Mediterranean area male (and at times female) Hairy Back


January 07, 2006, 9:03 AM:


Well... we left off with me in Pavones, Costa Rica, one of the best waves in the world... during the off-season... and no waves. I stayed for about a week. Wrote, drove every day to another beach about seven kilometers toward the Panamanian border, and surfed mushy waves at a place called Punta Banca.


New Year's Eve was uneventful for me. I celebrated seven years of sobriety with Ruby, my trusty buddy, and two Trits: tasty ice cream sandwiches in little, plastic cups.


I made my way into Panama and drove like a maniac to the best point break in Panama, Santa Catalina. In the morning I woke up to waves that I could completely get barrelled - i.e., "throated" (a new, descriptive way to use the verb (?) to throat) in - if I were a cockroach. Soooooooo, I drove like, even maniac-ier, and made it to Panama City, just as the sun was going down. I did the panama canal drive by in the morning, did a big walk, picture taking flurry through the Casco Antiguo (Old, colonial section of Panama City), which was incredible by the way, and started heading home.


What, what about South America? What about the ferry I thought existed between Panama City and Ecuador?? I said something about driving to the tip of Tierra Del Fuego? Yes. Correct. I said that before I realized it would cost me upwards of two thousand dollars just to get through to Ecuador with my car. See, there's a place called the Darien Gap. It's at the border of Panama and Guatemala. The Panamerican Highway ends deep in the Darien jungle, one of the most dangerous places in the world. The only way to drive onward through to South America is to put your car on a large shipping boat, fill out a crazy amount of paperwork, wait in Panama City for who knows how long just to find a boat that is going to Ecuador, and that has space, yadda yadda, it is just not feasible for me at this juncture in the trip. I read on the internet of a couple who did put their car on a ship. It cost them $1,700 just for their car. Their advice for anyone contemplating the crossing by boat is to sell the car, fly over, and buy another one once in South America, then sell it after the trip is over. I can't sell my car because the title of ownership is lost in the mail (won't get into that one...), so I need to return with my car. I want to anyway. I'm ready to head home. Now I can revisit the places that I really enjoyed, and, and, and..., the surf once I hit Mexico will be pounding the whole way up. I'll keep things updated, and I'll be sure and drive slow (I got pulled over two times yesterday on the way back into Costa Rica - only warnings!, woo hoo!). Give me four months at the outside and I'll be back doing I have no idea what - maybe fishing up in Alaska for the season to make some money.




January 09, 2006, 9:35 AM:


Hello again. I am close to the end of a potent batch of Costa Rican french press coffee sans leche (milk). I have already eaten my two pieces of day old banana bread from a gelato shop here in Tamarindo. Yes, I am back in Tamarindo, and am waiting on a South / South East swell that should be hitting the pristine shores of Ollie's Point up North in the no mans land area they call Parque Nacional Santa Elena. I am almost done with Steinbeck's "Journal of a Novel," and am either inspired by the ensuing ending, or I've had a little too much coffee. This morning I woke up to the sound of Chilly, the Italian and / or Argentinian surfer dude that is two cabinas over hoovering a bowlful of dirt weed and coughing up a mouthful of lung butter. What I would give to never do that ever again. Heightened spirituality my ass. Ruby has scabby stuff growing on her. It's not noticeable unless I really inspect her. I'll give her her anti-parasite med's and wait a couple weeks - maybe do a little hydrogen peroxide spot treatments later on today.


Steinbeck wrote two pages of handwritten manuscript five days a week for eleven months. That yielded I believe over five hundred pages of a final copy. The key is writing everyday it seems. I'm still working on that aspect. I have gobs of ideas, yet a dearth of discipline. Like the uncountable times I've dropped to the floor, snapping off five sets of twenty push-ups, telling myself if I do this thing, this one thing, I'll have breasts like Charles Atlas. Heather doesn't like referring to the male pectoral musculature as breasts. She doesn't like the term "man boobs" especially. I'm fond of the term man boobs, but not of the fatty things that reside next to my arm pits. Like a rose bush, if I could cut them back to stock for them to regrow to my mind's eye ideal I would.


