Cabo

I sit in the air-conditioned internet caf tucked away on the outskirts of the resort,
purposefully hidden to limit the vacationers connection to technology. The cool black leather
office chair supports my worn down body as I connect my phone to the wifi. Finally
reacquainted with the technology that I rely so heavily upon, I catch up on my lost week. Winter
grade report, Twitter, e-mail, text messages and most importantly: boarding passes. My shuttle
to the airport cannot come soon enough.

This is the boys favorite time of year. All of the college kids head south and flock to the
downtown club scene. Mobs of them move from bar to bar. Squid Roe, Happy Endings,
Mandalas; wherever they go, he follows. He only makes 20 pesos here and there but
occasionally one of the really drunk ones throws him a hundred. He doesnt care about the
money; this is his release, his own world, an escape from the poverty ridden shack that he calls
home. On the nights when he stays home to care for his baby brother, he fixates on the flashing
neon down the hill. He can make out the faint mash up of music from each of the clubs, ready to
bolt down as soon his mother returns.

Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our final descent to Los Cabos International Airport,
please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure
your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front
of you or in the overhead bins. Please turn off all electronic devices until we are safely parked at

the gate. Thank you.

The attendant repeats the message in Spanish. I am able to pick out a few words here and
there, calling on the fragments of knowledge left over from my high school education. The drop
is sudden. On my left: crystal blue ocean. On the right, endless desert. My stomach drops.
Near weightlessness. As the plane evens out into a smooth glide, I get a better glimpse of the
airport. It looks no different than any other runway Ive seen. The buildings flanking the
runway draw closer. The wheels meet asphalt. The window displays a blurred portrait. Tan
desert. Blue sky. The red building with a tented ceiling. Other airplanes. As we speed by, they
all become one.
While exiting the plane I power on my phone forgetting that it is useless outside of the
U.S. It flashes no service across the screen. I flew alone and planned to meet my three buddies
just outside the airport. When they were sitting comfortably at the curbside bar enjoying a
couple Pacificos together, I was nervously passing through customs, unsure if I would be able to
locate them. All of the potential issues flooded my thoughts. What if they were in another
terminal? What if they impatiently left without me? What would I do? I couldnt trust the
random taxi services to take me to the hotel and I had no way of making a phone call. I had
never flown solo let alone been in a foreign country by myself. Overtaken by panic, I moved
through the final customs checkpoint and through the double sliding glass door into the madness.
Taxi? the drivers chirped collectively as I adjusted to the dry heat. Pushing through the
crowd I saw our meeting point: the bar. There they were, the three of them sitting around the
small circular tables covered by a thatched umbrella. They had a cold beer waiting for me.
Our shuttle driver agreed to stop at the local Costco on the way to the resort. Speeding
down the desert highway, he seemed more focused on his phone than the road. I probably should

have been more nervous but the beer at the airport as well as the one our driver offered settled
my nerves. Everything up to this point seemed like it could have been California or any other
sunny U.S. city. Yet the chaotic roads and drivers convinced me that I was in fact in Mexico.
The Costco also could have been in the U.S. for all I knew. We piled our cart with junk
food, beer and tequila. I worried that we were outspending our budget but when the cashier
displayed our final total, I couldnt help but laugh. It was only $150.
We arrived at our hotel and piled our goods out of the car and onto the curb. One of my
friends went to the front desk to check in leaving the rest of us standing in a pile of alcohol and
food. When we were finally made it to our room, the drinking started. I hated tequila but this
was Mexico, and in Mexico college kids drink tequila.

After a couple days we started to run dry. Sitting on the beach in the blistering hot sand,
we decided that we needed to take a trip to Walmart. Before we headed back to our room to get
our wallets, we noticed a young Mexican boy, with his mother who was clutching a baby boy. A
resort security guard angrily stammered at them in Spanish. One of my friends, fluent in
Spanish, offered a rough interpretation.
The hotel guy is asking why the boy isnt in school right now. He says that hell have to
call the police if they dont leave and hes making sure that the boy isnt selling anything.
The beach, already littered with vendors selling anything from fake Ray-Bans to cocaine, seemed
like a rough place for a young boy drum up any sort of business. The standard sales pitch
consisting of, Weed, blow, booze cruise? to which we would respond, No gracias.

