Mexico (re-potted )

 

In the early 70s, I flew from Milwaukee’s Mitchell International Airport to Mexico City’s Felipe Angeles International. 

Landing in Mexico City is like falling into the depths of Dante's Inferno, fires are burning in the hills outside the city. 

As I walk down the aircraft stairway I see the pilot, a gringo, opens the cockpit window and pokes his head out, he's drunk and red-faced. 

As I go through customs, I smell the tropics, I love the tropics.

At departures, I catch a taxi, a VW Bug. 

Volkswagons were introduced in Mexico during the early 50s, a time when most of the cars were American models— Fords and Chevys. Mexico produced 20 million VWs from the 50s through the 80s. I tell the driver 

Zona Roza Central, 

Mexico City is sexy, the women wear black.

At an alley I see a flashing neon sign, it's the Hotel Salida, exit in Spanish.

On the first floor, there's a cashier inside a bulletproof cage.

I pay for a month upfront, and the cashier says,  

La Salada is a mecca for whores, they bring their tricks here. I tell her, 

I’m okay with putas, they satisfy a need and scratch n itch, it’s the world's oldest profession.

Henry and the desk clerk laugh, she hands him a a key chain, 

3500 pesos a month in advance, and 1000 deposit,  

I handover the pesos.

Later at el Materno Cafe Bar Rio de la Plata, a regular place with booths, a large bar, and a kitchen in the back. 

At the bar, I drink a shot of tequila and 3 bottles of Pacifico beer,  the Mexican Cambia music on the radio is real Mexico

Loaded I make my way to Moderno Street, drinking water to sober up, I sit outdoors at a cafe, watching the hot Mexican women walk by. 

My waiter's queer, I order,  

2 shredded pork tortillas and a plate of refried beans. 

Eating at an outdoor restaurant in Mexico is called Al Fresco, which is Italian for eating in the fresh air. 

The polluted air makes me nauseous, my nose burns. I take a taxi to the Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Studio Museum.  

At first sight, I love the avant-garde houses both homes and studios, 2 separate buildings connected by a footbridge. 1 painted blue and the other terracotta. Deigo and Frida had their own rooms to hide in when Deigo was there.  

Each building has a floor-to-ceiling window because painters need ample light. The side-by-side buildings are surrounded by a cactus fence. 

Sitting outside at the San Angel Cafe, across the road from the Kahla, Rivera I smoke ganja in the open, nobody cares. I'm loaded without the stability to walk up and down the spiral staircase at the Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Studio Museum. 

The museum is 10 blocks from Mercado Mercado San Juan so I walk it. I buy a styrofoam cooler and fill it with ice and bottles of water.

I have to get a taxi, I'm lost and my legs hurt.

At Hotel Salida, I walk wavy-like up 4 floors, drunk, stoned, and jet lagged. I pass out in my bed, sleeping for 18 hours.

When I wake in the evening there's no hot water. Taking a cold shower is awful. There's a knock on the door, ama puede! My neighbor, I invite her in, we lay on top of each other on my bed, going through the motions. I can't get a hard-on, I'm impotent so she tells me her story, 

I'm Angelina Mister Henry, I’m from Acapulco, I grew up in the Green Mountain slums in the hills above the city. People are scared, the street people are drunk. I had beautiful titas at 16 so I started poll dancer.

I give Angelina, 900 pesos, I deep-kiss her for good luck.

The working girl's story of Acapulco arouses me. I pack and catch a taxi to Central Terminal, buying an economy ticket to Acapulco, there a very few gringos anywhere. The bus station's crowded with everyday Mexicans. I sit on a bench drinking water, and eating peanuts.

Boarding at 8PM, the bus fills up.

I take a seat next to a fat Mexican woman, it's the only seat left, she's oblivious.  

It's a long ride out of the city, in the mountain the bus climbs up a 3-lane highway, south to Acapulco. 

Without asking, I lay horizontally with my head on the fat lady’s crotch, she's got black stretch pants on, she's sweating, she smells pungent, we're turned on, we are like short-time husband and wife.

At 5AM, the bus stops at a checkpoint, the Federal Police or FD assaults the bus, checking everyone out. One of them hits me up, 

gringo, give us money for fresca, 

He has a waxed mustache and is sweating so I give him 500 pesos, they shakedown the gringos. 

The bus arrives at Acapulco de Juarez Central Bus Station, 

Following the sea I'm stoked to find La Los Hamagas Hotel where I stayed with my parents in the 60s. 

I pay cash for 5 days, 280 dollars, I'll move up the hill to cheaper locations near Playa San Miguel in a few days. 

