Cate Brubaker, Author at The Life Nomadic

The Guanajuato Mummies: A Photo Essay

November 16, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

One of the things about this trip that has bothered me is that we just don’t seem to do anything. If you saw Will’s latest post and the map that accompanied it it looks like we’re just driving back and forth aimlessly and in a way we were. It was hard but Will had work obligations that kept up restricted to the north central areas and western coast.

While we definitely saw and experienced some incredible things I started to feel lost. I felt like we were just driving this road for the sake of driving it and neglecting the fact that there are so many stupefying things about Mexico that we were missing.

Of course, we can’t see it all, but we did resolve to do a little more planning and a lot more sight seeing. And it turns out that Guanajuato is the perfect place to do that. So what did we choose as our first major sightseeing tour?

The Guanajuato mummies of course.

I love creepy shit. I love macabre history and if there’s evidence of it I’ll pay the entrance fee, no questions asked. But the Guanajuato mummies takes macabre to a whole new level. I’ve seen mummies before; Peru and Egypt are rife with mummies. Even that little mummy found in Peru that many thought to be of alien origin piqued my interest (yeah, I like aliens and haunted stuff too) even though I’ve seen little in the way of credible information to indicate that it was an alien.

But back to the Guanajuato mummies. This case is so fascinating and so weird that I’m surprised everyone in the world doesn’t know about. Hell, even Werner Herzog used some footage from the museum for his film “Nosferatu the Vampyre” and that was back in the1970’s. But the interesting fact about these mummies is that they weren’t intended to be mummies at all. They just died.

Of cholera.

By most accounts the cholera outbreak occurred in Guanajuato in the early 1830’s. The dead were buried and no one thought much of it until 1870 when the municipality decided to enact a burial tax, meaning that if you wanted the body of your loved one to stay in the ground you had to pay for it. Obviously, not everyone had that kind of money laying around so the disinterment began.

The workers who were tasked with this grisly job began to notice that many of the bodies were in surprisingly good condition and these specimens were placed in a nearby warehouse. Some scientists believe that the altitude and relatively dry climate of Guanajuato caused the mummification and some say that the bodies were at least partially embalmed. Regardless, many of the Guanajuato mummies still have hair on their heads, I spied a beard, their clothing is relatively intact, and the honor of the world’s smallest mummy goes to the mummified fetus of a pregnant woman who fell to the cholera outbreak.

By the 1900’s the workers began charging people a few pesos to see the bodies and then the museum was officially opened in 1969. If you’re ever in Guanajuato and don’t mind strolling through a building full of dead people, I highly recommend it.

These are some of my favorite photos from our visit.

Scroll down if you dare.

You’ve made it this far! Congratulations! Now head to Mexico and see the Guanajuato mummies for yourself.

Horseback Riding in Jalisco: The Real Deal

November 15, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a horse lover. In fact, almost half my life has been spent riding, showing, grooming, and just generally taking care of horses. One aspect of this trip that I’ve been focused on is taking advantage of horseback riding opportunities whenever I could. So when I knew we were headed for Mexico’s highlands I also knew that I’d probably die if I didn’t get to go horseback riding in Jalisco.

However, I won’t just ride any horse. The health and well being of the horses offered for hire are things that I’m very aware of and choosing a responsible horse tour is crucial. For non-horsey people it can be hard. You see a string of horses all saddled up and waiting for your sunset ride on the beach. It’s a wonderful experience to have on vacation but how do you know that the horse’s tack fits properly? How do you know if the horse’s feet are properly cared for? How do you know that riding that horse actually causes it pain?

It’s for this reason that I always do my best to ensure that the horses I ride are in good shape and the people that own the horses and run the tours actually give a shit about their animals.

Enter Celena Reynolds at Hacienda de Taos.

Horseback Riding in Jalisco

When we decided to escape the heat of Sayulita we headed for Lake Chapala. Mostly known for its expat community in Ajijic on the north side of the lake, we headed south to the other side of the lake, which is about as rurally Mexican as you can get. The ranch is tucked way back in the bush near one of those little villages that one quickly forgets the name of.

