Graffiti and Guns

We’d gone to Mexico for the sun, waves, and underage drinking, my brother and I. He had just turned eighteen, I was twenty, and the idea of cruising the beach with an insulated water bottle full of tequila was too good to pass up. The beach in question wrapped invitingly around the bay that Sayulita, the up and coming tourist destination numero uno on Mexico’s temperate, jungle backed Pacific coast was situated on. It was familiar to us, and a favorite. During happier times in our childhood, we had gone with our parents and youngest brother to bask in the sun and surf the ever-present waves. The key to a day at the beach is never spending too long on land or in the water. Too long in the water and even a serious surfer will be exhausted within hours of entering, although this was made easier to fight off in Sayulita’s warm waters and mild currents. Spend too long on land, especially in Mexico, and one will resemble a boiled lobster; stiff, red skin wrapped tightly around digits, puckered lips, and sunken eyes. It’s not a pretty look and dehydration makes a beach drinking binge impossible.

Our residence, this time, was in the city, not three hundred feet from the beach. It was whitewashed and two stories, with dark wood trim around the door and windows and two pretty Royal palms, like sentries, on either side of the door. Inside was simple. Upon walking through the entrance there was a stairway directly ahead, and a kitchenette connected to a living room on the left. We had a counter for food preparation, a sink, small electric stove, and a refrigerator with a small enclosed section for ice production. Up the stairs led to three bedrooms. One was at the top of the landing, the stairs were a smooth yellow wood with a rich grain. This was followed by a bathroom, connecting another bedroom to the first, and then across the hall the last bedroom with a small half bath layout inside. It was sparse, having little more than a few pots and pans, an old couch, TV, beds, and towels, but it was perfect for what we needed. All we really cared about was the fact that the place had ice, air conditioning, beds, and various places to vomit, should the need arise in both of us simultaneously.

Unpacking our light bags, we claimed bedrooms and slid on flip flops. Cracking open the complimentary bottle of water in the fridge, my brother took a hard, quick sip and then proclaimed

“Let’s go find some alcohol and get this party started.”

Looking at him, I dropped my black lensed glasses back over my face. I could see the pain in his eyes, the words left unspoken for years, which had coalesced into self-hatred and a desire to tamp out the world’s injustices, if only he could find them.

“Okay, let’s get started, little brother,” I said softly, heading for the door.

My brother grabbed his camera, an accessory he wouldn’t dream of leaving behind. It was an old, film type. A Canon AE1 if I remember correctly. I always thought I was the better photographer, but he had a knack for being in situations that demanded photographic evidence. He was the one camera worthy events were drawn to, and sometimes I had to be happy with him collecting them. We locked up, bringing a day bag with us as it was early morning and we would be needing more sunscreen before we knew it.

Walking in ever-widening semicircles, saving the beach for when we’d found what we were looking for, we walked the neighborhood we had found ourselves in. We did this to get a layout of the land, and our neighbors, more than anything. We figured that the liquor stores were going to be close and frequent, we were in no rush to find one immediately.

The area we had rented in was actually quite lovely. We seemed to be in an area surrounded by ex-pats and retired Americans, it was quiet compared to the inner city a half mile away, or the neighborhood where the Hispanics lived a half mile in the other direction. Many of the houses looked professionally built, as if an architect had actually come in and designed it, and not the typical cinder block contraptions many of the locals lived in. I think that perhaps in hindsight, we should not have interpreted the quiet as safety. It would have been much wiser to recognize that there was a silence that hung over the area as if given authority to. It was a silence that came from fear, not safety. Safety would mean children playing soccer in the dirt road, and old women sitting outside chatting, not this beautiful ghost town, occasional dog prowling after one of the local roosters.

We figured that the area was more closely monitored by the military, hard men who rolled through town sitting or standing on Humvees or open-backed trucks. Dressed in combat fatigues and armed with assault rifles and handguns, they glared through the lenses of their glasses at all whom they encountered. We assumed that, because we were more important than the locals, they were paying special attention to the area primarily inhabited by Americans.

