| It is rumoured that Andy O. left Calgary on or about Feb 6, 2009 at 10:30 am in search of adventure (or something else really important we assume) on his Kawasaki KLR 650 and with only what was able to fit onto the bike. Well, okay, he wasn´t technically on the bike until he got clear of the snow somewhere near Phoenix thanks to a ride from a fellow biker named Greg who just happened to be ferrying his BMW 800 to Phoenix on the back of his Tundra pick up at the same time. Here we will follow his travels south, through the US, then Mexico, Central and South America. The schedule is ... well there really is no schedule other than to be in Argentina before Christmas 2009 and into Brazil before Carnaval 2010. Very reasonable ... The real goal? Who knows? A real story to tell perhaps. Read his story here on zasuusport.com - 'Andy's Travels'.
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DECEMBER 04 - You Don’t Even Have To Read Anything |
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Saturday, 05 December 2009 |
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Well it’s been almost two months since my last post was removed from the site. I made some comments about a certain Canadian musician that were obviously not appreciated! I spent 8 hours trying to write a blog to go along with the below photos, but it just didn’t work out. Whether it’s “writer’s block” or “Andy can’t write”, we’ll never know. The problem was that I came up with a bunch of random ideas and tried to write something based on them, rather than write random ideas based on something productive. The funniest thing I could come up with involved Simpson brand orange juice; OJ of the Simpson variety will surely make you better at football and killing people. Without further time wastage, below are my photos of Colombia and Northern Ecuador. Two months in Colombia and two weeks in Ecuador have left me speechless . . . literally. And I thought Central America was fun! Please enjoy my very amateur photography!
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JUNE 22 - This Thing Most Certainly Is Not Like The Other |
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Monday, 22 June 2009 |
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If my television remote controlled the world I would turn up the contrast. How could one possibly go wrong by presenting two opposing entities together? Be it Good and evil, happy and sad or a white supremacist and Oprah, there is a lot to be learned from the juxtaposition of contrasting ideas. Although a juxtaposition can’t be found in the Kama Sutra, I feel it’s still one of the top five positions that exists outside of Sting’s bedroom. Think of the profound contrast that would be presented by Sting announcing racist beliefs on the Oprah Winfrey show. If Sting hates blacks and Oprah hates bee stings who is the bigger hate monger? It’s easy to side with Oprah because everyone hates bee stings and at the same time worries what sort of message Sting is sending to children in a bottle. Speaking of which, if your children are drinking from Sting’s bottle, chances are he’s watching you. If he is watching you, stop watching Oprah and break the bottle between Sting’s legs. Only then will he get the message that every breath you take will feel better knowing that every step he takes will be towards the hospital rather than the fertility clinic. This may seem harsh, but maybe a swift bottling will not only prevent him from reproducing, but from selling anymore melodies to P. Diddy as well. The contrast of a peaceful, well wishing Oprah with a racist, bottle crotched Sting is a powerful one. Early June presented two contrasting options. Ride straight from Mexico to Guatemala alone or Northeast to Belize with a couple of Volkswagen laden Norwegians? It’s a question of mountainous jungle versus jungle and vikings. As I weighed my options I found both to be very light. Not because they were undesirable, but because an option doesn’t actually weigh anything. Upon this realization, I thought about other expressions that can be taken too seriously. I immediately removed my nude photo of Sting from Ebay that came with an asking price of a thousand words. It was anonymously donated to the New York museum of reproductive history. With much less commitment to Internet commerce, I was happy to check out Belize and begin my journey into a land where beauty meets tension, Mayan meets Mormon and dream meets parking lot. For some reason knowing both sides of the fence allows one to appreciate his or her own yard. Isn’t that what travelling is all about? Travel agencies should offer packages based on contrast. I wonder what an advertisement for such a travel package would look like? I wonder . . . . . . . . .
