In keeping with our strange weekly rollercoaster routine in my latest new favourite place, the last seven days have been significantly less unique, intrepid and exciting than the previous load, but thankfully our rapid decline from summit to base, peak to trough and high to low has been no where near as traumatic and stressful as the rapid decline on one of those bastards they call an actual roller coaster. Therefore, instead of experiencing unnatural amounts of g-force and powerful face-shifting forces, Los Tres Amigos have spent the week enjoying the luxuries of Mexican life, or our version of Mexican life anyway. Spoiler alert… it’s not going to be the most intresting of blogs.
Day one can be completely ignored, down to Alec’s hell hole that he calls a swimming pool and that big evil ball in the sky that I’ve heard been referred to as ‘the sun’ as if it’s sacred or the only one in the world or some bullshit like that, so I’m going to take you straight to the morning of the fifth when all four of us were stood around Alec’s truck looking like we were trying or going to be productive, but in reality were just thinking about breakfast. This is classic english male ritual when something practical needs doing in order to maximise moral and masculinity, but in the end, the problem tends to remain untouched, however, this time round we struck gold, as an Aussie who was staying in the hotel and who was of course capable of fixing stuff came and advised us on how to fix the roof racks and get on with our days. For us, this meant preparing for our mini vacation to La Paz in aid of Cinco De Mayo, a celebration I knew and still know nothing about, and one that Mexicans apparently don’t celebrate, but we felt inclined to try and party, so after we had packed the Nissan and I had completed my quick swim, shave and something rude, we headed off to the land of plenty with high spirits and a few roadies.
After arriving safely and checking into the hotel after the usual intense search and rescue mission of the place, we headed out into the very unfresh air of the city to check out what all the fuss was about. We walked up and down the front a few times in the hope we would find some entertainment, but we inevitably ended up seeking some fuel, so El settled for an ice cream, and then I gave in to the temptations of a smiling Mexican and got us a table with the worlds sauciest bowl of crisps and two huge extra large beers for the occasion. With them just about polished off, we headed to the shops in aid of Benj’s feet, an activity I would usually despite when not a realistic contender to buy anything, but in the case of an extremely well air-conditioned shop with it’s very own speakers blasting out some sweet reggaeton, I was willing to enjoy the experience whilst Benj desperately tried to get the attention of someone that’s actually worked there. Unfortunately, El then decided he needed to buy a shirt, which required a trip out to the huge shopping centres on the edge to town, therefore involving a lot of standing up, a lot of walking and a lot of not buying anything. Mercifully, El eventually found the pink polo shirt he was looking for, so we headed back to the hotel and got ready to go out.
The first and extremely necessary task of the evening was to line our stomachs, so we polished off three burgers and three beers to set ourselves up for the night, and then took a wander up what turned out be the most Mexican of lanes. I say this because as we walked along the sidewalk, we were accompanied by several souped-up rally cars that made their intentions and my feelings towards them clear by revving their huge engines without relenting for more than a few precious seconds and metres, and then had to push our way through the crowds watching two young lads expressing their inner Mexican through the mode of wrestling. This entertainment, and the very powerful beer advertising that was just impossible to avoid, got us craving cheap alcohol, so we retreated back to the hotel to fuel up on a non-tourist affected price of beer and then skipped back into town like three teenage girls eager to find a party. However, we soon realised we were far too ill-equipped to even locate any bar, club or bench that could sufficiently host three veteran party animals such as ourselves, let alone one that we actually had the balls to step foot in, but thankfully Lena came to our rescue by appearing along the sidewalk with a group of her Mexican girlfriends, meaning we couldn’t help but look no further, and even better still, they were gathered outside a nice and lively watering hole that we could acceptably stand outside with our beers and look like we were meant to be there. With our Mexican greetings completed (a kiss on one cheek and the utterance ‘hey dude’) we quickly felt at home with Lena’s friends, positioned a nice few metres away from the main pack