We sped through Walmart loading the cart with Corona and cheap tequila. A boy, looking
no older than 12, manned the register. Again, I couldnt believe the final price. I figured we
would be paying at least twice as much stateside. On our way out, a sleazy looking salesman
offered to set us up with a booze cruise. No gracias.
Restocked, we continued our routine. Wake up, have some drinks, spend the rest of the
day on the beach or at the pool before heading to the clubs at night. We waited in the mosh pit of
a line outside of Squid Roe. People angrily pushed through to try to get ahead in line. Out of the
corner of my eye I noticed a boy on the outside of the crowd. In his hands he clutched a small
basket holding some gum that was for sale. He wore his jet black hair confidently slicked back
and constantly had an ear to ear grin on his face. I couldnt tell what he was saying but it was
apparent that he was making fun of and messing with the drunk college kids. His interactions
with the crowd were some of the more entertaining things that I had seen on the trip. He danced,
slapped hands with the crowd and pocketed a few bills. As the line thinned out, we made our
way toward the boy. My friend muttered something to him in Spanish. As the boy responded,
my buddy broke out laughing. Amused by his antics, I grabbed my wallet out of my pocket and
threw him five bucks. Having grown bored with us, he moved on to the next group in the crowd
completely care free.

The rest of my time in Cabo drunkenly blurred together. The booze cruise complete with
bartenders whose only job was to force shots of tequila down everyones throats, the daily walks
down the beach to Mango Deck (the college day bar), the nightly trips downtown to the clubs.

We didnt do anything meaningful or go anywhere without drowning ourselves in cheap liquor.

Then, just as the booze ran dry and the hangovers caught up with us, we left.

My plane touched down in Seattle late on a Friday night. Never before had the cool
Seattle air felt so good against my skin. After the shuttle back from Sea-Tac, I immediately
walked into my house and gulped down the best tasting glass of tap water ever to grace my lips.
Then I found myself thinking; why should I be so excited over tap water? I normally held out
for purified refrigerated water. Everything started to hit me. I had just spent a week in a city
where the tap water may or may not contain a laundry list of viruses and bacteria. A city where
taxis only felt safe if accompanied by a group of six or more people. A city where tourists carry
a wad of cash in their sock in case they have to pay off the police. A city where a group of my
friends jumped on a water taxi with the expectation that they would get home, yet half way back
to the hotel the driver made a sharp turn away from the shore only agreeing to head back in if my
friends emptied their wallets. A city with beach vendors covering every inch of burning hot gold
sand selling drugs that most people have never heard of. A place, despite all of the glamorous
resorts and Americanized vibe, that I never felt completely comfortable in, always on the edge
of my seat. The horror stories of robberies, rapes and assaults fresh in my mind. A place where
drunken stupidity is expected as long as nothing bad happens. A place where if you can see
above the bar, you drink. Yet these problems are all avoidable and manageable. Simply be
responsible, travel in packs, think everything through and drink bottled water. In the end,
nobody has to go to Cabo. If it is too scary or intimating, stay home. Go somewhere else.

The root of the problem lies in the real state of Cabo. I dont know the exact figures or
statistics, but Cabo draws millions of tourists and most likely billions of dollars, as it should, its
a beautiful vacation destination. But why would a place with so much economic upside have a
corrupt police force? Issues with the drug cartels? Grade school children cutting class to hawk
fake Ray-Bans on the beach? Parents justifying their children cutting class to be amateur sales
people? Undrinkable tap water? I wasnt a high roller on my trip to Cabo. I tried to control my
spending. Yet all totaled I vastly exceeded my budget split between the hotel, drinks, food and
taxi rides. Thats one nearly broke college student spending one week at one resort. Cabo rakes
in the cash but moving beyond the luxurious resorts, the money disappears. 15 year olds work as
cashiers. Grown men and woman work tireless hours at the resorts catering to every need of the
tourists. The real problem lies with American capitalist greed. I wasnt buying my cheap booze
from a mom and pop Mexican market. It was Costco. It was Wal-Mart. My money didnt
funnel back into the Mexican economy. It went straight into the pockets of Western CEOs,
executives and shareholders. The money I spend didnt get put to noble causes like improving
schools or the quality of life for the natives of Cabo. It made the rich even richer. Im sure these
thoughts run through the minds of most people who visit foreign resort towns such as Cabo. Im
sure they feel bad about it for a little while. But then they remember that they can buy a halfgallon of Kirkland brand tequila for 15 U.S. dollars to wash away all of their guilt. Swayed by
the cheap booze, food and luxury, tourists can turn a blind eye to the real problem.
Despite my revelations, I too fell into the category of generic Cabo tourist; experiencing
an overwhelming sense of relief returning to the comforts of the United States, content with my
hazy tequila fueled memories of Cabo San Lucas drifting into the past.