Day one ended with a mad search for our mate Max on the balcony at 4am. We’d all known Max for many years. He never flys with us, but we always find him wherever we go. He sticks around for a couple days, then poof, hes gone in a puff of smoke. Fortunately, a group of Israeli boys in the room next door had seen Max earlier, and could point us in his direction. It was surreal chatting to them, because on the one hand they seemed quite innocent early 20 somethings on a mad trip through S America without a clue; but on the other hand, they spoke very freely about harrowing experiences in the military with the same degree of levity as I would speak of being drunk at uni.
Either way, we found Max and went out for the day. My Spanish was starting to come on by this point, encouraged by the locals whose responses I didn’t understand a word of. “Peudes hablar mass despacio, por favor”. Despite this, it worked well enough that we were given the hookup to a reggae spot, so off we went.
Vibes. Pure vibes. We sat, sipping pints of Mexican beer, in a beautifully decorated outside space, watching a mexican reggae band play tune after tune in the tropical evening warmth. Maybe it was paradise, maybe it was the chocolate. We skanked out during the bands second set, vibing with the local crowd, united in appreciation for the worlds greatest music.
Suddenly, Im sent flying as the ever diminutive Henry keels into me, sending me across the table. When I get my bearings, I get up to see a scuffle on stage. Completely disoriented at the time, I look up to see the main singer being punched up by a fan! However, I’m reliably informed that the series of events were as follows. Keyboard player falls head first off the stage in a drunken mess. He gets to his feet and bangs the lead singer twice in the face. lead singer then spins him round and lays some solid shots on my man. Fight broken up, gig over. Mexico is fucking loco man.
As we thought our night had been ended prematurely, some locals we had been dancing with grabbed us and told us to roll with them. And as we walked into a club called onyx, a reggae cathedral on this night, built on an ancient cenote and dropping tune after tune, I resolved to trust the direction this trip takes me in. Random chance may not be random.
Despite this reggae train i was aboard, I spent most of the night trying to make myself understood by Spanish speakers. It was extremely difficult. But when I was understood, I felt an excitement not felt since childhood. And an incredible connection with whoever I was chatting to, despite such simple conversations. I reflected later that, by trying to speak in their language, I was entering their world, as the more vulnerable party, rather than putting them in the uncomfortable position of expecting them to enter mine. And this earns their respect.