Squawking birds forced our eyelids open at 7:45, bent on letting us know we were in Puerta Vallarta. Captain Ahab, the Norwegian terror of the Pacific, must have made good time in the full moon seas as hostages were already checking off the boat at this ungodly hour. Chris and I had enough time to brush last nights alcohol out of our drink holes, gather up our final belongings and make sure our estates were in order before our on-shore excursion - swinging through the jungle on lines of twine.
We powered down a quick breakfast at the buffet - well, as quick as one can buffet which still takes approximately 15 minutes. I kissed Wife good bye, told her I loved her, and if I didn't return sell my baseball cards and porn collections to pay to have my ashes spread over Dodger Stadium.
Vallarta Adventures, a top notch company I assume, summon the "jeep" driver (their term, not mine) to collect their latest batch of suckers - 14 of us believed the online blurb about this being a safe experience and no mention of the trip actually ending at a Mexican prison work camp. The driver arrives, Pacifico bottles trailing behind him I'm guessing so that he can find his way back to the "jeep," and loads us onto our chariot. Before seeing our transportation, we were told that this was an air-conditioned all-terrain Mercedes. When we saw it we realized the only part that was true was it was a vehicle, and even that was debateable.
The back is in the open air and we sit side-by-side, seven-by-seven, on two long cushioned benches (thank God for small favors, my ass would have been unhappy if it was face to face with wood for the one hour drive). He tootles through Puerta Vallarta, grinding gears into a fine powder with each shift, following the highway into the jungle. "Prison camp," "prison camp,""prison camp," echoes in my head and the voice sounds like Morgan Freeman. But this won't be no Shawshank Prison, oh no, hell no, this will be pound you in the ass prison. Where they were taking us, I was sure the cockroaches would make me their bitch.
We're deep in the countryside now. Little mom and pop general stores no bigger than my tool shed act as sign posts, heading dirt roads that serve dozens of one-room homes. At some points, a mother and her kids (I presume) would sit road side selling anything and everything. Wal-Mart and Target are missing a great opportunity by not employing the same idea. Both sweat shop giants would clean up if they had some yocal on the corner of the main drag hocking garden tools and bath towels.
Mexican life away from the big cities intrigued me and my eyes were trained on the landscape. Jungle mixed with farms and endless roads piqued my curiosity with every turn. That was, until we drove by the prison. A concrete monstrosity in the middle of the jungle with a dozen guard towers, maybe more. I lost count as fear took over my mind. I considered leaping from Pacifico Paco's wild ride, but I didn't want to end up in back-jungle Mexico where a weathered old grandma would kidnap my frail ass, keep me in a cage and pull me out only to cut her toe nails every few days. Weighing the options, I stayed, accepting my fate.
My spirits lifted, however, when Paco passed the prison and I realized I was being a dumb gringo who had watched too many American movies about Mexico. We rolled along and I enjoyed the glimpse into Mexico's soul.
We were greeted at the site by a donkey wearing a safety helmet. It made me laugh - the helmet had ear holes cut out for the burro - until I spied it's title on the brain bucket: HEAD GUIDE. Oh crap! I knew these back-jungle Mexico outfits were shady.
They shove us into our harness gear, which made my package appear as if there was more there than just extra bubble wrap to protect the small jewels inside. If I walked around college with this gear on chicks would have jumped my junk more readily.
Alberto, who seems to be the head monkey (that's what they call themselves so save your hate mail) in charge, herds us over to an open area with a pine benches - something tells me the wood used for the benches is not native to the area - where we get a vaudeville act starring our guides: Alberto, Mattias, Javiar, Tony, Neomi and Amaury. The guides play off each other with fine comic skills during introductions and the safety drill, which I'm sure is part of the job so that us death defiers don't freak ourselves out. They do a great job, because any fear someone may have had was diffused through humor. That's not to say we didn't have our share of American-made chickens on this zip-lining adventure; the guides can only do so much.
It took the first zip across the jungle to get my adrenaline pumping. The trees and jungle floor whiz by in fast forward while I hang by two pulleys and a safety line, both paws in heavily layered leather gloves and one hand on the safety and the other acting as the break on the rope above my head. The wind slaps at my cheeks and rides through my shirt, and each second I'm smiling like a kid given wings to soar of his roof. The first line is tree to tree but the ground meets you at both points. The next line, however, sticks you half way up a tree (90 feet, check out the map along the right side of the site to get an idea) with only a matchbox-sized platform to walk along with only a frayed strap keeping me from somersaulting down five stories and messing up the jungle's ecosystem.
"How did you like that, monkey?" Javiar asked me. It was a frequent question from the guides. I think my smile told them all they needed to know.
We cruise through some mid-size zips, the jungle a blur of green and earth before arriving at the fastest line and second longest run of the tour - "Big Mamma."
"To get seven years of good luck, you must shout 'Big Mamma' all the way," Tony said. "If you don't, you'll probably hit a tree on the next one."