One of the best things about Hacienda de Taos is that it’s not a dude ranch. It’s not a ranch where you’ll ride for a few hours then return to your hotel where colorfully garbed señoritas are waiting for you with a frosty margarita. This is a working ranch and while they do offer simple cabins for accommodation you’re going to get a very real idea of what Mexican ranch life is really about.

Celena’s herd consists mostly of American Quarter horses with the odd addition of an Icelandic pony and a Cob. Not what one would expect but these are all working horses and some can only be claimed by very experienced riders.

Celena and her partner Jose had cleared a spot for Moby and we quickly settled in. Since a couple of horses were already tacked up Celena and I took a short ride around the property and she pointed out some of the different horses and their names. Then she segued into a bit of her life story.

This is the kind of story you hear from a true horsewoman. And I know she’s got a million more.

Not Your Average Horsewoman

She and her ex-husband were living in Guatemala and were trying to cross the border into Mexico with their horses. The Guatemalan border patrol was coming up with every excuse under the sun to deny the horses exit from Guatemala and basically had them on lockdown.

Her ex-husband crossed into Mexico and found a nearby rancher and his staff who were ready to help, but the horses had to get across the border first. Celena was able to free the horses and took them deep into the jungle to hide them. She was confronted, violently at times, by the locals who were not keen to let go of these obviously valuable horses. So, at the end of the day she made a drastic decision to save them. Riding the oldest horse and with a yearling and weanling in tow she encouraged her horse jump into the river separating Mexico and Guatemala and swum them though a heavy current to safety in Mexico. The local rancher was waiting and immediately saddled them and whisked them away. If he was confronted he would say the horses were his. Celena crossed the border, retrieved her family and her horses, and eventually settled in Jalisco.

I just love hearing stories like that; I love hearing how far people will go for their horses, or any animal for that matter.

Not Your Average Trail Ride

So for my horsebacking riding in Jalisco experience I chose a full day ride and then a moonlight ride with a campfire. I was up bright and early and found Pirate, my mount for the day, already tacked and waiting. Celena, Jose, and I then spent about six hours winding our way through farmland, down overgrown dirt paths, and scrambling through rocky creek beds.

This isn’t your average trail ride. This isn’t a nose to tail, no cantering saunter through the meadow. This is a ride with tight squeezes, branches slapping your face, leaning back as your horse slips and slides down a rocky embankment kind of ride. This is the kind of ride that really tests your ability to handle a horse in a tricky environment.

However, horseback riding is the best way to see beautiful Jalisco with the Colima volcano looming overhead. The terrain is lush farmland and it was either corn or cattle no matter which way you looked. And I never thought I’d say this but corn may have saved my life that day.

As we were returning and were about 30 minutes away from home an intense lightning storm hit. We were riding very near to high overhead power lines, I was on a horse with metal shoes, and I’m fucking terrified of lightning. I mean, really, really terrified.

As the bolts struck all around us we found a rudimentary shelter in a corn field. After tying the horses up we waited out the storm, sipping tequila from the flask Celena had brought and chewing on cornstalks (they actually taste pretty good). Once it was safe we headed home drenched and as I hauled myself out of the saddle I knew I’d be sore the next day.

We never did get to do the moonlight ride as the weather didn’t cooperate but we did round out our stay with the promised campfire and Jose’s father was there to serenade us with his guitar. It was one of those moments when you just can’t believe that this life happened today, and this moment was all about Jalisco, Mexico, and perception. I loved it.

Hacienda de Taos offers a number of different rides including multi day camping trips, lessons for beginners, and one in particular that I wish we’d had time for. The also offer cute cabins for guests who want to stay longer, and thanks to us, cleared sites for truck campers. Their wilderness survival course is the same as the multi day camping rides but you go out with nothing. You’ll learn to hunt, clean what you kill, start your own fires, and generally go Bear Grylls with horses.

If any of you readers ever go horseback riding in Jalisco and take that survival course I want to hear all about it.

As for me, I’m looking ahead to more horseback riding adventures as we head south. Argentinian polo ponies, I’m coming for you.

Horseback riding trips in Jalisco with Hacienda de Taos are fully customizable and vary in price. Contact Celena to schedule your horseback adventure. It really is a one of a kind experience.