My brother and I walked the beach in the soft, lavender glow of the early morning sun, the top edge of which was only now peeking over the low, jungle dense hills which surrounded us. Maybe it was the softness and dimness of the light as it refracted haphazardly through wet leaves and vines, but while the sky was a delicate ombre of orange and purple, the sand on the beach was the most gentle blend of blues and purples. Evaporate from within the jungle was slowly, but forcefully, roiling out and onto the beach. Hugging close to the cool, blue sands, the mist followed gravity down to meet the waves, where the two met like old lovers; wrapping around one another and sharing in stories only the two of which would have found interesting.

My brother and I, we walked through this low fog, bare feet kicking up waves of lavender and blue sand. It was our last day in Mexico—we were terribly hungover from the festivities the night before. Thusly, we walked in silence, the pad of feet meeting the crash of waves and jungle noises; a symphony we would have only marred by speaking into. A lone figure stood, calf deep, in the still dark, and sleeping water. As we slowly walked towards, and then past them, the figure turned halfway about at the hips and raised a hand, acknowledging our presence and our silence. The figure was fishing-a middle-aged, overweight, Hispanic man who wore his ample, hair clad stomach over his small, blue Adidas shorts with confidence. A bucket for his catch sat just barely out of reach of the waves, the foam of which would occasionally bump softly up against the steel sides of the bucket, leaving a gentle kiss.

Nodding and raising our hands back at the man, my brother and I continued our silent pilgrimage across the sands. We had not yet eaten and the thought of fresh fish brought my unsteady stomach up to a boil. Our mecca was a structure we had walked past every day for a week, but hadn’t had the right reasons to go up to until now. It was an ancient, single story house directly overlooking the beach, but set slightly back in the jungle. From what we could see, it had no roof and someone, or perhaps the elements, had made away with the doors and the panes of glass that should have stood in the now empty windows. The dark of the insides was mildly threatening, sending a warning to those approaching that it was best to stay away. This low, threatening darkness was the counterpart to the structure’s exterior. Every square inch of the masonry and stucco was covered in graffiti and tags by various artists. Some of the work was clearly of a higher caliber than others, but it all seemed to create one cohesive piece. Blue, cartoon style waves skittered over the front of the structure, with phrases like “fuck” and ‘Your mother is a whore” scrawled in red over the waves, like obscenities out for a morning surf. Various faces, unknown to my brother and I, had been painted all over the structure in yellows and blacks, glaring at us like so many sentries as we approached, telling us that we had no reason to be there.

In our eyes, we had every reason. We wanted to film a time-lapse of the waves in the morning light, and we thought the graffiti would serve for a spectacular foreground. We hope there was a similar level of artistic zeal on the inside of the structure. On top of this, it was our last day in Mexico and the space was clearly abandoned and had been used by squatters. Who would complain?

The plan was to set up cameras in the windows that looked out on the beach. We would film for maybe twenty minutes, looking for the beauty in the images more than an actual time lapse. As we got closer to the structure, jungle dirt now mixing with the sand of the beach, we spotted a figure slumped against one wall of the place. He was non-threatening, obviously homeless by the state of his camp and his sleeping bag, a well-used thing. Surprisingly, he was relatively clean and his clothes were obviously well taken care of.

It must be nice to sleep on a warm beach, I thought because you can bathe or fish or sleep whenever the need suits you. Saying good morning to the man, we asked if the structure was his. He laughed and told us no, it wasn’t, and that he was simply passing through. He asked us if we would like to buy any pot, gesturing to his sleeping bag as if to indicate that he had some in there between his legs. Thanking him graciously, but firmly saying no, we told him to be well and walked up the five steps to the front entrance of the structure. We were hungover and would have loved a smoke on another occasion, but we were not so naive to think we could just buy drugs in Mexico from a homeless man and nothing bad would befall us. There was something mildly disquieting about the man. He seemed too energetic, too kind, and too clean to really be homeless. I brushed these thoughts away, figuring the homeless probably had a different attitude here than those in Portland. After all, wasn’t the weather just glorious? Wasn’t the sand so warm and the fish in the waves so free?