My room opens to the pool, the grounds are lush. I clean up and walk to Sanborn's Drugstore, sitting at the luncheonette on a swivel stool, ordering a stack of pancakes with an egg on top and brewed coffee. Mexican coffee is exotic.

In liquor, I grab 2 pint of mescal with a chunk of larvae in the bottom.

Back in my room, I shut the curtain and turn on the air, watching MTV videos. 

Half in the bag on mescal which is like acid, the room spins and I see colors. I break down when the Sheryl Crow video Do You Really Want to Be My Man plays. 

In the afternoon the weather is pleasant, in the mid-70s, I take the alley to a dirt road leading up to Green Mountain, a fractured city on decline. 

Inside a nameless bar, they're whores with beer bellies in their bras and panties sitting drinking beer and smoking, looking out the door. 

It's a  sad scene, I drink a soda and leave. 

Hiking further up Green Mountain, there are a number of cinder block houses. In someone's yard, I  pet a chained-up dog, he bites me, bleeding, I need stitches. 

An old Mexican woman comes to me my aid, squeezing fresh lime on the gash. 

I walk down the hill, past the drunks, meth turns them into zombies. 

Back at the hotel I douse the gash with beer and wrap it in a bathroom towel, laying on my back and elevating my leg on 2 pillows.

By 5 I'm in a clinic examination room, there's blood and bits of hair on the floor, not mine. The Mexican doctor pours saline solution on my wound which goes fuzzy and white, he says to me in English, 

you smell like tequila, you're a boozer, you need to cut down on the drinking. You are going to need a series of 12 rabbi shots in the stomach.

I'm allergic to the vaccine, do you have cocaine, he says, 

this is Mexico amigo, sure I do.   

I buy half a bottle of pharmaceutical-grade coke, snorting some with a coke spoon, it makes me feel like I can do anything in the world, but I can't. 

I get 12 stitches, the bill is 500 pesos, only 30 dollars. 

My leg hurts, so I take a taxi to Playa San Miguel, it’s a raw area, gringos are scarce. 

Rosewood Hotel is rusty red and wrapped tightly around a swimming pool, across from the sea.

I look at a room, it's the size of a walk-in closet, with just enough space for a single bed and bathroom, like a cell. 

I take it, negotiating a monthly rate of 4000 pesos.

The clerk says in Spanglish,

keep a low profile amigo, Mexicanos don’t like gringos, 

I figured that.

In boxer shorts, I walk to the beach. There's no lifeguard and the waves are shallow. I swim out far enough to tread water, looking ashore at ladies in thongs. 

After the swim near Rosewood a queer approaches, selling sex and ganja.

I have Acapulco Gold? 

We walk to my room at Rosewood and do the transaction, I ask him to roll a few joints. 

We light up and he asks me if I want a blow job. I tell him to leave.

High and messing around at the hotel pool, I throw pebbles into it which turn into large bubbles, that float into the sky. 

In the evening I hear Mariachi music down the road.

I walk to the music, there's a straw shack, it's a bar with no name. Inside I ask, 

how bout a beer, friend?

Get out gringo, or someone will cut your cojones off with a machete.

I go to Seven-Eleven and buy a pint of mescal, soda, water, and ice. I feel drained, a couple of drinks help.

The following day for lunch I go to the famous El Paradiso, a round bar down the road from Las Hamaca that overlooks the sea, eating fish and drinking a coco loco.

Hey Macarena blares, partyers do the arm movements folding and crossing them, I try to follow, sick of it I split, taking a 

an International Bus up the hill. 

At Rosewood, I invite the late-duty maid in for a drink.

It's humid so we go to the beach. I point out the Big Dipper attached to The Gladiator, one on top of the other, we look up.  

She sits on a picnic bench at the tree line. I run and dive into the rolling sea of the East Pacific Rise in my underwear, swimming far out, I’m a strong swimmer but worry about Tiger and Hammer sharks. 

Feeling full of life, I do the butterfly stroke ashore. 

The night maid and I sleep arm and arm, wrapped around each other like snakes. 

I dream I'm running in tall grass, ripped up by thistles and grass slashing my arms and legs. I wake up sweating and stabilize. 

In the morning I buy a one-way ticket with a credit card, Acapulco to Milwaukee.

Going back to my job at the Old Harley Davidson museum as night watchman was a chinch. I had the place to myself and could invite to party at night.

I have been in Mexico for a month without getting busted or in a fight, keeping my cool. 

The Great Shark Hunt's number in the Library of Congress is RN 5647292