I’ve returned to my old gypsy grounds where I put in my roots in Canada. Mexico was good to me at times, and at others I would rather not talk about it. There is a reason I did not keep a steady journal here about my wanderings in Mexico as I have with other countries, and that is because I chose this time to experience travel in an entirely different way. From the moment I landed to the time I was in the air over Mexico City, I had expected nothing, wanted nothing and sought nothing. My camera broke several months before and I decided not to get a new one so as to relieve the filter of experience in such a magical place. This worked in some abstract and unfamiliar ways in what I call instant manifestation of mind and material. During my entire trip, anything that I needed came to me, but that’s not to say I didn’t struggle. Anything I became conscious of, actualized in the material world through thought and power of suggestion; food, shelter, company, medicine, money, ideas, exploration. I did not have a camera to separate me from my experiences at the infamous Mayan cities of Palenque, Tepoztlan, and Chichen Itza, and I feel I was privy to the real Mexican culture while roaming through Oaxaca, Morelos, and Chiapas.
This man found himself in the jungles of Yucatan, I spent almost a month living primitively; no electricity, no lights, no running water, no signal for phone or internet, no power, no mod cons, we had to hitchhike 30km for our food to a nearby town called Piste. All my photographs were taken by others, and sent to me later. I tuned into the Lemurian consciousness of the Mayan spiritually, spending my off days climbing pyramids, swimming in cenotes, and learning spanish on the road. A day away in Playa del Carmen set me back when the cops robbed me on the beach. I bought a one way ticket to Palenque following divine calling, and met a beautiful Iranian goddess and her Swedish friend. We took mushrooms in the rainforest and watched howler monkeys in the canopies. I spent four days here before going to San Cristobal de las Casas. A couple days lazing around in the hostel, before going to Chamula and Oventik, an EZLN caracol, where a beautiful young Zapatista girl showed me her village. I left here and went to live and work on a coffee farm in the Oaxaca mountains, picking and planting coffee with the donkeys in tow. Reading Don Juan on the bus, I made my way then to Oaxaca juarez to tramp around the city on the Day of the Dead. Soon after I lived in Zipolite, an old hippie community, until I once again went inland, and worked as a beekeeper from a culture house, while practicing my calisthenics with some of the local mexican guys. This wore out, and I traipsed up to Morelos to stay in Tepoztlan county, lived in a tent and explored the Tepozteco trails and pyramid with a few walks in Amatlan and Ocotitlan. I met a beautiful Mexican maiden who was fond of the road, and psychedelics. I soon grey homesick, and left with a friend through Mexico City, one of the strangest plane rides of my life. Less than 25 people on board, everyone with a row to themselves, I tuned into Timothy Leary’s Flashbacks on the headphones, and slept awhile before landing back in the cold North.
Those who know me will hear the real stories of what happened there, because Mexico changed me in very real ways. The slow and gradual evolution of any storyteller is to know his story by memory without writing it down, and I think I am moving towards this traditional method more. That is the way of our ancestors, and the myths of our folk are kept in the heart. I am reconnecting now with the Northern tradition, and readying my soul for the Oskorei when they ride in winternights.