Talk about a hard sell. I need all the luck I can get so I belt out "big mammas" like I'm shouting for help from a passing rescue boat. Those crazy guides at Vallarta Adventures weren't just blowing smoke up my rear about the luck thing. When we returned the Chargers just swept the season series from the Denver Broncos (something they hadn't done in 24 years), the Los Angeles Dodgers signed a stud pitcher away from the Northern Bastards, and the cats haven't pooped on my pillow since our return. With that kind of luck, the Powerball folks may as well give me the $130-something million it's pushing right now.
We finish "Big Mamma" and are now directed to walk - WALK- along a suspension bridge made out of what looks like milk crates tethered between the branches of two trees. The distance was maybe 90 feet across, but it might as well have been two miles. I paid good, drinking dough to zip above the jungle floor, not walk. Not only that, the guides want us to "shake it" at the halfway point. Ah ha! Something I know a little about. I get to the middle and start the strip tease. Working the shirt up to the hoots of the parrots and the mosquito's clapping until realizing the "safety" harness hindered any more strip teasing. Since Chris was following me, he was likely thankful not to see more.
Two more average-lengthed zips takes us to what became my highlight of the excursion - the Tarzan Swing. When I read about the swing, I imagined a heavy-grade rope that we grasped and swung through the jungle. I was set to give it the Tarzan yell. But when I saw what exactly the Tarzan Swing was, yelling was going to be extremely difficult.
The Tarzan Swing was another zip line that didn't require us monkeys to hold on for breaking (so we don't slam into another monkey, which I did earlier in the day. Like Ricky Bobby says in "Talladega Nights" I like to go fast, what can I say), instead we just sail along thanks to the guides shove. So Tony, who looks like Mexican version of The Undertaker but smaller and with a better tan, lifts up one woman a few turns ahead of mer, and asks how many tequilas does she want to feel like she had?
"10!" Tony laughs, yells down to Javiar who was catching us monkeys at the end of the swing - if they need someone catching folks you know things could get hairy - lifts up this lady to his shoulder and spins her like a dradle. She spirals to the landing pad and spins to a stop, unhitching from the swing and walking like I was after Manolo's Jack and Coke mixtures the first night on the ship.
Finally, my turn comes up and Tony asks me the question I was now preparing for.
"Give me what you got," I say. Famous last words. Hope the life insurance is paid up, dear.
Tony laughs from the belly, which was not a good sign. "He wants it with chili! OK, monkey, get your knees up by your ears."
That's just not something you don't want to hear from anyone, anytime, but I follow the directions and Tony cradles me like I'm his new born monkey (this wouldn't be weird if we were in the prison I passed on the drive up). Next thing I know, the world is a hyper-active kaleidascope of greens and browns. I think I see Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man spin by. My eyes, I was sure, stopped spinning with the rest of the body and just looked at back of my skull. They got tired spinning and wanted a break, I guess.
And then - THUD - I stop hard thanks to Javiar and Mattias. But everything hasn't stopped. Slow spins circle through the inside of my head and I try to walk straight which left me going in circles until I could grab hold of the railing leading to the next zip line. Fortunately, the railing wasn't spinning.
Because the guides are sadistic monkey abusers, they make us hike up a hill after the Tarzan Swing for the tour's longest run - "Big Daddy." The Monkey guides hook me up, explain that I must shout "Big Papa, Big Daddy, Baked Potato (I think the latter was supposed to be Big Potato, but at the time a baked potato sounded good. I reminded myself to find one at the buffet when we returned) and sent me on way. The end of the run was hidden by tree branches and once I zipped past them I understood why this was called Big Daddy. The run went endlessly and below was a river and waterfall pacing our path with each passing foot of rope.
Since I made this last run a sight-seeing trip, I toodled along a bit slower than 10 other runs and I ended up about five short of the landing platform. At the beginning, they put the fear of God in us monkeys, explaining that if we were short of the platform they'd leave us there, dangling, until a giant eagle snatched us up with it's beak to feed to its baby eaglets. I was done for. The guide saved me, however, by telling me to turn my back to the platform and pull myself along. That's when I realized I had been eating eight hours a day for five straight days. My arms looked at my ass, which just shrugged as if to say, "sorry dudes, but that sixth lox and cream cheese bagel yesterday hit the spot." It took me five minutes to traverse the final five feet to the platform.
Our final job was to rapell 120 feet down off the tree, and taking one look through the milk crate platform, 120 feet resembled the distance between the Earth to the Moon. Two ropes tied to the tree's trunk and dribbled over the side to a pair of designated catchers - our guides. They were two specks in a sea of brown divots that I only assumed were monkeys who either a) let go of the rope, or b) the catchers dropped.
Throughout this adventure I hadn't been afraid. The zipping was awesome, standing on a platform a hundred feet up didn't spook me and traversing suspension bridges was a hoot. Rapelling a 120 feet, however, was a whole other game. The guides gave us a quick tutorial on rapelling - something about using your fingers to brake and holding the rope behind you so you didn't leave an ink spot on the jungle floor - and then they shoved you off the plaform.
