How it all started: What Really Happened in Mexico…

After high school, my biggest desire was to see the world. So for a few years I worked on cruise ships and for club med, but neither were satisfying. Working on cruise ships allowed me to go to many amazing places, but unfortunately because I was working, I never had enough time to really see anywhere. What’s the use of going to Barcelona eight times if you only had an hour off the boat each time? At Club Med it was the opposite problem. I was stuck in one place for six months until I was so sick of it anywhere would be better. Finally one incident made me realize I had been going about everything all wrong and that incident was:

What really happened in Mexico...

In November of 1999, I finished my contract with Club Med down in Huatulco, Mexico on the pacific coast of Oaxaca. Though I had finished working for Club Med and had a plane ticket to Seattle that I could use at any time, I wasn’t yet ready to go home. So my friend Kim, a French -Canadian dude with a scalpel-sharp sense of humor, and I hatched a plot to move to Cancun and get jobs amongst the white sand beaches and beautiful women. A couple of months before we left, we ran into three girls, two sisters and a friend, who were also from Quebec and happened to know Kim growing up. They were working in another resort across the bay from us. I started dating Rosie, one of the sisters, and the three of them decided to join our quest to find gainful employment in Cancun. After all, how hard could it be to find a job in one of the biggest tourist destinations in the world?

Harder than we thought, is the answer to that question. The problem with working at a resort in Mexico is that you barely make enough money to cover your bar bill, so none of us had what you might call a nest egg. Kim and I had maybe a hundred and fifty bucks each in our pockets, the girls even less and I don’t think any of us were prepared for the Las Vegas-ness of Cancun. Towering hotels and 7 dollar margaritas were as far as the eye could see and not one hostel. The beautiful tourist part of Cancun is located on a long narrow peninsula of white sand that curls out into the turquoise blue sea. Except the only hotel we could afford was off the peninsula near the bus station in the ‘downtown’ part of Cancun where all the locals lived. It was nasty. I seem to remember slimy concrete floors and lumpy, squeaky beds. Luckily, we were young, impervious and we just knew fortune would shine down on us eventually.

Soon it seemed like it was happening. On our second night there, we went out in Cancun and my girlfriend and her sister (who were never exactly bashful) entered a wet t-shirt contest and won four hundred dollars, which to us felt like winning the lottery. The money gave us a night out and kept us afloat for at least another week. Then the next day, while eating breakfast, the owner of the restaurant came over and started chatting with us. By the end of the conversation, he (I think his name was Arturo) had offered to let us stay for free in a house he owned that was between renters and to help us find jobs. It’s amazing what people offer you when you’re travelling with three pretty girls.

We took Arturo up on his generous offer and moved into his empty three-story house. The only problem was that it had no furniture. So we took some of the wet t-shirt winnings and bought three mattresses. Next, Arturo hooked me up with a job selling time shares in one of the huge hotels. So everything was working out great, right? Well… no. First, selling time shares is a lot like selling your soul. My job was to pitch our amazing product to unsuspecting tourists over a free breakfast.
Except I was so poor I knew that breakfast was likely to be my only real meal of the day. So in between heaping mouthfuls of pancake and stuffing danishes in my pockets, I was trying to convince these people that the contract we were going to ask them to sign would lead to a better, more exotic life and wouldn’t be that much harder to get rid of than say… clamidia. Anyway, I wasn’t very good at it and I only ever sold one contract to an older couple from Montana (who still probably curse my name to this day). Meanwhile, the girls were having even worse luck. Every job they had been offered required wearing little or no clothing and involved doing things like giving body shots to overweight sun burnt tourists. They weren’t interested. Apparently winning money in a wet t-shirt contest was one thing, but shot girl…

Every night, all we ever had enough money for was a dirt burger each (a dubious hamburger sold from a street vendor), a gallon of rum, two gallons of coke and a couple packs of cigarettes. I had never smoked before, but trust me… when you live in a house with five French Canadians and have no entertainment but three mattresses and a pack of cards, eventually you get sick of rum.