Surfing yesterday was good. I bought a lunar / tide / sunrise-sunset cycle watch and set it up for the beach I'm at. It's a slowly evolving process of me learning the little scientific ways of not just being at the right beach at the right time for the right waves, but actually surfing the right wave at the right time of the lunar (less important, more nebulous) and tide (most important, not nebulous) cycles. I've started a surfing log for all the different places, where to go, when to go, tides, seasons, etc. It's frustrating to cross reference the three or four different reference books I brought along with me to figure all the when's, why's, & where's to surf. And it's also research material for the book. So, no one can say with any authority that I'm not writing (justification of my writing block); yeah, that's it - I'm doing... research.


The last of the coffee in a french press is always a bit grittier than the top of the pot. Whenever I approach the bottom, I go through the same process of not wanting to feel the gritty silt between my teeth, but I never dump the tailings. It feels a little like sacrilege, but the offshores are just starting to blow off the beach, and so it's time for the daily baptismal in the waters of the bosom of the world.


The picture of the young iguana on my leg is a little bugger I saved from the cabina cat at the place in Pavones, who was playing with the thing, taking it right up to heart attack / stroke / SEIZURE levels, letting it get just enough energy back to attempt a feeble escape, pick it up toss it in the air, hit it five or six times, pick it up & carry it, set it down, hit it a few more times... It must suck to be cold blooded. I'd have a serious temper if I was cold-blooded - wait, ..., maybe, ..., ..., ..., nah.


And the Panamanian buses are absolutely the coolest. Super trick paint jobs, and they have these bitchin' exhausts that make 'em sound like monster trucks. While I was taking pictures of 'em, the one driver in the coolest bus smiled at me ear to ear, but I missed the moment.


January 10, 2006, 8:48 AM:


Here is how it's been for me, as aptly put by one of the great ones:


"Labor Day today and for me the term could be used in its most strenuous and biologic sense. This is a blue day of fears on little weeping clouds. Writing is a very silly business at best. There is a certain ridiculousness about putting down a picture of life. And to add to the joke - one must withdraw for a time from life in order to set down that picture. And third one must distort one's own way of life in order in some sense to simulate the normal in other lives. Having gone through all this nonsense, what emerges may well be the palest of reflections. Oh! it's a real horse's ass business. The mountain labors and groans and strains and the tiniest of rodents comes out. And the greatest foolishness of all lies in the fact that to do it at all, the writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true. If he does not, the work is not worth even what it might otherwise have been.


All this is a preface to the fear and uncertainties which clamber over a man so that in his silly work he thinks he must be crazy because he is so alone. If what he is doing is worth doing - why don't more people do it? Such questions. But it does seem a desperately futile business and one which must be very humorous to watch. Intelligent people live their lives as nearly on a level as possible - try to be good, don't worry if they aren't, hold to such opinions as are comforting and reassuring and throw out those which are not. And in the fullness of their days they die with none of the tearing pain of failure because having tried nothing they have not failed. These people are much more intelligent than the fools who rip themselves to pieces on nonsense. And with that I will go to work (Steinbeck, p. 155)."


On a brighter note, I pulled into some nice waves yesterday. Got best wave of the seshionne.


