As i sit with a stomach full of prescription opiates and a 16-hour muscle cramp,
i prepare to regale you with immaculate depictions of cultures older than most major religions and unspoiled vistas that dissolve any sense of self in fiery amber sunsets, i would like to get one thing out of the way.
It is a rare pleasure to tell you i was not murdered in Mexico.
However, i almost didn't get to write this sentence. The men in the .50 cal gun trucks did not appreciate my enthusiasm in photography as much as i did. As it was explained to me by a nervous uncle, the reason they wear ski masks over their faces is not because they were cold, but rather because if the identity of a Anti-cartel Federale (Trabajados para tu securidad) becomes known to the Zetas, him and his family will Die Horribly.
I was as understanding as a Guero at gunpoint could hope to be. I'll never accuse an American cop of being 'over reactionary' again. At least their dogs were'nt hungry.
This only happened at the ass-end of our excursion, but might be the most interesting detail. I'll spare you the tedium of wading through descriptions for now, as it is becoming increasingly portent to crawl to a nearby bar and drink cheaply made watered-down 100% American beers until the fits of travel fatigue settle down to a dull roar.
Photographs and the stories that accompany them might come later, if i feel like it. Salud!