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Arrival in Mexico August 2004 I d forgotten how much I love a grand adventure. After 14 days on the road our traveling circus pulled into Puerto Vallarta to discover that Casa Stuyt (south) was bigger and better than we had remembered. While I know better than to pour salt into an already festering wound by describing the experience we ll be enjoying for the next 10 months I ll go down that path anyway, both to entertain myself now that I have nothing but time on my hands, as well as to entice the hesitant among the readership to be bold and come visit. And for those of you still scratching your heads, confused as to why we chose to uproot our deeply entrenched lives, forego dependable income, upset family and generally create a Himalayan sized workload of preparations; if after the reading the following account you still don t get it . I strongly recommend you remove yourself from my distribution list, open up your desk-side thesaurus, paste a recent photograph of your risk-averse mug beside the word safety (duplicate copies may also be posted alongside fearful, dull, enslaved and doomed), then resign yourself to the spiritually squalid, mundane life experience that awaits the balance of your empty time left on this planet. Given that I m only four weeks into this gig I ll refrain, for the time being, from sounding too much like a born again minimalist preaching about salvation through change and upheaval. However, should you elect to exchange your monotonous, ego-gratifying, soul-leaching job for a beachside casa and a burn rate ($$, not sunburn) rivaling that of a high-tech start-up, fully expect my eager encouragement. (Every once in a while I feel the need to entertain myself so you ll simply have to bear with it if you want to get to the meat of this message). The drive down unfolded in typical Stuyt fashion. 4500 km with three children under the age of seven is not a task for the weak-willed; especially in a vehicle crammed so full of unnecessary detritus that a Denny s fart from one of the backseat savages took close to an hour to filter up to the driver, and was almost distilled into pure oxygen after filtering its way through the cramped confines of my beloved wife s organizing. Sharka utilized every square centimeter of available space to the degree that there was little to no separation between child and surroundings. If I hadn t heard the boy s sporadic fighting over DVD selections or the not so sporadic requests to pull over because I have to pee NOW its entirely possible that Lucas might still be wandering around a Northern Californian truck stop and I still commenting on how well the boys were behaving in the back seat. Picking up my truck in Los Angeles and redistributing the load (children included) made life a little easier, with Sharka taking Amber and I taking Luke and the wild man from Borneo. And while one of my objectives in moving to Mexico was simplification, I cannot imagine the experience we would have had without a portable DVD, Gameboy, dueling CD players and a pair of Motorola walkie-talkies. The first three kept the savages from killing each other (and driving me over the brink) whereas the walkie-talkies kept Sharka and I in constant communication as we drove, and on top of the endless water, pee, crap, hunger and entertainment requests relentlessly issued from the backseat princes. Kylan (who drinks apple juice like I used to drink beer and is unfortunately cursed with a thimble-sized bladder) developed an innate need to piss at the most inopportune moments. I remain convinced that the vision of a rest stop in the rear view mirror triggered in him a sudden and immediate need to empty his bladder and/or bowels. This dynamic was frustrating but manageable in the US, but Mexico brought with it an entirely new set of challenges. Contrary to what you may believe, Mexico s highway system ROCKS! The country has an efficient and modern system of toll highways that took us from Nogales, AZ to Mazatlan at an average speed of 110 to 120 kms/hour. The journey from Mazatlan to Puerto Vallarta however took some skill. Imagine if you will, five hours of the Sea-to-Sky highway (without guardrails), sharing a road with suicidal Mexican s intent on passing gravel trucks around blind corners, wayward farm animals aimlessly wandering roadside (please reference the no-shoulder paragraph below), and short-tempered Guadalajarans hell-bent on reaching the beaches of PV. The fact that you are reading this missive at all is proof yet that I have a greater purpose on earth still ahead of me. In any event I digress, back to Kylan s thimble-sized bladder. As a result of profiteering and skimming (two of the three national pastimes here in Mexico; the third being the siesta) a great deal of the funding originally earmarked for Mexico s national toll highway system was re-directed, resulting in a handful of cost-cutting measures that left highways without shoulders. If you are