See, okay. Take a pebble and drop it into the water and see what happens. Make observations on everything in it's liquid and transmutable essence. For real. Go do it now, and come back for discussion. Take the time; make it important in your life. Wave action is a simple concept. The pebble, or the disturbance on the surface of the body of water creates a depression, which then creates symmetrical waves that spread out from the disturbance and travel the length & breadth of the body of water until they make landfall. During the distance travelled, the waves act as a capsule, trapping the energy of the initial depression. More depression equals more energy equals more waves equals bigger waves. The further the distance from the initial depression and the ensuing landfall makes for really good waves. The reason why is this: the energy trapped in an individual wave is actually a small micro current, rotating toward the direction of travel, just like a wheel. Think of it as a water wheel. And with all those water wheels spinning toward shore, eventually one catches up with the one in front and absorbs it, making for a larger, and faster travelling wave. That's where the magic happens, my friend. Then it becomes like a big fish, little fish, then three big fish travelling together and five or maybe nine smaller fish in front, slowly being absorbed & conglomerated into larger & larger waves. The further the distance the depression is from landfall, the more opportunity, or fetch, as the science geeks call it (count me in), does the collection of waves have to create well organized (think five big ones, seven small ones, spaced out just right), focused energy type waves that actually have energy you can feeeeeeel as you slip under the offshore winds that hold the wave faces back just enough for a stealth, slippery entry, set the backside rail and point it toward the path of least resistance; toward the briefly unfolding shoulder of the heaving wave at the shore's door.


Then, to further complicate matters, consider that all those waves hitting the shoreline will have a pattern of sorts. The beginning, or welcoming of the swell, will be one of smaller waves punctuated by larger set waves at a flexible, yet hydrologically symmetrical pattern somewhere in the realm of every five to twenty five minutes, give or take. As the swell hits the peak, the surf becomes more concentrated: the waves are larger, the sets of waves more defined, the energy more concentrated; picture an impressiontists view of one, really big wave - made up of thousands of very small waves..., then you may see. Toward the end of the swell, like the beginning, the energy becomes less focused, yet still, set waves come by and if you're in the right spot... golden showers of heaving faces and throating, bloating, tubular spaces. Graces. Traces of small, fractured matrices.


Inside outside. The small waves break apart inside; the big ones - outside. That's a whole 'nother discussion that will only be broached if more than just my Mom and Heather and maybe my Dad ask: "why do big waves break outside, big daddy?"


So, to return to the lack of a point I had, I put myself in the right place, and bagged the wave of the day: a reeling, outside set wave on the waning of a West / Northwest swell. The strong, Papagayo (Costa Rican, Guanacaste region cowboy) winds dropped down to where I could get enough speed (offshores are headwinds to a surfer's perspective) to paddle into the bugger. The wave shouldered & peeled, and I got a good, five turns in before it walled up in front of me and closed out (where the whole wave collapses at once). You could have just handed me a clean up towellette 'cause I was done.


Even got hoots (it's in the surfer's nomenclature dictionary, Jeffrey A.Y., Mr. copywriter extra-ordinary, ragdollin' pinwheelin' sumnabtch) & whistles & shouts. This really nice Australian dude got frustrated enough trying to catch a good one that he got out only after a half hour or so. It takes time I've found. Time to sit. Sit & watch. So many things up for consideration.


And all on the shortboard I bought back in San Diego. Rusty 6'9" semi gun roundtail, with enough float por un gordito como yo (for a fatty like me). I've even thought about selling the longboard I brought and getting a smaller fish (type of a shortboard for small, lifeless waves), like in the 6'6" range. Maybe I'll just buy a fish, then I'll be the true americana, consumeristic, half-quivered (a full quiver is like, every type & style of board produced; a big deal, but not out of the question for the future - actually a distinct possibility), gringo surfista, technoslut. Say amen brothers and sisters to free trade, burgeoning third world capitalistique countries squashed like well-toasted coffee beans under the might of the American, imperialistic, econo-political-drug trafficking-terrorist financing-war mongering-....-....-Halliburton reconstruction machine. All pay deference to our lord god the almighty dollar, and the all powerful DOUBLEYEW.


And I'm only half done with my french press of organic, shade grown Costa Rican coffee. At least I'm not smoking dope, snorting crumbly yellow battery acid fauxcaine (YES A NEW WORD, COINED BY ME!), blowing snot rockets, and hocking lung butter with the stoner Argentinian surf dorks next door. The only redeeming quality I see there is one of them has a girlfriend who could quite possibly be a close second to the most beautiful woman in the world (Heather). I think the devil tattoo on her belly with the tail that wraps around to,..., other places, detracts though. Yeah, and monkey's fly out of my butt.

