Mexico Was And Still Is A Magical Place (Depsite The Fact That I Got Attacked By A Psychotic Person There)

As promised, this is the second installment of Ben And Christin's Mex-cellent Adventure (although calling the whole thing that is a bit misleading since we began our journey in South America; but I digress...).

So, we flew into Puerto Vallarta via Guadalajara via Panama City via Guayaquil, Ecuador. It was a full day of pressurized cabin-sitting, full of grand expectations. Neither one of us had ever been to the Pacific coast of Mexico nor had we researched it much. But since we had impulsively decided that it was going to be a far superior beach experience to the one we had in South America, by God, that's what it was going to be. However, the cab ride from the Puerto Vallarta airport to the so-called "Romantic Zone" downtown quickly sobered us up. Highlights of that cab ride included:

• Hooters
• Wal-Mart
• McDonald's
• T.G.I. Friday's
• And every other abomination of Western civilization you can think of

Yes, I hate to crush anyone's idealistic visions of an unspoiled Puerto Vallarta, but Uncle Sam done turned it into a Florida strip mall already, folks. 

With that said, we didn't stay in P.V. but a single night. Nay, we were looking for a more "authentic" Mexican beach experience. Just like in Y Tu Mama Tambien. Or something. So, we went an hour north up the coast to a little town known as Sayulita. And guess what? There were tons of gringos there too! But in a much, much, much more palatable environment: small, cozy beach with easy, relaxed waves; clean and tidy downtown with an abundant number of deeeelish restaurants; and lots of nice places to stay. Some, a little too nice. 

But let me get to the part that everybody's been waiting for: the blow-by-blow account of my big, bad surfer brawl there. Indeed, I got into a bit of an international incident with a local in what seemed to be (until then) one of the most peaceful places on Earth. Hurray for me! Now, before anyone casts any rash judgments, let me lay out my account of the tawdry affair in bullet point and hopefully, by doing so, will persuade you, the reader, that I, the big, fat American, wasn't entirely out of line. Who knows? Perhaps even the young turk whom I skirmished with will one day happen upon this blog, and bullet point his own side of the story. But until then, these are the facts:

• I was minding my own goddamned business. I had rented a long board from a beach side rental place (run by a very nice gringo lady who ended up figuring prominently into the story) and, along with a dozen other surfers, I was casually paddling around around on Sayulita's main break, catching a wave here and there. Granted, it was a little crowded out there, but nothing like Peru.
• Like I said, I was minding my own goddamned business...when I caught THE WAVE THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN CAUGHT (A.K.A. THE ROUGE WAVE), as I now prefer to call it. I wasn't looking to my left. I wasn't looking to my right. I was merely paddling my big, brawny, muscular arms furiously with my eyes directly in front of me when...
• BAAAAMMM!!! From my left side, a young Mexican man slammed into me and my board on THE WAVE THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN CAUGHT (A.K.A. THE ROUGE WAVE). 
• After we both resurfaced, there was an awkward pause between us as we both sat there in the water, bobbing up and down. I looked at him. He, at me. And nothing was said. I didn't really know how to respond. I've never had anyone run into me before while surfing. I just figured, "Well, that wasn't fun. I wonder if he's going to apologize."
• Apparently, an apology was the furthest thing from this young man's mind. The silence was soon broken. 
• "You broke my board!!! You pay!!" is what he yelled at me. Very angrily. I was shocked. I didn't break his board. It appeared to be perfectly fine to me. Before I had a chance to respond, another wave was upon us, which we both had to "duck dive" (that's cool surfer lingo for pushing you and your board under the wave). And when we resurfaced...
• "You broke my board!! You pay!!" is what he yelled at me again. This time, I responded. I said, "I didn't break your board. You ran into me!!" "No, you broke it. You pay!!" he yelled. I said, "I'm not paying anything." And so it went on for a few moments, out there in the crisp blue water, waves rising and falling, on an otherwise beautiful day.
• "I see you on the beach then!!!!" is how the young man resolved to, well, resolve the matter. That's right. He decided he was going to beat me up on la playa, just like a good ol' fashioned bro-down in a Frankie Avalon movie or whatever. 
• I didn't help matters. I told him, "You're crazy. I'm not paying you anything." But I have to admit, I was slightly unnerved. After all, he had the home field advantage. I didn't know what to expect from this Mexican hothead. But I quickly found out.
• I paddled in. I figured, I had 10 minutes left on my rental anyways. I might as well call it day.  
• And so did he. As soon as I was on the beach–long board underneath my arm, he was right behind me, repeating what had become his lil' mantra: "YOU BROKE MY BOARD!! YOU PAY!!!"
• I stopped, turned around and faced my accuser. After all, I wasn't going to run. And I've always believed that when a Mexican formally or informally invites you to participate in a Mexican standoff, you damn well better accept that invitation. If, for no other reason, than the sheer thrill of taking part in a Mexican standoff.  
• So, just like a couple of teenage idiots, me and this young man stood there with our faces inches away from each other, yelling and slobbering and pointing fingers. I don't remember exactly what was said. I've always found, in times like that, you never do. You just instinctively bellow crap out, like "OOOOH, BULLSHIT!!!", "ARE YOU CRAZY??! YOU RAN INTO ME!!!" and "I'VE NEVER SEEN A CHUBACABRE!!" But it was during this heated exchange that he showed me exactly where I "broke" his board: a tiny dent near the nose.
• I had it. I roared, "I'M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR FUCKING BOARD!!!" And that's when things got really ugly. In response, he suggested that he was going to get his buddies and they were going to do a Mexican hat dance on my neck. Or some such thing. I don't really remember. Because it was at that point that I BOWED UP on him. 
• Now, that probably wasn't the most diplomatic move, I admit. I should have just walked away. But I didn't. I bowed up. I freakin' bowed-the-fuck-up. And by that, I mean, I adjusted my upper torso and arms in a manner to communicate a challenge to him. I didn't actually touch him. But I wanted him to know that I was ready to defend myself. 
  