After a couple of weeks, the girls got bored with Cancun and decided to go home. Coincidentally (or not), within hours of their announcement, Arturo told Kim and I that he had found a renter for his house. Shocking. So after a tearful goodbye to the girls, Kim and I decided to leave Cancun and try our luck down in Playa del Carmen.

Believe it or not, in 1999 Playa del Carmen wasn’t the grand tourist destination it is now. The main strip of town was only about four blocks long before it turned into dirt road. The town was definitely much closer to what Kim and I were looking for. We found a campground on the beach, right below the bus station, near the center of town. You could either rent a small cabana or hang up a hammock under a big pavilion. We each bought hammock and rented a space and a locker for I think about three bucks a night. Most of the other people occupying the other hammocks were backpackers who were either travelling north towards Mexico City or south towards Guatemala. It took about five minutes of listening to their stories to convince me. I wanted to do what they were doing. I wanted to travel from place to place, live without a care and truly be free. However, I don’t care what Janis Joplin says, it turns out freedom costs money and I didn’t have any. I needed a job.

My first step was to go to find a computer (this was just before internet cafés began taking over the world) and make a fake resume. On the resume, I documented a bunch of bartending jobs in the States that I never really had. Then I printed it out and went from bar to bar looking for an interview. Amazingly, at the third place I walked into, a nice restaurant-bar named Pancho’s, the manager agreed to talk with me. He sat and listened to all of my bullshit bartending experience and said, “Wow… you know what we really need is a bar manager… with all of your experience do you think you could do that?” All I could do was nod my head up and down and say, “Yeah, sure, of course, you betcha.”

This was more like it. I was now the proud manager of four local bartenders who were all incredibly gracious especially after it became painfully obvious I had never poured a drink and was woefully under qualified to be their boss. And though I was living in a hammock, it was still on the beach, I was still young and impervious and now that I was making a little money in tips, I had at least enough money to buy real food and even a beer now and again. Not only that, but the next day was pay day, so I’d finally really be above water. Also, Kim and I had been making friends among a couple of the other hammockers and had decided to move in with them into an apartment. I really couldn’t have asked for a better situation… ah, but then here’s where things fall apart and youthful stupidity rears its pimply head.

Every night for about a week, a thirtyish American guy had been coming into my bar and chatting with me over a beer. I don’t remember his name, so let’s call him Jason. Jason was an affable guy and he always left me a tip. The first night he had come in, he had asked me where he could score some weed. Well, marijuana is cheaper and easier to find than aspirin in Mexico, so I just hooked him up with one of my bartenders who had some. But on the last night he was there, he asked me if I could get him some cocaine. At that point, I had only ever done cocaine once in my life and I wasn’t a big fan of it (I’m still not), but he had been tipping me every night and after all l was young and impervious (which I now know means dumb) so I told him that when I got off, I would see what I could do. When I got off work that night, I was dead tired, but Jason was there waiting for me. He only wanted to buy a gram, so I took his money and it didn’t take more than five minutes to find a dealer on the street.

When I came back with the tiny baggie of white powder, he said, “Thanks Mike. Now where can we do this?” We... “My hotel is like a mile away. Is there anywhere closer?”

“I guess we can go down to the campground,” I foolishly replied.
We walked down and went into the bathroom of the campground. When we had finished, Jason tossed the now empty baggie into the toilet and I opened the door. Adrenaline shot through my body when I almost ran into to two men standing right behind the door and my knees buckled when I realized they were both cops. One was tall, one was short and they both had the requisite policeman mustaches.

“Where is it?” the short one asked, holding out his hand.

“Where’s what?” I replied, desperately trying to be nonchalant.
He smile said that we both knew I was just wasting his time. “La cocaina.”

“Cocaina? We don’t have any cocaina.”

“No? Then what you do in baño?”

I racked my brain trying to think of a legal reason why two men would be coming out of a bathroom together. I could only think of one. “Umm… sexo?”

“We were not having sex!” shouted Jason. “Officers we were not having sex. I am not gay!”