with a drink and three awkward faces. Eventually we decided we were too cool for this shit and crabbed along the pavement a little further to the next set of outside seating and in front of a club that was entertaining many with their live reggae music and bright, colourful lights. This seemed a little too overwhelming for Los Tres Amigos, and expensive, so we bravely opted to sit outside and wait for the action to come to us, and surprisingly, it actually did just that, in the form of three lovely American girls that appeared to be hitting on us like there was no tomorrow, but in hindsight, they probably just mistook us for three rich young gentlemen that could wine and dine and buy lots of cool shit for them, but we made the most of it. Despite an offer of a taco triple date, the first of its kind, we left the ladies in search for that elusive party, and sought refuge in a rooftop bar that specialised in cocktails and enticing people like me. We got through the ‘routine’ pat down upon entry and dodgy looks towards my ID and my little baby face, and enjoyed some feminine drinks and reggaeton as the Mexicans danced the night away. In fact, I was minuted away from joining them, until our resident old man inevitably cracked under the pressure of alcohol, late nights and severe back pain and ordered us to return to the hotel so he could put his dentures in some water and retire for the rest of his life. That therefore ended the night, but only after my resilient effort to keep the party going by chugging the rest of our beers and trolling social media had ultimately failed.
The next day was your typical hangover day, with some morning tacos, afternoon sleep, and evening boxing match between two Mexicans, hosted at a local pizza place and supported by the dozens equipped with loud voices and cow bells. I of course had to place a stupid bet on the huge underdog that lost, and the Mexican bar had to have some creepy music videos on in the background that included one with people coming out of a woman’s private part, but it was really quality Mexican night nonetheless.
Day four of what was turning out to be a very alcohol fuelled week, was no different to the rest, and yet it played host to a night that was like no other my poor eyes had ever been forced to witness. The event that had got me so shaken up played out on another rooftop bar, but this time in Todos Santos, at around ten o’clock, after we had circled the town many times looking for the young ladies that may have accompanied their parents to the local wine party. This sounds very weird, but I can assure you, in a location where anyone under the age of 25 is part of an endangered species, one finds themselves resorting to desperate measures just to meet some people their own age. Anyway, we had been informed of this after party by Alec and assured that if there was anyone that we could acceptably buy a drink for and not be mistook for a pedophile or a son, this was the place, so we hesitantly handed over the rather extortionate entry fee, and climbed the stairs to what we hoped would be the one and only promise land. It was not. However, despite the average age seeming to be at least 35, and the drinks token system appearing to be, and being, absolute bollocks, we managed to provide ourselves with an hour of incredible entertainment. This was gifted to us by what sounded like a teenage DJ, and the crowd of youthful and rejuvenated group of middle aged characters that we dropping dance moves so hard that my eyes almost popped out of their sockets. I kid you not, there was popping and locking, shuffling and busting, and sadly even grinding, which you’ve probably guessed was when I declared myself scarred for life, but you know what, it has really given me the confidence that my life won’t have become a complete bore and misery by the time I’ve reached my Clooney years.
The last few days of the week were pretty quiet, as the next day I obviously skipped the early trip to Nine Palms, and then the next day the only action was a morning search and rescue for Linda, and the next day we just prepped for what probably going to be the worst few days of my life, but you’ll have to wait until next week’s blog to find out if I managed to get myself out of it.
This week my hat goes off to whoever that was behind those decks at the retirement party we ended up at. I couldn’t see if he too was in his last part of life or was in his prime like me, but all I can say is I salute him for his music choices. He busted out gangster rap, disco music, salsa tunes, some spanish crap, and even managed a slow song or two, playing the crowd, and me, like a puppet, and putting on a hell of a party that we were lucky enough to stand in the middle of and watch unfold. I truly feel honoured, and I aspire to one day play my extensive variety of shit music to my parents and their friends. Thank you DJ