¡Tequila! A Visit to Mexico’s Booze Hotspot

November 9, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

Sometimes I’m astounded at the difference between tequila in the United States and in Mexico. Tequila in the United States is most often found lost inside a ghastly, bottled sweet and sour mix, poured over ice (or, gasp, blended) and thrown unceremoniously into a glass best described by Ed Norton’s character in “Fight Club”. There may also be a sad crust of table salt on the rim. Sometimes people even upend a bottle of Corona into these concoctions and I have no idea why.

Or, for those who want to go a different route, they order a shot, go through the inane salt and lime ritual, then chug it down with that face. You know that face. Tequila face. The opposite of O face.

Then we have to consider the brands of tequila consumed in these manners. Most people just order a margarita or a shot without specifying the brand and that’s how you end up drinking Sauza or Jose Cuervo.

Or, in other words, swill.

And that’s what we found in the pueblo magico of Tequila, Mexico.

One of Will’s bucket list items on the Mexico portion of our trip was to take a ride on the tequila train. Yes, there is such a thing as the tequila train. It runs from Guadalajara through the agave fields to Tequila and you get all kinds of samples along the way to ensure you’re good and tossed when you get to Tequila for the distillery tours.

Where you get more samples. It’s like a frat house train for people who actually know a thing or two about tequila.

Unfortunately the tequila train is currently under renovation so they’re using busses in the meantime. Will was not thrilled at this idea so we decided to just drive to Tequila and take the tours on our own.

When I said that Sauza and Cuervo was what we got I meant it. These two tequila giants dominate this town and the Sauza finca is perched on a little hill, the mansion clearly visible although the family now lives in San Francisco.

Kind of like the Escobars of tequila.

The town square of Tequila is not unique; I’ve seen much prettier squares in Mexico but this was the first time I’ve seen barrel shaped busses cruising through the narrow streets and the guides who really, really want you to get on them. Unfortunately, our bus wasn’t barrel shaped but we were hustled on nonetheless and headed to the distillery.

The smell can be detected throughout the town but when you get to the distillery it really hits you. It’s not unpleasant but it’s raw and sweet, almost like the smell of a jar of jelly that’s started to ferment. The others on our tour, who happened to be a ballet troupe from Serbia of all places, covered their noses and made the tequila face throughout the whole tour.

So basically we got to see the agave pinas, the vats of fermenting agave juice, and taste the finished product, a joven which is as raw as it gets. I prefer a reposado but hey, somebody hands you a little plastic cup of tequila and you drink it, right?

Fermenting tequila — Bubble, bubble tequila trouble.

The tour was interesting and there are several shops in and around the town that represent some of the smaller distilleries and you can stop in for a taste whenever you please. However, for me, the highlight of Tequila was not tequila, it was another product that Mexico is wildly famous for.

Cholula.

While the famous hot sauce itself is manufactured south of Tequila in the town of Chapala it’s owned by the Cuervo conglomerate and they have a restaurant in Tequila. Everything on the menu is made with Cholula and, you guessed it, deciding what to eat was damn near impossible.

But I ended up with a fried cheese molcajete, doused in a sauce brimming with onions, peppers, and so robustly Cholula that it felt like I was drinking it straight from the bottle. The cheese was so perfectly gooey that I had to twine it around my fork like pasta before I could get it onto the tortilla.

Fried cheese molcajete, one of Mexico's finest foods. — Fried cheese molcajete, one of Mexico’s finest foods.

And then I added more Cholula.

When the tequila fails you there’s always delicious food to save the day.

So is a visit to Tequila worth it? Yes and no. The agave fields are stunning. Some argue that the lavender fields in Provence are the most beautiful sight on Earth but I beg to differ. If you’ve never seen a mature agave field bright with that indescribable shade of blue then you and I have some talking to do.

Miles and miles of tequila in the making. — Miles and miles of agave

Otherwise, unless you’re a huge fan the Sauza, Cuervo, and Cholula products I’d say skip it. Just head for your local bar, order something decent like a Cazadores Reposado, a Don Julio or even the legendary Casa de Dragones and sip it like the gorgeous creation it is.

Are We Too Old to Stay at a Hostel?

October 19, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

A very long time ago when I was a newbie traveler I stayed at hostels. This was in Cambodia and Thailand and even then, at 34, I felt weird staying at hostels. Yeah, I was in a lot better shape than I am now but my experience consisted of perfect butts in bikinis, chiseled abs, and lots and lots of booze.