“Dude,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as Shorty smiled.

“Mira,” I turned to see the tall cop coming out of the bathroom, holding something in his hand. He passed it the short one.

“Ahh, look at this,” he said, dramatically waiving the tiny baggy in front of my face. He made a big show of sniffing it and then he even touched his tongue to the baggy.

“Man, you know that’s was in the toilet, right?” Jason said helpfully.

“Jason, stop talking please,” I said, grinding my teeth.

“Yes,” Shorty replied. “I know it was in toilet. Right where you put it, no?” He shook his head and made a tsking noise. “Amigos… you are in veeerrrry big trouble. Jail is bad for gringos. Malo.”

“Muy malo,” added the tall one.

Jason was already starting to freak out, but he started shaking visibly when the cops pulled out their handcuffs. As they turned us around and put the cuffs on, they started to detail the difference between American jails and Mexican jails.

“Here, you no get a free phone call,” the short one said, pushing me up against the bathroom wall and kicking my feet apart.

“Telefono?” I heard the taller one say with a slow laugh. “Es muy caro, amigo.”

“Yes, veeerrry expensive,” Shorty said, tightening the cuffs around my wrists. “And there is only one baño and it too is very expensive. “

Now I don’t want you to think that I was cool, calm and collected, because I wasn’t. I was also freaking out, but also I knew they would never take us out of the campground and at some point they’d ask for a bribe, but I didn’t want to be the one to broach the subject. Like in any negotiation, you don’t ever want to make the opening bid and its suicide to come from a position of desperation. Even though I wasn’t very experienced with bribes at that point, I knew that much and I needed to try and make sure the bribe was low enough that I could pay it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone.

“Wait! Just hang on second fellas,” Jason said, practically in tears. “Surely we can figure something out. Can’t we just pay you guys now?”

“Pay now?” said Shorty, as though the thought of being paid off had never occurred to him. “You mean you want to pay the fine now?”

“Yes! That’s exactly it. We want to pay the fine now.”

“Jason shut up for…”

I was cut off by Shorty. “Okay amigos. You pay now. It’s two hundred dollars.”

“All right, great! Two hundred dollars,” Jason said, as I watched on in horror. “No problem.”

“Each,” Shorty added.

“Whew… okay. Boy that’s a lot of money. But we got it. No problem,” Jason said again.

“Jason…” I started again.

“No, don’t worry Mike, I got this,” he said confidently. “I was the one who got you into this mess. I’ll go up to the ATM and get enough for the both of us.”

It was agreed. The tall one would accompany Jason up to the ATM while I waited with the short one. As we waited I thought over a few things. Number one: I only had sixty dollars in my locker until the next afternoon when I would be paid. Number two: In 1999 there was only one ATM in town and it only gave out no more than two hundred dollars a day per person. Number three: I was screwed.

When Jason came back with the tall cop, he was forlorn. “Mike, I’m really sorry man. It would only let me take out two hundred bucks.”

“Really? Huh, that’s too bad,” I replied. “Look Jason, go ahead and pay them your two hundred bucks and go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine."

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you here,” he said half-heartedly.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just go.”

I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just thought it would be a little easier to talk with the cops without Jason around trying to negotiate for me.
“Okay listen guys,” I said when Jason left. “I don’t have two hundred dollars today. I only have forty. But I can get you the rest tomorrow.” I told them about where I worked and the fact that it was payday the next day and after about twenty minutes of cajoling, they finally wrote down my passport number and took the forty bucks with the promise they’d see me the next day.

When the cops finally left, I collapsed in my hammock, shaking. However with what seemed like gallons of adrenaline and cocaine flying through my veins, I couldn’t exactly go to sleep, so I strode off down the beach to find my friends. I found Kim and everybody else in one of the beach bars and told them the whole story. Of course, they found it hilarious and after a couple of beers, it didn’t seem like that big of deal. I would pay them off the next day and everything would be just fine...except it wouldn’t.