unfortunate enough to wander off the two-lane blacktop at 100-140 km/hr you will join the legion of others now represented by roadside crosses; so numerous on certain stretches that they create an impromptu, though derelict, picket fence. At the side of each highway is an abrupt and unforgiving two to three foot ledge. If you re lucky, the precipitous drop will leave you in the guts of a farmer s field plowing corn stocks. If you re unlucky, you ll have to contend with oncoming traffic, water filled ditches, cliffs, cattle, fences and a host of other flesh-rendering hazards. Kylan inevitably felt compelled to take a leak/crap as I approached one of the above-mentioned perils. To my credit, I developed the agility to radio Sharka, locate reasonably safe roadside exits AND keep Kylan from releasing the oncoming flood, all without once having the driveshaft of my Explorer torn out from underneath me. As you may have suspected (knowing the Stuyt s as you do) our straightforward drive to Puerto Vallarta was not without it s crises. After a marathon of a day in Disneyland Kylan, in a deep sleep, pitched forward out of Amber s buggy (my fault) onto the ground. His fall, unfortunately, was broken by his face landing squarely on the concrete, driving his front teeth deep into his chin, stopping within millimeters of daylight. Miraculously, the teeth held firm, the bleeding eventually stopped and by morning the little guy was more interested in beating his brother than mewling over his injuries. This was, unfortunately, not Kylan s first brush with injury. Travelling down the Oregon coast a few days prior I promised the boys we d rent dune buggies for an afternoon in the Oregon Dunes; massive sand dunes that stretch miles inland from the coast. Unfortunately, when we arrived all of the smaller dune buggies had been rented through to the end of the day leaving me with a single option; Mad Max. Mad Max was a nine-seat roofless beast with a massive engine, three speed automatic transmission and character galore. It resembled a scaled down army personnel transport rather than super-sized dune buggy and, when not rented, was used primarily for rescuing lesser ATVs bogged down in the mountains of sand. Who could resist? With the boys leaping gleefully I convinced Sharka to strap Amber (in her baby seat) onto the middle bench amid emphatic promises to drive cautiously, then off we went in search of sand. And sand we found.. Five miles of bone-jarring, neck-snapping, children squealing sand later we emerged onto the Oregon shore, where I opened up Mad Max and threw the beast into third gear, launching our indestructible tank down the beach at maximum velocity. Each bump and depression sent Max and its inhabitants airborne, to the delight of my passengers. At least it did until one of Lucas flailing legs crashed into the gearshift, taking us from 70km/hour in third gear to 0km/hour in reverse. A little faster and I suspect the seat belts would have left their manufacturer s logo indelibly imprinted on the stomach side of the boys spines. Now, with Kylan crying, Lucas frightened and Sharka threatening me from the back seat (Amber managed to sleep through it all) I re-ignited our stalled tank and ambled off in search of safer challenges. If you ve not experienced them before, the Oregon Dunes are hundreds of feet high, with a gradual slope on one side and a precipitous drop on the other, making them ideal terrain for rollovers, collisions and dismemberment. Amid emphatic promises of responsible driving I pointed Max at the closest dune and sent the beast screaming up the cliff, to the renewed delight and excitement of my recovered passengers. Cresting the dune, we careened wildly down the other side, setting our sights on the next, bigger, dune to yet more encouraging shrieks from my adrenaline infused offspring (and the occasional scream from my reluctantly excited wife). Soon, with half a dozen dunes under my experienced belt, I set my sights on a mammoth hill, dropped Mad Max into first and mashed the accelerator to the floor. And we almost made it. Unfortunately, the light was playing tricks with my eyes and I d attempted to climb the precipitous cliff side of the dune rather than the gradual slope side. As we reached the near-vertical end of our ascent, gravity began pushing the front of Max around as the rear wheels dug deeply into the sand. Then we stalled. Hesitant to look back at Sharka s I just knew you were going to do something like this to us look I fired up the beast and tried to roll backwards. Unfortunately the rear wheels were buried deep and my attempts to dislodge them only served to increase the likelihood that we would soon be rolling ass-over-end down the dune, though not necessarily on all four tires. This act would likely result in injured and/or emotionally scarred children as well as a lifetime of listening to Sharka regale friends and family alike with her vivid and unflattering description of yet another of my irresponsible acts.