Or they were shit holes with plywood walls and bedbug ridden mattresses with a putrid air of suspiciousness about them. I had read “The Beach” before that trip. I knew shady when I saw it.

But mostly these hostels were filled with friendly people who were so enthusiastic about travel that it was palpable. They were invincible.

Young Cate, invincible traveler in Kanchanaburi, Thailand.

Fast forward many years and things are very different. Will is pretty emphatic about comfort over cost and I tend to agree. However, when a response to a Facebook post drew us to a hostel in Mazatlan I had to reconsider. They offered a parking space outside, electricity, internet, use of the bathrooms and showers, and access to the pool.

Too good to be true?

As soon as we got off the ferry from La Paz we had to go check it out. We were met by Zac, one of the managers, who showed us around. Ample common areas. Bathrooms, Showers. Pool. Classic Mexican style house with high ceilings and tile floors. Everything one might expect from a well kept hostel.

Including the other manager in a bikini.

Ah jeez, do I sound horrible here? I know what hostels are like and hanging out in a bikini whether you’re a guest or scrubbing toilets is the norm. So there I sat, handing over my passport and paying for a week wondering if I’d ever have anything in common with these girls with flat abs and butts to die for.

Or would I simply let my insecurities get to me and spend the week in a tent dress with a bag over my head?

It turns out that the Funky Monkey Hostel in Mazatlan is staffed by beautiful people, many of which come via Work Away, but the owner, Salem, is the jewel on this beauty pageant crown. Good looking, friendly, funny, and interesting, he’s that guy who came into a bit of money and decided to turn that into a permanent vacation in the form of a hostel.

He’s the guy who plans the nights out, the guy who decides shots at 2pm are an order, and insists on dance parties on the roof. He’s spontaneous and really seems to care about the experiences of his guests and his staff. One gets the impression that as long as the work is done everyone is free to do what they like.

So we spent a week there and while I didn’t miss a deadline it was hard to focus on work. The pool, the beer, the hanging around the backyard table and dragging out the box of costumes just for kicks were all huge distractions. It was really hard not to want to dive headfirst into the pool, the booze, and the costumes, and that feeling of complete and utter freedom and joy that I had all those years ago in Thailand .

Work? But there's a pool! — Work? But there’s a pool!

So I did. It may not have been my most responsible week but it was damn fun.

I talked with Salem a bit about the fact that hostels are usually the domain of the young travelers, the backpackers, the ones who are counting every last dollar just to make the trip last a little longer. Salem told me that he actually likes hosting older travelers, as they bring a different perspective to the group. He also told me that he knows another hostel owner who won’t accept guests over 35. Not because they don’t fit the young and beautiful hostel type but because he’s found that they complain too much about the noise, the booze, the costumes, the shenanigans.

I don’t really agree with that policy but I get it.

So we stayed our work week at the Funky Monkey, then we stayed another day because Salem offered us one of the private rooms in exchange for some drone footage of the property. We all jumped into the pool to add to the effect and then headed to the roof for a staged dance party. It was fun and the footage turned out great.

Who can resist a Polish surfer in a coconut bra? — Who can resist a Polish surfer in a coconut bra.

So the question remains; are we too old to stay at a hostel?

If it’s a hostel like the Funky Money then no, absolutely not. We met some great people and had a great time. And I think that, as we continue down the road we might consider hostels as options that are just as good if not better than campgrounds.

So thanks to Salem, Zac, Sami, Tomek and everyone else for a great week. And a thank you as well for reminding me how fun travel can be.

Baja Roundup

October 11, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

It seems like forever ago that we made the uneventful border crossing into Mexico at Otay Mesa, near Tijuana. When I say it seems like forever I mean it. I literally can’t recall the date but if I had to guess (and I’m usually wrong) I’d say it was about seven weeks ago.

Seven damn weeks out of the 26 our visitor visa allows are gone. Most of those weeks we left on the Baja Peninsula.

I’ll be honest when I say I knew little about Baja. I always kind of looked at is as California’s awkward appendage and thought little of it save for the debauchery of Tijuana and the place down south where Sammy Hagar made a tequila that I have not nor will ever try.

