. 

“How old are you?” I asked.

"Thirteen," the kid's high-pitched voice replied.

“Hey, are you guys selling beer?” I asked the teenagers sitting around a white styrofoam cooler on the beach.

My bare feet were scorching in the sand and my eyes hurt from squinting.  Water dripped from my hair and my lips tasted like salt water.  After swimming against a currant and being tossed around by breaking Pacific Ocean waves on Playa Amapas, I was tired.  And a cold one sounded so good.

I stood there while the group of three friends looked at each other and giggled.  I could have sworn I saw someone hand them money in exchange for a can of Modelo, but maybe the heat was getting to me. 

The girl sitting closest to the cooler nodded without looking at me.  The other two guys smiled big white smiles.  Something didn’t seem right.  

“You aren’t really selling beer are you?”  I tried not to sound too disappointed.

They shook their heads apologetically.

“Oh.  Ok, sorry.”  I walked back to the roasting boulder where my clothes were piled and sat down in the sun.

I thought about the previous day when I saw a man with a bag full of beer give a few to a couple watching their kid play in the surf.  They gladly accepted.  Whether he was trying to get rid of them or just sharing, it was a nice gesture.  Everything seems to be shared in Mexico.  Puerto Vallarta residents I talked to were surprised when I asked if the beaches were private property. 

“No, they are for everyone,” they would say waving me on.

One guy even told me there is no private property in Mexico.

Private, privacy and possession - all American inventions.          

“Amiga!” the teenager’s voice snapped me out of my daydream.  His arm was outstretched, can in hand as he walked up to me. 

“Here, have it,” he said waiting for me to take the beer.

I looked at the condensation running down the side of the can.  I could taste it already.

“Excuse me, who do you pay for the tacos?” I asked a man chewing the last of his meal.

With a full mouth, he said something that resembled “over there.”  He pointed at someone, I don’t know who, in the crowd of about 25 standing around a smoky taco stand. 

The late-night street taco stand is the Mexican equivalent to drive-though McDonald’s. 

I tried to make sense of the scene which looked more like a party in front of someone’s house: coolers of ice and soda on a table against a wall, a row of senoras sitting in plastic chairs, people standing in groups, the taco stand as long as a six person dining room table covered in sizzling meat and bowls of diced onions and salsa, one guy chopping meat, the other cooking it, another guy sitting behind something that looked like a pulpit and people holding money in front of his face.

That must be where I pay.  I looked for the “line” which was more like a herd and tried to stay behind the same person.  If I just watch what everyone else does, I’ll figure out how this all works, I thought. 

There was no menu, but everyone seemed to know what to order.  Since I saw meat and tortillas, I asked for 3 tacos asadas.  The guy behind the pulpit checked a bunch of boxes on the order ticket and handed it to me. 

“Who do I give this to?”  I asked.  Not seeing the person ahead me do anything with theirs.

The guy pointed at someone, I don’t know who, in the crowd of about 25 standing around a smoky taco stand. 

“Twenty-one pesos,” the guy said.  That’s about $2.

I looked into my wallet and saw only a one hundred dollar bill and a coin peso.  I gave it to him and then he made a face. 

“Do you have anything smaller?” he asked.

“No.  Only a 100 and a peso.”

We both looked at the person behind me hoping he had some change.  He was holding a 200 hundred-dollar bill in his hand.

The three of us started looking around not knowing what to do.  Then one of the senoras sitting in the plastic chairs threw a 20 on the pulpit. 

“Give heem un peso,” she said in English with a heavy accent.  “Jast un peso.”

She said she would buy the tacos for me.  Just give him the one peso I had.  The guy took her money and started taking the next person’s order before I could protest.  I asked the lady if I could buy her something or do anything to pay her back.

“No, no.  Bye.  Bye,” she repeated until I left.  I tried to say thank-you but she kept saying “bye.”

Totally confused and surprised, I walked away with my ticket and handed it to the most likely person – the guy cooking the meat.  I walked off into the shadows to observe.   

I realized you are supposed to hold on to your ticket and when he calls your number, then you give it to him – just like at the deli.

About 5 minuets passed and I got my tacos on a plate.  Like most stands, they cover the plate in a cellophane bag so they don’t have to wash dishes.  I walked up to the counter and put some onions and salsa and lime on them and sat down on a curb. 

They were gone a minute later.   

She said I will I be influential in the lives of others.  Give support and advice to those around me.  In my area of work, she didn’t specify what, I will go far and make an impact.  I will be financially successful in life.

