Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

There is a vivid conflict in this place; one so obvious and omnipresent...it follows and haunts like a ghost. Here I feel torn between reality and built-up imagery. American bars and music, more white tourists than you'd think you'd see all the way down here, hawkers trained in just a few essential English terms: "Barrato...almost free." They've made sure Thanksgiving will be alive and well here, catering to the mostly Californian clientele, probably almost 100% American. They've been opportunistic with the local culture (who, the American capitalists or the locals - you decide). Mariachi bands that charge 50 pesos per song, tour guides with Mexican accents sometimes, I swear, that are exaggerated for effect, sombreros on sidewalks for sale to the novelty-seeking, a take on Mexican food that unadventurous putis can stomach. I can bet 100 bucks the food I've been eating is nothing like real Mexican food. Not the kind you'd find inland, or maybe off fishing villages on the Mayan Riviera.  

You have to strain to find the real things here. A sunrise and a sunset over the border of the Pacific and the Sea of Cortez, crashing waves and the rip tides that threaten mercilessly, desert canyons full of butterflies adapted to the dry climate, taxi drivers willingly sharing the stories of their lives - how they are paying their way through college, how many kids they have, who's depending on their hard-earned cash - a mariachi band member dozing off on a bench beside a local store, tropical fish - ones who aren't afraid to bite. I have a scar to prove it.  Floating hundreds of feet above the bay with lovers beach to the left, my feet dangling over a velvety blue water, the waves shrinking as I fly higher, higher. These things are there. But they're hard to see. 

I took a walk to the resort's edge, just by the beach, where the lights weren't as heady and the crashing waves bellowed in the distance, patches of stars peeking from a partly cloudy sky. I wanted to find some isolation; some peace in a place where it should belong. I heard them coming closer, four teenagers, two with cigarettes in hand, laughing, spitting, cracking open a can of beer. They were speaking loudly, to best the roaring waves, off on their own adventure. It was hard not to feel angry then. But I couldn't think I was any better. Wasn't I doing the same?

I think God's answers are always clearer in a place closer to nature. I wanted to just sit and listen; to speak into the howling wind for no one but Him to hear. I hope He did.