After all of the craziness that we went though in the United States, we only went a few hours south before we parked for a week at Clam Beach RV Park. I was expecting a tribe of crazies like us, those foolishly adventurous enough to drive to the end of the world.

What I found was a lot full of big rigs with California plates, the weekend getaways for the residents of San Diego, and most of them empty. At 350 USD per month for parking, why wouldn’t you just leave your RV at the campground all year and just come down when you felt like it?

We spent our week working and trying to figure out all of the gadgets that we’d brought along, ostensibly to make our work lives easier. Still working on that.

It wasn’t long before we decided to try our hand at wild camping; dry camping with no services like water or a toilet. We selected a place further south of Ensenada and found ourselves slaves to GPS coordinates left by those who had come before and then went bouncing through an arroyo toward the Pacific Ocean.

One of the good things about wild camping is that there’s no one around. You usually have the place all to yourself and in our case this place was a rocky outcrop overlooking the water and rocks where sea lions and pelicans fought for space. It was lovely.

The bad thing about wild camping is there are rarely toilets and I think that will the bane of my existence for the entirety of this trip. Unless I can simply abandon all modesty and take a shit in front of the entire world.

We continued south toward the highway that would take us east to the other side of the peninsula. We chose Ceilito Lindo RV Park this time, mainly due to the fact that other users of iOverlander raved about the crab served in a spicy paprika sauce.

This crab would be my undoing the next day.

Cue another night of wild camping and just as we pulled off the highway into another arroyo my gut lurched and I panicked. The stone toilet I built on that beautiful beach is going to be one of the things I describe if I ever have a job interview question like, ‘What was your greatest achievement?”

“Well, boss man sir, I managed to build a toilet from stones on a deserted beach in Mexico in just enough time to avoid shitting myself.”

He’ll likely decline to shake my hand as he shows me out the door.

After we watched a pod of dolphins play just offshore the next morning we headed inland. I wasn’t really expected much in the way of scenery; I do think deserts are beautiful but my main experience with them has been in the Middle East.

What I saw took my breath away. Much of Baja’s interior is part of Mexico’s biosphere reserve network and the landscape sports towering cacti and boulders so big it seems impossible for them even be there in the first place. It was everything that Hollywood tried to create in Italy for the spaghetti western and failed miserably at.

Oh, and there was a naked guy too.

I’m sure there will be more occasions when I wish we had a dash cam and it’s really impossible to believe this unless you were there, but it’s true. High noon, blazing hot, naked guy walking down the middle of the highway, sunburned cock swaying to and fro. I don’t know if he pissed off the wrong people or the peyote was particularly good that day but yeah, naked guy. We thought about stopping but then saw a police car just a few minutes later headed his way.

I’ll always wonder about the fate of naked guy.

We crossed the peninsula and ended up in the tiny town of Mulege. Home to a small population of expats this is one of those places where you go when you really, really want to be left alone. We spent the sweltering week at a campground there working, then continued south, camping along the Bay of Conception.

Loreto was our next stop and while it was slightly more lively than Mulege we had another problem to deal with. Yeah, we somehow spaced the fact that it’s still hurricane season and one named Newton was headed right for us. So we did some really stupid stuff like actually go out in the hurricane but all’s well that ends well, even when you’re a dumbass.

Loreto's tiny town square. — Loreto’s tiny town square.

After a few nights camping on the beaches south of Loreto, we headed to La Paz. Will had his work trip coming up so we had to find a place for me spend nine days alone. The woman who owned the campground was a fascinating lady but again, I was all alone, not another camper in sight. Unless you count the weird Dutch guy who stayed for two nights and told me emphatically that Americans are narcissists.

Given the current political climate, I wasn’t inclined to disagree with him.

Will returned from his trip and we decided to head down to Cabo to retrieve a piece of equipment. I mean it when I say nothing prepared me for Cabo. It’s a beautiful place but so jam packed with mega resorts and more under construction that it felt more like Cancun, complete with Señor Frog’s.

For all you Americans who freak out about Mexico, you sure do come down here and spend a shit ton of money, well, as long as you’re surrounded by a familiar hotel brand, high walls, and security guards.

We rounded out our tour of Baja with a trip back to La Paz and ferry tickets that would take us across the Sea of Cortez to Mazatlan. And as I stood at the stern of the ship and watched La Paz fade into the darkness I had a lot of thoughts about Baja, most of them good.