She also pulled a tick off the back of Ruby's neck that looked like a piece of water logged cornnut with her fingers, so that alone is a tough one to shake.


But I digress...


January 12, 2006, 8:12 PM:


The Argentinian surf dorks are playing vids, smoking dope and drinking beer, and I'm sitting in my fold-up rocking chair. I just noticed that it blew a gasket the other day. I'm worried that I'll be experiencing the slow demise of my trusty camp chair, not unlike the death of Antoinimus's camp chair on a hike into the Indian Heaven wilderness a few years back. Once I hit a new place I'll pull out my needle of small stuff and give it a good slip type whipping. And take all the sharp metal off so my new shorts won't get torn. Yeah, I'm moving on. Thirty bucks a night waiting for onshore winds for tomorrow at Witche's Rock and Ollie's Point just kinda popped my bliss bubble. The good news is that the title of ownership showed up in the mail yesterday. Yay me! You never know... I could... sell the car now... fly home with my frequent flyer miles. Hang out for a bit. Then fly back with the frequent flyer ticket... bus to panama with one bag and three boards, fly or boat to Ecuador... buy a car, and BWAMMMY!, I'm insane! But maybe not.


Here's some pictures of yesterday's surf:








January 13, 2006, 8:59 AM:


Today I hurt. Yesterday I woke up to hurt at around four in the morning. My right ear on the inside had a real acute pain. So I flushed it with Hydrogen Peroxide, let it fizz for about five minutes, and it's getting better. But today... I'm burnt, my upper back hurts from two big days of surf (I know, it doesn't look that big - it never does. You had to have been there. And why is it that the waves look smaller but I look fatter? Doesn't make sense. Fucking professional photographers), and I pulled something in my left, lower lumbar, which apparently hooks up with my left hip, so I'm having trouble walking. Yes. I'm getting old, and I have genetic hip dysplasia. No, it's not poor, pitiful Pearl - it hurts! Just wait. Within five years or less, you'll be faithfully sitting by my bedside, while the nurse (hopefully female), withdraws the catheter because A:, I can't stand up, and B:, the morphine drip has rendered my system un-functioning. But you see, I won't care. The morphine drip takes care of all that. Like, poof - problems? Gone. Sawed my femur in half you say? Cored it like a piece of dead wood? Refaced it like a rusted, piece of steel on the bulwark of an old boat? Setting the Steve Austin ball joint with a pneumatic dead-blow hammer? I won't care. I'll be talking a storm of how it's gonna be, and when we're gonna get together and really get the band back; really make it happen this time. How much love there is in the world, how it's so great to see everyone. Maybe I'll even start running again; just don't tell anyone. Stealth running.

So, I'm up in the air about staying here or leaving. Most likely I'll: drink one more espresso. Go have breakfast across the street (I've been eating cereal and bananas for the last three days. Have a cappuccino. Finish shopping in town (last minute gift buying before the border). Head to Playa del Coco and camp for the night. Wake up at 5:00 AM, make a french press, wait for a boat that's going to Witch's Rock (if the conditions are good), go surf (yo no se; es possible/ I don't know; It's possible). Just now, a guy came by for one of the Argentinian surf stones, and is talking like the surf esta muy grande (very large). So, things might change. Not like I'm feeling that bad. I mean, a couple ibu's, some sunscreen, my ballistic bush hat; I'm set!