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APRIL 22 - Everyone is Stupid and Their Country Sucks |
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Thursday, 23 April 2009 |
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Oftentimes I tell women that I write word definitions for Webster’s dictionary. Although I claim to be in such a powerful occupation, I can’t get no satisfaction. For some reason anal retentive attention to linguistic mechanics is not attractive to a female, while Mick Jagger’s misuse of a double negative continues to keep women craving his heroine saturated carcass of a body. Perhaps this whole time he’s been attempting to tell the world that he enjoys a plethura of satisfaction. One’s interpretation of the song merely represents his or her instinctive disposition. A male relates to the song because of his day to day life. Don’t all men try and try and still remain satisfactionless? A woman on the other hand could understand the lyrics, but is busy dreaming of Mick’s love affair with David Bowie, his neon tank tops and the stuffed crotch of his pants. Upon my pointing out of Mick’s errors, a woman will typically resort to calling me names. If I did work for Webster’s I could easily swap the respective meanings of “pompous” and “windbag” with those of “charming” and “gentleman”. Regardless of the names I’ve been called, perception often overpowers fact. This is why women love Mick Jagger, I think he’s a flamer and no one really knows what the song satisfaction is about. Does the phrase “girly action” actually refer to a stint of Thai sex tourism? Speaking of perception, if one plays their cards right, he or she can be right about everything. If he or she is right about everything within his or her own perspective, everyone else must be stupid. Furthermore, they surely come from a place that sucks. It has been explained to me on numerous occasions how much Mexico and the United States suck. For various reasons I should aparently stay away from both countries. Parting words of a Mexican dwelling American advised me to stay away from Mexicans. As the man drove away in his pick up he affectionately added a profoud “Americans are the best”, accompanied by a rather passionate thumbs up.
After hearing this advice I immediately looked for flights to Atlanta with hopes of touring the Coca Cola factory. Upon realizing I couldn’t afford a flight and I’m much more into Pepsi, I chose to continue my jorney through a country of a hundred million people with whom I should aparently never associate.
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MARCH 27 - Star Wars, Omelets and The Hanson Brothers |
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Friday, 27 March 2009 |
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It is said that good things come in threes. Between Star Wars, three egg Omelets and the Hanson brothers the world is constantly overwhelmed with good things. One can not imagine a monday morning without Denver Omellettes, trampoline light saber fights and the hard rocking sound of Hanson’s hit single “mmmbop”. I certainly can’t imagine two good things happening without a third following up immediately after.
In late February there was no hot water, the toilet was clogged and I remained in Ensenada/San Miguel without a licence plate. Each day’s activities would be interfered with by planning time and place for bowel movements and watching for neighbors while urinating in the garden. However the surf was great and the cold showers weren’t so bad in the warm Mexican climate. Most importantly my surfing was improving and good times were rolling.
The transition from February to March presented three good things. A toilet plunger was found, the hot water connected and my licence plate was on its way. No longer a public urinator, I surfed and it was good. I tracked my licence plate online which was also good. As I arrived at the beloved post office to receive my package of freedom all was good. The good became fear minutes later upon the realization that my new plate also had a new number on it. A new number meant I needed new registration.
An extra five days wait was written in the stars. I stressed, whined and complained for the whole time. Never before have I acted like such a spoiled brat. Billions of people who work 18 hour days for under a dollar a day and have never taken a vacation will surely feel my pain?
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MARCH 7 - The Thief, The Transexual, The Fiesta |
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Saturday, 07 March 2009 |
While I stared at the empty parking space there was a pause before the transexual prostitute continued his or her sales pitch. Tim’s car used to be here. My disbelief at the parking spot’s emptiness would soon turn to a revelation; I needed a ride home. The only ride available to me, despite being cheap, involved much less locomotion than currently needed. The favourable weakness of the peso fell short of compensating for the cost of Ensenada’s version of the morning after pill; which would certainly be needed after accepting a ride from a Transexual Mexican Prostitute.
Pronounced “La pildora del manana siguente”, the morning after pill in these parts is similar to the one in Canada, but when describing it the word “women” is replaced with “men” and the phrase “accidental pregnancy” with “inevitable growth of harmful microorganisms”. It should also be noted that the words “prevention of” are held constant. That being said I was out of money. This was not only why I couldn’t take a cab home, but also why I ran blisteringly fast away from the transexual. I slowed down upon the realization that the night yielded a quarter moon. My years of experience have taught me that a transexual’s high heels will turn into rollerblades only if the moon is full. For more on this topic one can attend a viewing of the film “An American Transexual in Paris”. With nothing of value on hand besides my Lunar Alternative Lifestyle Behavioral Information Chart, I entertained the idea of walking home along the highway. I began the 11km journey from Ensenada to San Miguel on foot and had plenty of time to reflect on the night’s events. Somewhere between the thief, the transexual and the fiesta I had lost Tim and blown all my cash.
It was to be our first night at Carnaval. We decided this as the beers started flowing. While moving from our living room to our car we were stopped dead in our tracks by a Mexican Premonition Spirit. The spirit strolled comfortably into our apartment and placed his beer on the kitchen table. His blank, bloodshot stare went well with his frail body, patchy facial hair and clear desire to remain silent. The conversation began with the realization that the bringer of our premonition was not in fact a spirit but was able to float by consuming recreational drugs. After some introductions and peaceful ice breakers we understood that the premonition drug addict was trying to quit drugs and was also seeking spiritual counsel from our apartments’s previous occupant. As the premonition peacefully left in his car, we remained unaware that the universe had just delivered us a message: “You’re about to be slapped in the face by the Ensenada experience”.
