Thursday, July 1, 2010

Day 239: el crappo souveniro.

When I got up this morning for my early surf lesson, I felt like I was starting to get my groove on with this beach paradise living thing. The waves were bigger this morning, but under the watchful eye of (my kind of hot actually) instructor Daniel I managed to catch some waves and do quite a lot of acceptable surfing. Daniel said I was doing really well and that he was very happy with my progress (purrr). I followed this with breakfast at the restaurant overlooking the beach, and by making some bookings for a number of spa treatments and a horse riding tour. And then, after some sun bathing and magazine time, and because I was feeling pretty good about the state of everything, I decided it was time to venture outside the gated walls of my resorty environment. Dumbo idearo. After a 40 minute and 40ish buck cab ride to Cabo San Lucas, apparently the buzzing hub of shopping, clubbing and restauranting in these parts, I arrived in probably the crappest most tourism infected place I have ever been. And it wasn't glitzy touristy either. It was kind of scuzz bucket. Scuzz bucket at rip-off prices. You know that feeling you get that you're being swindled even by making eye contact with a store owner? Welcome to downtown Cabo San Lucas. And I really don't know why but for some reason I felt like I had to buy some of the unutterable crap these people were peddling. 90 US bucks later I was the proud owner of one quite bad taste straw hat, two painted ceramic skulls, a small painting of a skeleton in an old fashioned dress, one small Mexican doll, two bottles of water and a grande soy latte from Starbucks (hallelujah! The coffee was the one moment I was grateful for the disease that is American consumerism afflicting this town.). And then I thought it best to jump in another cab and hightail it back to the darling enclave that is Cabo Surf. And here is where, apart from one clip-clopping horsey tour outing, I plan to stay.

P.S. Seeing as we're talking about horses again, maybe now would be a good time to explain the origins of "Horse Camp Feeling" (see yesterday). Once upon a time, when I was about 9 years old, my best friend Jess decided to go to Horse Camp for her birthday (a place called Kowhai). She was allowed to take one friend with her, and me being her best friend, I got the first invite. As the camp was quite pricey though, and probably sensing my low aptitude for all things horsey (I never wanted a pony. I preferred fashion, punk rock etc), Jess's Mum gave me an out. She said it would be perfectly alright for me not to go if I didn't like the idea of it, Jess could easily take someone else. But I was having none of that. Jess was my best friend and I wasn't having some other little freak muscling in on my buddy. So I went. And I hated every teeny tiny moment of it (except one bit when it stopped raining and my horse actually decided to walk for me and I realised it was almost time to go home), had to try not to cry just about all the time, and seriously wanted to run all the way home to the awesome cuddles of my Mother. I even had secret fantasies for months afterwards about burning the place down so it didn't exist (whoops! Not secret anymore. Please try and forget you just read that.). Not that it was such a bad place really. I was just homesick. But ever since then, Horse Camp Feeling (otherwise known as HCF) has stood for the feeling you get when you come to a new place, your nearest and dearest and the familiar things you know are nowhere to be seen and you feel like boo-hooing. See I told you there wasn't time yesterday to explain it all. Anyway, now you know.

1 comment:

  1. if there was a 'like' button, i'd press it.

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