January 22, 2006, 4:17 PM:


I drove to Playa del Coco, spent the night, checked with the tour agency that runs boats up to Santa Rosa National Park. They didn't have any boats booked, so it was a nail biter. I woke up at five in the morning, made a french press (goes without saying), PB&J's for the day, smushed some nanners into my pack, water, sunscreen, camera, camera housing, two boards (short & medium), trunks, longsleeve rashguard, sandals, bush hat, sunglasses, and humped it to the beach. Within ten minutes of sitting there, I saw a rogue tico surfer walk by with his board and turn a corner. I didn't pay much mind until I saw a truck with two boards in the back. Bingo. I set off in pursuit, backpack on, two board bags slung over my right shoulder, humpin'. About a hundred yards down shore, I saw the truck unpacking coolers, bags, water, and food bags for the bucket brigade out to the waters edge. After my spanglish suicide of: "I'm not that good... I won't snake anyone - please, it's taken me a week to try to line up a slip on a boat... I've got fresh coffee!," they relented, but not before the skippers buddy said no. Later, Steve-oh explained to me that he could feel my vibe, and he was just testing me. On further conversation, Steve-oh said that all ticos are rasta. I didn't know whether that meant that all ticos followed the rastafarian religion or that they just smoked dope. I concluded upon further examination that since Steve-oh smoked dope, he is rasta. And if Steve-oh is rasta, then all ticos are rasta. Hey, he out-turned me like five to one, so I let it slide. We saw schools of fish roiling the surface (roosterfish), I called out a reef shark sunning it's belly ten feet off my starboard rail, fifteen feet off the first takeoff point. We saw turtles surface, manta rays, blue footed boobies (I've seen blue nippled boobies, but never blue footed), and I paddled ashore to the beach at Ollie's Point (where Oliver North smuggled weapons to the Sandinistas) and found an agouti or paca skull fully bleached out with a couple molars still intact. Mine. The surf at Ollie's was very good I got five or six hunnerd fitty yarders on my Cowboy 7'6" speed egg, shaped by Craig "Cowboy" McCarthur in Half Moon Bay, California, and multiple sections further on the inside of the wave. Since it was most likely the last day or so of a smallish swell, Witche's Rock (Roca Bruja), wasn't nearly as good as Ollie's, but it is nevertheless one of the most perfect-est tubular beachbreaks in the world. Both waves are featured on "Endless Summer II," and I was fortunate to slip onto the only boat that travelled to Santa Rosa National Park on that day (I think it was the promise of fresh coffee).


I was in the water for eight hours that day. Put me over the edge. I slept the sleep of dead men for the next three days, as I travelled North: at the Costa Rican border the money changers gave me fake Nicaraguan cordobas: out another sixty bucks. through Nicaragua (another week to two weeks of waiting for middling South swells no thank you), through corrupt Honduras who charged me $100.00 just to enter the country (total bullshit but I relented), and a gordita (little, fat female) tried to get $42.00 by holding my passport hostage at the border between Honduras and Guatemala. I gave her ten after crying a river that I'm poor in my country and that: "yo no soy dinero (I am not money)." My slippery "guia (one who extorts)," said she was tired of listening to my crying, and let me go, but made sure to let me know that a receipt would either take a lot of time or cost more money. Knowing I was free to leave Honduras, I queried: "como se dice en espanol (how do you say in spanish), go fuck yourself?," and walked to my car. My route through Honduras was by far, the most incredibly beautiful drive I have ever experienced. Half centuries old dirt hardpack, half rutted mountain pass road, half two lane highway, the route went through no tourist land from La Paz (the peace), through La Esperanza (the hope), through Gracias (thanks), and onward to the border. High altitude, shade grown coffee region with virtually no concrete block dwellings. Only the original building style: mud brick, mud mortared, palm thatched roof huts (or terracotta fire brick roofs 50/50 split) - I felt like I was in a different world. I was. It took me two days, and the one night that I stayed in the area, I was at a small comedor - a tiny restaurant with like, two tables, and the dona's daughter was like, getting pressured by her mom to come on to me. So it first started with the mother speaking to the daughter, the daughter responding, then the first question: "are you alone?" Yes. The daughter continued with her accounting stuff or whatever she was doing at the other table. Mother talks to her more. Then the daughter: "take me with you. Please?" Nervous laughter - ignoring the question. Then, the daughter said to me in spanish - either: "You have beautiful eyes, like those of a child," or: "you have beautiful eyes, give me a baby." One of the two.