Being out of touch with our spiritual selves, we were unable to understand the premonition at the time. We continued into town as planned. However our plan never involved picking up an attache. He appeared from the shadow as we parked the car and he began insisting we drink from his mystery cup. While claiming the cup was full of tequila, he explained that he was unable to drink from it because tequila is too strong. Since I was wearing my “I like to be Drugged and Robbed” T-shirt in harmony with my “Easy Target” male thong, I drank from the attache’s mystery cup, passed out and woke up robbed, naked and dead in the ocean. My fanny pack, camera case and Lonely Planet guide to being mugged in Mexico were nowhere to be found, but my socks were still pulled up almost knee high to where the gap between my shorts and socks began. I no longer had my suncreen and couldn’t figure out how the attache had chosen me as a target. As I laid dead in the ocean I floated passed the drug addict from earlier in the evening who laughed and cackled with an “I told you so” look on his face. He was also dead because his role as a pro tourism drug addict premonition had been fulfilled.
Fortunately this is not the script of a B-rate hollywood film. My life does not star Brendan Fraser. Nor does it involve innacurate portrayals of “hostile” foreign countries interspliced with ignorant one liners. In fact the creation of this B movie fell through when Brendan Fraser wouldn’t drink the tequila based on his scientologist views. By that I mean I didn’t accept the mystery drink because I didn’t want to be drugged and robbed.
We entered the Carnaval grounds and it became clear this man was armed with substances to allure all ages. When he realized tequila wouldn’t work he began to offer us chocolates. Once again the B-movie had an opportunity to move towards climax, but neither Tim nor I accepted chocolate or tequila from the stranger that had been following us for about 20 minutes.
As the attache followed us he rambled about “all the girls that we can meet” and “how many people he knows” and “which bars we can get into for free”. He told us he was from South Central LA. This was believable because his english was fluent, but it didn’t do much for his credibility. It wasn’t clear whether or not he was friends with Dr. Dre. We stopped many times to buy drinks at the roadside bars, but I refused to consume anything or spend money with the attache around. Something had to be done. I considered telling him to go away, but got some advice from a bartender. After having a brief conversation with the attache, the bartender confirmed that the attache was out to use Tim and I for our money. He suggested going to the police. To the police is where I went with the bartender as a translator. Within minutes the attache was gone, lost in a group of armour clad riot officers as they coaxed him into the darkness behind the rock and roll sound stage.
Relieved, we retreated to the edge of the festival grounds and sat down inside an empty bar to evaluate our situation. If the attache was released would he know we had sold him out? Would he come looking for us? Would he be waiting at Tim’s car offering us cotton candy? As time passed we worried less. We decided to leave the bar and return to the party outside. This proved difficult because we ran into a homosexual who simply couldn’t admit to himself that Tim and I were straight. I drew an imaginary line between us and explained to this man that he was on the gay side and we were on the straight side. Despite my best efforts he didn’t seem to get the point. I was eventually able to bypass the homosexual by distracting him with a photo of Boy George. I didn’t stick around long enough to explain to anyone why I had such a large photo of Boy George in my wallet. I was also unable to explain the large bundle of sticks in the middle of the street outside the bar. It was the largest transexual I have ever seen at a festival.
Throughout the streets were drink bars, snack shacks and sound stages displaying an array of music. We parked ourselves at the electronic stage and went crazy with the massive crowd of locals. Tim and I agreed to meet at the hot dog stand if separated. I checked back at the stand many times and never found Tim. It was difficult to make Mexican friends with my terrible spanish, but I enjoyed a few terrible conversations with some locals. The police cleared out the streets and Tim was gone.
After my previously described transexual run-in I chose to walk home. After 3km I started hitch hiking. I was picked up by an SUV with a 300lb human in the back. I couldn’t see well in the dark but the human very well could have been a woman with manly features or a wig wearing fat dude. Regardless of genetic details I was uncomfortable with the repeated hand hold and knee touching attempts. I knew there was whale watching in Mexico but I never thought it possible to get so affectionately close to one. The ride became much more pleasant and spacious upon beaching the whale at the side of the road and continuing on to San Miguel. Being environmentalists, the driver and I made sure the whale was able to get to his or her car safely.
Before going to sleep I referred to my Lunar Alternative Lifestyle Information Chart. The quarter moon for the week of Carnaval indicates “all lifestyles active and vigilant during night time hours”. If there’s ever a full moon for Carnaval I’ll be sure to bring bear mace and a chastity belt.T
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