I woke up the next day and at first I thought the whole thing must have been a vivid dream. It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t seem real in the light of day. However, as I pulled myself out of my hammock, I realized that it seemed a little too vivid to be a dream and that yes, it was real. Still as I walked to breakfast with Kim, I was still optimistic. All I needed to do was get paid from Panchos, give the bastards their money and I would be all set. I really didn’t want to leave Playa. I was having too much fun.

When Kim and I got back to the campground, a one of our friends had a worried look when he came up to talk to me. “Mike, there were two cops who just came down through here looking for you.”

“Shit, really?” I replied. “They’re early.”

“Yeah, they came through here asking for somebody who looks like you and then went across the street and talked to the people in the office. You’d better get that money.”

Still I wasn’t too worried. All I had to do was go to my work and see if I could get paid a little early, then I could pay them off and continue my life on the beach. Unfortunately, when I walked up to Pancho’s and asked my manager for my pay, he told me that it wasn’t time yet. He couldn’t pay me until that afternoon. Now I was a little worried, but not as worried as I was when I ran into Kim back at the campsite.

“Fuck man,” he said wide-eyed, “four cops just came through here looking for you.”

“Four cops!” I said, putting my face in my hands. “I can’t pay off four cops.”
“I know, but you better get some money fast.”

I turned to go back up to Pancho’s, but then he stopped me. “Hey give me the key to your locker,” he said. “I’ll check you out of the hotel in case you have to leave and I’ll put your stuff in my locker.”

“Yeah sure,” I said, tossing him the key and suddenly feeling pervious. It was just occurring to me that I might actually have to leave. I ran up to Pancho’s for one last ditch attempt to get my money.

“I told you, I can’t give it to you until this afternoon,” my manager said, killing whatever hope I had to stay in town. “I won’t have the money until four o’clock.”
Walking back to the campsite, I started trying to blend in, which isn’t easy as a 6’3’’ gringo in Mexico. I now knew I needed to flee and the last thing I wanted was to run into any sort of police presence. As I skulked back in to the campsite, I happened to look across the street… and there was short cop along with four or five of his buddies, screaming at the manager.

“Mike!” Kim whisper-shouted. “You need to go man. They’re yelling at the desk manager for letting you get checked out.”

I stood there frozen in fear, peering through the palm trees at the confrontation across the street.

“Mike! You need to leave,” Kim said, grabbing my arm. I’ll get your stuff and meet you up by the bus station.”

Finally, I spurred into action. If I was caught me now, I was going to jail or worse. I ran down to the beach where a few of our friends were laying out and took a right, away from the larger part of town and then sprinted up into a tourist shop. My knees shaking, I stood behind a postcard rack, trying to look nonchalant, half-expecting the police to burst in at any second. I later found out that I had left not a moment too soon and that Shorty and company had ran down through the campsite after me, but luckily had ran up the beach to the left. Just past our friends who watched on in disbelief.

I slowly worked my way to the bus station, from shop to shop, hiding behind dangling hammocks and rainbow sarongs. When I got to the bus station I saw Kim, bless his heart, with my duffel bag in his hand. While I cowered behind another rack of postcards, he bought me a ticket for a bus to Cancun which luckily was leaving right that second. He even stood in line for me and loaded my bag on to the bottom of the bus and then right before he got to the front of the line, I burst from hiding, snatched the ticket and with a quick hug of thank and farewell, I jumped onto the bus and sunk down into my seat. By then I was probably being a little over-dramatic, but as the bus rolled out of town at a maddeningly slow pace, I fully expected it to be stopped and boarded by the police who had set a perimeter around town and were looking for a gringo fugitive. Amazingly it didn’t happen. I made it out of town safe and eventually after a very hungry 24 hours on a bus from Cancun to Mexico City and an overnight at the airport, I flew home just in time for Christmas.

As I flew home, I probably should’ve been thinking about how lucky I am to live in the US and about sitting down the next day with my family and eating roast duck and mashed potatoes. But I wasn’t. I was thinking about those backpackers. The seemed so happy, reveling in their youth and freedom. I wanted that and knew then that I’d be back as soon as possible.