I dangle, screaming my head off just waiting for a giant eagle swoop in on my gonads, before I remember something about holding the rope and using my fingers to brake. Lo and behold, that shit worked. And to think I thought the monkey guides were just talking out their ass again. I stop screaming and coast to the floor into the arms of Alberto who assures me it's all over, i'm safe, on the ground and littering the jungle with smashed body parts.
While Chris and I were heaving ourselves through the jungle, and Angela, Jerry and her units were caravaning to a tequila plantation, Ben and Brett did a little Mojito recon mission in town and found the place to go for the best "elixer of the gods" in town. They informed Wife that this was the joint in town for knock-your-hair back mojitos, who in turn passed the info to excursionists. We wash behind our ears, scrub our sacks and don our Vallarta wear for an evening on the town, hitching a ride to drink "the best mojitos in town."
La Bodeguita del Medio is a two-story, dark hole-in-the-wall Cuban joint along the main strand facing the Puerto Vallarta beach. They sit us upstairs, out of the way. I'm guessing they'd heard about our group before hand and figured we'd cause the least amount of trouble if they shove us into the front corner of the upstairs patio. Being troublemakers works out for us, however, as we have an unfettered view of the strand and the beach. The benches, tables and wood posts are covered in multi-colored crayon phrases, names and symbols. It's the kind of place I dig, but Wife would never allow us to step foot into for fear of Montezuma's Revenge attacking our bowels with just one whiff of the joint's kitchen. With the glowing recommendation from Ben and Brett, however, she braves it.
My Spanish is comprised of two sayings: Uno mas cerveza, por favor, and Donde esta el bano, por favor?. After our trip to La Bodeguita, I can confidently add a new phrase to my gringo vocabulary: Dos para uno Mojito, por favor (I'm nothing if not polite). We work the waitress over for the two-for-one deal Ben and Brett nailed earlier, who finally gives in and hooks the table up with 16 mojitos, two per person. There's enough fresh mint sprigs in each glass to plant our own mint patch at home and enough "light" rum to make us all feel like we've been on the Tarzan swing, not with chili.
Because I'll eat just about anything, anywhere, I couldn't pass up La Bod's cervice. While most of the table were pansies and went with the shrimp cocktail, I had to be different and ordered the cervice. It was chalk full of shrimp, lettuce and cilantro mixed with some jalapenos and mild habaneros. With the mojitos working as a pain supressant, I shovel in a couple of quick bites before my mouth becomes a boiler room incerator and I can set fire to the Mexican jungle in a single breathe. It appears, cilantro, jalapenos and "mild" habaneros are the necessary ingredients for dragon fire breathe. That doesn't stop me, though.
"How is it honey?" Wife says.
"Good," I say, and after the smoke clears I see Angela smothering Wife's face with a damp cloth to slow the 3rd-degree burns my breathe just caused. I'd say it was good, but taste buds were singed to nubs, so it's only guess.
Jerry and I glance at each other and you our mind-reading skills to determine we both need more Mojitos. "Dos para unos," slowly becomes "Doths spara unosh" by the fourth round.
As we walk/stumble/wobbly-leg our way out of La Bod, we learn another new word - buracha. That's Wife, folks, buracha. She leans, sways, stumbles and hangs on to gain her balance with each step. We take great pleasure in this and wish we'd brought a camera to digitize this event.
After tequila shots at the dock because it will be our last cheap drink until we hit L.A. in two days, we head over to Angela and Jerry's room for Crown Royals and ice teas. It's here, in this room a click or two away from the ship's engines that I get tabbed the "Dirty Dog," by Sugar. I'm not sure how I landed this monnicker, but the Florez family thought it fit me well.
With Wife laying on her side, prone, on the floor, I figure that was as good a time to mount up as any. Flash bulbs pop as I make like Benji on an outstretched leg. If you ask nicely, I'm sure you can get feed your dirty little appetite by viewing the picture which is running around in someone's camera.
We somehow make it to the pool deck in time for midnight BBQ buffet, complete with full, roasted pigs (either that or they were alive with great tans) that are trotted out with apples in their mouths and curly-cue tails. "I gotta try me some of that," I proclaim. I'm full, but my stomach says let's try it anyway, plus some ribs and fish and potato salad. I have one of Royal Caribbean's minions slice me off a piece of pig skin and I bon apetit it. The meat is tasty and moist, and the skin tastes how one would imagine skin to taste, chewy and tough.
And as I'm powering down a midnight snack of ribs, pig, fish and some unidentified delicasies something Brett mentions throughout the trip echoes in my head: "I worked too hard to reach my goal weight."
My reply: "Yeah, I worked too hard to not eat and drink my way through this vacation."
My stomach and liver echoes that sentiment.
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