Walking into the structure, our hopes and dreams of the place came true. Graffiti did, in fact, cover the walls here, most of which were far cruder than that on the exterior. A woman’s form, painted in green, took up one wall. Legs spread with a hand encircling her sex, the other on breasts that jutted towards the exposed sky, she was a paroxysm of ecstasy frozen in time. Penises were drawn all about her, as if subjects had come flocking to her from far and wide to pay homage. Dirt and sand covered the floor, bits of stone and wood had been shoved into corners to make clear spaces in the two rooms of the house. The front of the building was perhaps ten feet above the beach and would be perfect for filming from, for someone had knocked down the small section of the wall that had supported a window at one point in time, leaving a gaping hole like a small door.

Walking over, gentle puffs of dust and grit rising in our wake, we settled down in this opening and began setting up a camera. The trick with time lapses is not to move the camera. Ideally, this is done with a tripod, but we did not have one. So, getting up and rummaging in one of the debris-filled corners, I grabbed a small chunk of brick to lean my phone against. My brother had his Canon film camera out and was taking shots of the waves and of the beach as the morning light slowly became lighter and brighter. I set my phone up next to him and we sat in quiet, occasionally discussing how good certain things in Portland would feel, our own beds, the cool, crisp morning air, speaking English without guilt. Little things that, cumulatively, make all the difference in the world.

After sitting for a few minutes, watching couples walk hand in hand down the lavender beach and fishermen occasionally casting their lines, we decided we should head back to town to get breakfast. Perhaps a steaming hot cup of crappy coffee and one of Sayulita’s renowned Chocobanana muffins. Then, just when we began thinking about leaving, we started hearing the homeless man outside talking to someone. Not wanting to cause trouble, I slid my phone in my pocket and my brother draped his camera over his shoulder, the red and black strap holding it securely in place. We stood up just as a man entered the room. He was young but rotund and had on a black jacket zipped open in the front. It was made apparent to us that there was a gun under it, judging by the strange bulge the jack caught on as he leaned forward to peer at us in the early morning light. Scratching his head, he asked us in Spanish what we were doing there.

Not wanting to cause a scene or provoke him into drawing his gun for any reason, I hurriedly explained in English that my Spanish was not very good and that we were just out for a morning walk on the beach. To this, he asked why, if we were supposed to be walking on the beach, were we in here?

Explaining that we had seen the graffiti and wanted to get a closer look, I let him know that we had only just gotten there and that we were leaving by the time he came in. Scowling, he seemed to accept that I was telling the truth. He grunted, as if in affirmation of what I had said, and then asked how old we were and if we were with our parents. Not wanting to tell him we were out here alone, perceived firearm being incredibly threatening this early in the morning, I pointed out of one of the windows at one of the couples walking the sand, and told him we were both about eighteen and those were our parents.

He sighed and called us morons under his breath, thinking we didn’t understand. Then, looking up at us he told us we had better get back to our parents in case something happened. Nodding quickly in agreement, I told him thank you. Looking back at my brother, we exchanged a glance, as if to say “let’s get the fuck out of here,” and then we did. The large man with the gun watched us go, arms crossed over his belly, eyes glaring. He didn’t move to follow us out of the structure or to our parents, he just wanted to make sure we left the graffiti encased structure and didn’t come back.

We walked for a few minutes towards town, and then we both started chuckling.

“Ahh, good morning Mexico!” my brother crowed.

“What a way to start the day,” I replied, “I’m glad that was our last morning here, it couldn’t have been more perfect.”

Being so unfamiliar with that kind of behavior, neither of us were really frightened by the concealed gun the man had worn on him. What had made it so frightening was that he was so clearly protecting a space that looked like a dump to us. Who knows how many seemingly abandoned houses are actually being monitored by private security or the cartel? In Portland, this would never have been the problem. The worst thing that may come out of exploring an abandoned house might be running into stoners or, at the very worst, someone on meth. We learned a valuable lesson in that when in Mexico, it is best to keep to the path most trodden.

Reaching town, we climbed a set of steps leading off the beach, plonked ourselves down at a table for two overlooking the bay, and ordered our breakfast. The day had not yet begun and it was already as exciting as I could hope it to be. Part of me wanted to stay in Mexico forever, living in a dangerous paradise.