The food was good, and I smiled a lot and took everything with a grain of salt, I mean, I've seen the pictures, right? Pictures don't lie. I'm a fat, old man. Or at least I feel that way more often than naught lately.So, I drove, drove, drove. Antigua, Guatemala is a beautiful, old, colonial city beyond words. I left there a couple days back and am now sitting peacefully back in San Cristobal del las Casas, in Chiapas, Mexico, by far the most beautiful colonial city to date. I slept in my hammock last night at the hostel, and my trusty earplugs kept out all the pesky twenty-something "euro nightowls (f'ing europeans)." I'll be here probably until tomorrow where I'll begin making my way up the Mexican coast. I've given myself two months in Mexico (since one month coming down was like, virtually driving every day) - it is one big mo'fo' of a country. The tentative plan when I return is a motorcycle trip up to Sequim, Washington area to pick up a really cute woman named Heather and go do the things that people do. When they do the things they do. I have a serious desire to head to Alaska next. I'd like to fish for a season. After that, I believe I'll be back in Portland, getting a job and beginning the property development process, and working on completing the book. I've got twenty pages of a very rough manuscript started, upwards of nine hours of voice memos / book narratives / driving notes / rants / sorrows / epiphanies, and counting. My journal is a daily meditation (finally), it just feels good to be fulfilling my personal legend ("The Alchemist" - thank you Gary Johnston, the greatest actor in the whole world), albeit slowly, yet methodically ("Journal of a Novel" - thank you John Steinbeck, the oddest writer in the whole world). I don't feel so strange now, to think that others have strange predilections that border on obsessive compulsive behavior. It seems to be a part of the process.

Thanks to everyone who has supported and loved me unconditionally. I'm the first to admit that I am at times tough to handle. I'll be there sooner than later, and I feel better, but I'm far from okay - that just takes time to heal old wounds. Amazing what a couple stellar days of surf does to my spirit. If I do have a couple months time before fishing, I will probably do a temporary move to the Oregon coast - either Newport, Pacific City, or Seaside. I'm leaning toward Seaside. Just need a little more alone time for writing. There's the nutshell. I'm almost done with my second cappuccino (the best coffee drink in the world - f... latte's, latte's are crap).


January 23, 2006, 5:35 PM:


Why is it that tragic occurrences in my life prompt me to cry at the wailing wall? Is this my wailing wall? Today, yes. The cappuccino after breakfast was good. I tied my little big Ruby where I tied her yesterday for my one dollar cappuccino. I was with Natalie, a quebecois who will be riding bicycles with her "charm" (boyfriend) from Quebec city to Tierra del Fuego next spring. We sat for a modest twenty minutes, drinking the above average cappuccino and talking about Oaxaca, a place both of us planned on stopping through on our respective ways home. Maybe halfway through the coffee, I heard a little yip from Ruby, just outside the large doorway. Like I said, She was just beyond eyesight, and I tied her there yesterday. I always wait for the second "rawrf" that usually comes; always just a "hey, you tie me to things too much," plea. I remember Bill, I think, talking about it. I was just talking to an Irish couple who are just finishing a two and a half year around-the-world oddysey in their Land Rover Discovery 10 - the archetype 4x4 by which all other 4x4's are judged. We all knocked on wood at our luck of minimal "mordidas" (little bites). A british girl also knocked on wood. She was in Managua, Nicaragua and was physically beaten and stabbed by five men who said that they would rape her if she didn't give them all her money. She did, and fought, bit, and screamed while giving them "money." Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, now, as I sit, waiting for one more quesadilla (five tacos and one quesadilla weren't enough - I haven't eaten since breakfast), I question where she is tonight. Did she get her kibble, or is he feeding her scraps, or nothing? Is she now a roof dog, like the many I saw as I walked, ran, wailed in the surrounding silence of eyes, many of them laughing at the big, blue eyed gringo, crying like a child, all alone in the cobbled streets of go ahead and steal the most important life to me - by baby boo.


