March 3rd, 2010

We awake wet.

Our sleeping bags mummified in a cocoon of salty dew. I can see from here 12 sleek covers of everyone’s bags. The good news is that about ten child-steps away from my tarp lies the ocean. I’ve heard it rumble and grumble all night, but now it really starts to thrash around, echoing my tummy. Nerves kick my gut like the waves the crispy tan shore. I realize I didn’t just awake wet in dew, but rather drenched in this land of coastline sand and desert we call Mexico. Here everything changes. The way my fingertips are engraved with salt, and my skin feels tight around the cuticles, like I have dipped them in alcohol. The way my heart feels when I walk, and the way my scalp is lined with grit. Here everything is backwards; the way I eat and never get full, the way I see, and something is always new, the way I forget words and names, and never know were I am on the map. But most of all the way time gets so beautifully lost in us.

It almost doesn’t matter the day, or year. We have completely stumbled into the time where old and new collide, people and land. Ancient history lies on the beaches under water in high tide, talking the shape of bones and death, and a million little shells ground into the desert floor, ancient right under our souls. And now, future like in the ability of its people to live off of the land that is parched, and dry as much as the water is wet. The way the environment and its people seem to be able to live and sustain off the gift of simplicity.

The sun slowly rises over the scrub and milky clouds. I can feel the tide ebbing with the moon on my right. I can smell the pink in the sky turn sour and then rust into blue. What a horrifyingly interesting place to turn into my 20th year. What a better place could I have found to secretly get lost a thousand times over and over again in the mysteries of fate?

Debby surprises me as she rather elegantly steps out of her tent like she has been getting ready to do so all night. I can’t help but feel eternally grateful. Then Tom exists, with bit of concern in his eyes as they wonder over our heap of sleeping misfits. Did we really dive hours on a bumpy gravel road into the depths of the starlight night last night? I faintly remember stalking up on fresh produce for our next gourmet meal before that in a desert oasis of a town. And everything before that is a beautiful mess. Words fail to formulate.

Just a little itch remains in my sore fingertips, here is what they write:

Let the next adventure begin.

By: Annabelle Ziegenhagen

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