With these two equally unpleasant thoughts in mind I ordered the clan off Max (Amber was still sleeping at this point, further proof that we have been blessed with a saint), suggested they take one last photo of the family patriarch prior to his inevitable demise and/or dismemberment, then climbed back in and brought Max back to life. Sadly, being suspended vertically had a disruptive effect on Max s fuel flow, effectively eliminating its ability to idle, so I turned the ignition, jammed it into reverse, (which was insanely buried somewhere between second and third gear, and floored it while simultaneously cranking the steering wheel hard to the left. Max would either leap out of the pit then roll backward down the hill or it would twist and roll sideways end over end, with your ambitious author holding on for dear life. Fortunately I guessed right, stopped safely 20 meters down the hill, reloaded the relieved family (including sleeping Amber), and then stormed off in search of more manageable terrain. Our little afternoon diversion contained all of the elements we hope to find on an ongoing basis down here in Mexico: surprise, excitement, challenge, adventure and new experiences. Despite the near spine-severing incident at the beach and the potential loss of their father, the boys view our day at the dunes as one of the highlights of the trip so far (clearly the apples didn t fall far from the tree). Sharka s opinion I ll save for another day, though I will concede that adventure travel is certainly easier with children made of granite. Now on to Mexico. Casa Stuyt is 2400 sq. feet of air-conditioned beachside paradise. Overlooking Banderas Bay, it has three huge bedrooms, three huge bathrooms (underutilized we pray), a massive ocean-side deck complete with Jacuzzi bath, a view towards what feels like a mile of pool and a maid that comes twice a week for 300 pesos, less than $40. (Come to think of it, I d like to come twice a week for less than $40). Shark and I nod off and wake up to the sight and sound of the ocean 30 meters from our bedroom window (as do our spoiled but unappreciative offspring) and we spend much of our days reading to the sound of waves lapping at the shore. The bay is ringed with lush tropical mountains and we re rewarded with spectacular sunsets, or unforgettable storms on a nightly basis. If all of the above still isn t enough to produce a bitter twinge of envy; a Santa Maria replica ferries sunburned tourists out into the bay each and every evening for a belly full of fajitas and tequila, followed by a spectacular fireworks display, providing us with an explosive exclamation mark to yet another day in paradise. As I alluded to above, the Santa Maria isn t the sole provider of fireworks. Nature works overtime in PV, with August and September being the heart of the rainy season. Here it RAINS! Not the drizzling, depressing, unenthusiastic, bone chilling rain of Vancouver, either. When it rains in PV you know you are ALIVE. The days are sunny and warm until about 4:00, after which massive, dark gray storm clouds crowd the local mountains. Then the show begins. Dazzling lightning strikes rain down from the sky followed by window-rattling thunder that scares the crap out of us all. If stricken by Montezuma s revenge I swear to God there d have been Hershey squirts all over the tile floors after some of the thunder claps we ve heard, leaving a Stuyt family version of cow-pie bingo in its wake. It rains, but its exciting, exhilarating, can t-wait-for-the-torrential-downpour-to-start, I want-to-remember-this-forever rain. After two weeks in Mexico the kids are settled into their respective schools, we ve located all the creature comforts we need to feel civilized (including a babysitter, gym, latte shop and masseuse), connected with a handful of other like-minded gringos and Mexicans and for all intents and purposes feel completely at home. Our Spanish is improving by the day (Sharka s more so than mine), as is my Mexican cooking. We swim in the pool every day, fly kites, play soccer, read books and are acutely aware of the stress and anxiety slowly eking their way out of our bodies and brains. Sharka and I wander around in a somewhat discombobulated state, confused as to whether we're on an extended vacation or simply playing hooky, disbelieving at times that we actually made it down here at all. Fourteen months ago I sat at a beachside restaurant here in PV with Shark s sister Sabrina and her husband Craig, listening to them describe their experience of life in Mexico. Sharka and the kids had flown out that afternoon and I was leaving the next morning. Somewhere between ordering chicken fajitas and watching the sun sink into the Pacific I was overwhelmed by a wave of clarity that ultimately led me to follow in their footsteps south. Regardless of how this adventure ultimately plays itself out, the act of stubbornly defying all conventional wisdom and following a crazy idea is reward enough in itself. It breaks the monotony of life and makes the next crazy idea all that much easier to pursue. We ve developed a new ritual here in Mexico. Whenever we see a plane leaving PV I ask the kids who s in the plane? to which they reply sad people, because they have to go home , reminding us daily that we don t have to count down the remaining days of our vacation like we have in the past; unless of course we want to start counting backwards from 297. All our love. Marco, Sharka y los ninos; Loco, Burrito y Ambra.
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