• So, he hit me on the head with his surf board. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right. It hurt a little. It shocked me more than anything. But you better believe that I secretly enjoyed the irony of the attack, if only for the briefest of micro-seconds: here this guy was, willing to risk damaging his precious surf board that I had supposedly "broken" by hitting me on the noggin with it. 
• I must have looked a bit upset. Because he just started running up the beach. And so, I decided to join him on his lil' jog. 
• Out of breath, we met back up again at his buddies' surf outpost. It 'twas there that he grabbed–of all things–a dog leash and a terra cotta coffee mug and made like he was going to beat me with them. 
• Enter my girlfriend. Ever the peacemaker, Christin came running up, shouting, "No!! No!! No!!" His buddies also seemed to want to keep the peace. The standoff resumed and much shouting was heard.
• Thankfully, that is when I came to my senses. Much like Albert Camus' protagonist in The Stranger, a hazy existential spell came over me: the sun, the beach, this asshole, life. It was all too much of a farcical situation to bear. But instead of "killing an Arab," as they say, Christin and I just turned around, walked back to grab the long board and went to go return it. Not surprisingly, dude followed us.
• Back at the surf board rental stand, the aforementioned gringo lady got involved. She said she had known the guy since he was a teen and was willing to hear both sides of the story. I told her what happened and she told us, "You have to pay him. He was on your left. That was his wave." 
• What?? What is this rule?? Where is this written?? Apparently, everybody who's ever touched a surf board (except me) knew about this. And that was that. In the court of public opinion in Sayulita, Mexico, and in the International Surfer Etiquette Manual that's kept in great Neptune's law library, I was deemed guilty of negligently putting my surf board in front of this innocent young man's surf board and allowing him to run into me.
• So, how much did he want to fix this ding? 200 pesos. Let me do the math for you: that's roughly $20. By this point, Christin became the incensed one. She was yelling, "This is bullshit!! Don't pay him anything!!" But I looked around me, and not only saw this guy, but a half dozen of his buddies standing around, leering menacingly at us. It was either fork over the $20 or incur the wrath of a network of local surfers who probably wouldn't think much of cutting off a gringo's penis, wrapping it in a corn tortilla and feeding it to him in. Preferably, on the town square for all to see.
• Sheepishly, I handed over a soggy wad of 200 pesos. And nothing more was said.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, are the facts. Are they long-winded? A tad. Are they biased? Maybe. But are they the truth? Indeed! 

With that, I'd like to conclude this obnoxiousness with a rather lame but sincere postscript: the rest of our Mexican vacation was a dream. We had a wonderful time roving around the Pacific coast and in Guadalajara. Nothing too exciting to blog any further about. Just food, fun and very, very, very nice people. Again, that sounds like I'm trying to make up for this obviously retarded incident, but whatever. I sincerely think that the Mexican people are the nicest human beings you can find on this planet.

Except for that one guy.