Oh ya, and she saw a tall dark haired man in my future too.

At the Mercado de Corona, I took a break from my reporting and asked one of the many vendors pushing esoteric and herbal remedies to do a tarot card reading for me. 

Her name was Lupe and she took me behind her stand of amulets and herbs and sat me in tall wicker chair.  There were bundles of plants stacked on shelves, bottles of potions and other stuff stockpiled on the perimeter. 

 She poured scented oil in my hand and told me to dip my finger in it and touch my forehead and back of my neck then rub the leftovers in my hand. 

“It’s so your head doesn’t hurt,” she said.

Lupe asked me to shuffle the red, white and yellow deck of cards 3 times.  Then the phone rang.  She had a mildly heated discussion with the person on the other end and after she hung up, she looked at me and rolled her eyes. 

I handed her the deck and said I wanted to know to what every girl wants to know – what the future holds for my love life. 

From right to left, she laid out four rows of four cards and zig-zagged her index finger over them like she was trying to follow along in a book.

Some event in my past, she said, had caused me to attract negative energy.  That explains all the failed and unlucky relationships I have had. 

Wait, did I tell her I was single?

Next she said I had to ditch the bad energy and heal myself.  Only then will I be able to attract positive energy and healthy relationships. 

“Like go to therapy?” I asked.

“Therapy,” she said slowly, along with a special tea she will sell me to rid me of my depression and habit of crying.

She laid out another set of cards and described my inner thoughts and feelings.  The cards told her I was timid and didn’t share myself easily with others.  That I feel things intensely – she used the word “intense” several times and kept making a motion like she was trying to draw something out of her chest. 

This is when she told me about my guardian angel.  Besides protecting me, the guardian angel supposedly gives me the extra confidence and push I need to accomplish my dreams.

“What’s my angel’s name?” I asked.  Expecting to hear the name of a deceased friend or relative.

Lupe took her eyes off the cards just for a second – like she was listening to something.

“Jophiel,” she said.

Who? 

I later learned he is the Patron Saint of artists.  He stirs feelings and turns them into goals.  He also assists in the absorption of information, studying for and passing tests, fighting pollution and cleaning up the planet.

Somewhere between the third and fourth spread, she told me to take special care of my lungs and spine.  Watch out for gossipy backstabbing girlfriends that may sabotage my success.  That I will live a long life.  And that in approximately 3 to 4 months, I will travel somewhere and either a relative or friend will introduce me to this tall dark man who will, as she said, give me everything I want.

That is, as long as I drink the tea.

No prescription?  No problem.  You’re in Mexico. 

The day after I arrived to Guadalajara, I started feeling sick.  I went to my neighborhood pharmacia to see what the procedure is for buying medicine. 

I approached the pharmacist and with a lot of hand gestures, described where it hurt.

The nice looking mom-like pharmacist nodded sympathetically.

“I think I need some kind of antibiotic,” I said.

She left abruptly and spit out a bunch of words I didn’t catch.  I watched her dart in and out of the aisles of pills.  Six seconds later, she rounded the corner and in one sweeping motion, grabbed a book from behind the counter and slid it and two boxes of medicine in front of me.  She told me to look up the name of the medication in the book, read the description of uses and decide which one I needed. 

The publication was the size of a phone book.  The binding was broken in several places and as I tried to flip through it, loose chunks of tissue-thin paper fell out.  Some of the pages were torn, others folded seemingly on accident in thirds.  It was all in Spanish, which is ok because my Spanish is functional, except my vocabulary of medical terminology is almost non-existent. 

Each medicine is broken down into sections – uses, dosage, precautions, warnings, lab results, etc.  This was all interesting to read, but I was shocked to learn that the system is all based on self-diagnosis.  Or as I’m sure in many cases, misdiagnosis.  The pharmacist knew what types of medicine to recommend, but the final decision was all on me.  And that was scary. 

What if it didn’t work?  What if it made me sick?  I’m no doctor, how would I know if Pirimi 5000 would work better than Phiromex, or whatever it’s called. 

I asked the lady a few follow-up questions like if I should eat something before I take the medicine or avoid alcohol or sunlight and she un-reassuringly nodded her head. 

I said “gracias” and headed for the door.  I walked home empty-handed hoping my illness was just in my head. 

But it wasn’t.  Later that afternoon, I returned to the pharmacia and talked to the same lady.  She remembered me and which medicine I needed.  I took my chances and went with Pirimi 5000.