Some people have never quite understood my rage. Can you understand that as I sit here, looking out from the taco shack that still hasn't brought me my fucking quesadilla, that if I saw Ruby on leash with one of the greasy, sleazy thieves that I see casing all the tourists, waiting for the nanosecond when our guards are down and we're enjoying a nice cup of cappuccino and not looking at our dearest of possessions, if I saw the fucker - I'd drive his head into the sidewalk with my fists, and get the fuck out, running the dark side streets to my car and disappear into the black, liquid night of tears. Yes, that is the feeling running through my veins this very minute. Am I justified? I don't know, and I don't care. The difference is this: some people have a different perception of what is right and what is wrong. I could bet you that as I sit here there is more than one person within eyesight that would steal my computer. Never mind the power plug or the password protection that renders it a hundred peso note to the thief, not the diez million pesos that it's actually worth, all for a greasy ten bucks. I remember someone commented after two days of my despairing over the loss of my first dog Oompfa: I just don't understand your emotion; I didn't feel that way about my dog and I saw it from across the road get smushed by the car.


This is not the time for well crafted words - it is a time for hate. The despair was on the street, crying. I now sit at the hostel that plays music until eleven at night. Construction starts at seven in the morning, the structure being built twenty feet away. The solution here in Mexico? Advertise your dog as being lost on the radio. So I sit, and wait for the more than probable loss of one of the best dogs in the world to an idiot who might think that she can have babies, or that she can be a guard dog (give me a fucking break), or maybe she'll just feed a family for a couple nights - take your pick. I may get a call though. The price will be somewhere between fifty and five hundred dollars. I love how they like to put a price on the tourists happiness. I wonder what their God says about these kind of things? If they just took care of their own poor and incredibly down trodden dogs of the street they wouldn't have to covet a dog who was the luckiest dog in the world, right up until she was introduced into the world of the stupid thief. Her shiny black coat will be just as crappy looking as all the others within a month. She will share the sores of the sad dogs of the street of San Cristobal de las Casas - quite possibly contract rabies like all the others. It just takes time. What I would give to be God just for a day. A God with a gun and a location. I've considered hiring a detective without morals, yet discretion. Just a location.


No second quesadilla? No fucking tip, asshole. Like I'm not even here.


Here's something about the first one: I had a sense you were dead


January 26, 2006, 5:49 PM:

I'm okay, and there is hope today. Two separate men saw Ruby being walked at a park about three blocks from where she was stolen, then two other people saw him walking her on the street next to the park, so I'm getting close. I'm afraid what might happen if I catch him myself alone on the street. Afraid for him. He seems very stupid. I won't do anything stupid. I just want Ruby back, and there is a slight chance that I will get her back. I'm digging in here until I find her. I'm going to be okay whatever the outcome, though I am so sad right now. A group of the cigarette smoking europeans have been very nice and understanding. The people who work here have also been very nice, and understanding. I am holding out hope, though, preparing myself that I may very well never see her again.


January 27, 2006, 11:23 AM:


I'll keep it short, and write more of the details later, but suffice to say, a phone call came last night at around 11:00 PM, saying that they had my dog. I scrambled out of my car bed, and took two people with me. I don't know if the story of the man's neighbor was the thief and that the man rescued her was true or not. The point is that I have Ruby back. They only asked for 200 pesos - around twenty dollars or so. The hostel I've been staying at has been very supportive. The owners actually have land outside the city and have been rehabilitating street dogs and placing them in decent homes for the past couple years. I donated fifty dollars out of gratitude for their kindness and understanding. I have yet to cry tears of joy - I'm still in shock at my fortune of life and love. So many things in my head. Thank you for everyone who sent me emails of prayer and support; sometimes I'm such a baby about things. But as my mentor once taught me: "The height of your joy is measured by the depths of your sorrow." I'm very happy today...


Un poco mas...



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