But now that we’re on the mainland I feel more like the real trip has begun. The highways heading south are uninterrupted except for those pesky border crossings until we get to Panama.

There’s nowhere to go but down from here.

All By Myself

October 5, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

Bears, beets, Battlestar Galactica.

If those three words mean anything to you then you’ll have a pretty good idea about what I did during the nine days I spent alone in La Paz while Will was living the good life in Whistler. Yeah, I know he was there for work and it wasn’t all gondola rides and mountains of bacon, but it was a far different story than the one that was playing out in that campground in La Paz.

The campground that was home to one single camper.

Me.

Normally I love being alone. And I thought that, after almost four weeks in the camper together, I’d relish the alone time. You know, I could stand in the middle of the camper and no one would need to squeeze past me, I could slither in and out of the bed and not worry if I was going to kick someone in the head, I’d only have to make one sandwich instead of two.

Will left at noon and those warm, fuzzy feelings lasted until about 4pm. That’s when I started watching TV. The last time Will left I watched Six Feet Under in its entirety. This time I chose The Office. Michael, Dwight, Pam, and Jim became my best and only friends for nine days.

Now some of you might be aghast at this point. You were in La Paz! Why didn’t you go out and see the sights? Did you really spend nine days just hanging out in the camper?

The answer to that question is basically, yes. I didn’t go out because it was too fucking hot. I didn’t head to the Malecon in the evenings to watch the sunset and drink cocktails because it was still too fucking hot. I did go to the grocery store and to the doctor, and I took a whale shark snorkeling tour which provided me with a lovely view of a giant spotted tail in the murky water, but that’s about it.

Oh, and I saw two of Carlos Slim’s yachts.

But other than that I worked, watched The Office, and on one memorable evening I got my skirt tangled in my feet while trying to hang on to Moby’s door and took an epic ass over tea kettle tumble and cracked my skull on the concrete.

Good times.

I read a lot of blogs about solo travel. About all the ways it benefits you and makes you a better person. How you’re beholden to no schedule or plan but your own. How you really “find yourself” during solo travel.

Well, as my new tagline says, travel isn’t always about finding yourself, unless you find yourself saying “fuck this” a lot.

And as I sat there with my legs scraped and bleeding and still tangled in Moby’s steps you can bet I said, “fuck this”. I said it a lot and I said it loudly.

I don’t want to be that girl who takes a selfie with a perfectly shaped macaron with the Eiffel Tower in the background. I don’t want to be the one who travels solo to Costa Rica to do yoga on the beach and drinks nothing but coconut water. But for those people who travel solo and have a wonderful experience, more power to you. Enjoy that coconut water with your bad self.

When I started this journey more than six years ago I didn’t do it alone. I did it with Will and I’ve always done it with Will. I still want to do it with Will. I (mostly) enjoy every moment we spend together and sharing our journey together is what I want.

It’s not that I couldn’t travel alone, I just don’t want to. Does that make me a bad traveler? Some might say so but then I’d have to get into an argument about what a good or bad traveler is and I’d probably say “fuck this” again and walk away.

So yes, I spent nine days alone. I watched TV. I created a little nest for myself directly beneath the a/c. The farthest I traveled was to the grocery store. I ate salad from a bag and cheese sandwiches. I drank beer and sometimes tequila. I set a timer on the ants to see how long it would take them to carry away the wasp I swatted.

It was nine minutes in case you were wondering.

So what I took away from those nine days were a shit ton of scrapes and bruises and the realization that I don’t want to travel alone. Even in the most frustrating and embarrassing and maddening of times, I want someone with me because it’s during those times when, even though I know I can handle it, I still want someone who’s got my back.

And that someone is right now, at this moment, sitting right beside me. Close enough to touch.

If This Camper’s Rockin’…

September 26, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

I don’t really talk about sex much. Well, let me rephrase that; I don’t really talk about sex much unless it’s in the company of the person I’m having sex with. So, as one could rightly assume, I talk about sex with Will.

When we lived in one of our many houses around the world sex was a relatively easy affair. We had big beds, couches, a dining room table, and even one very comfortable lounge chair on the roof. The questions of “where” never came up. It just happened where it happened.

Now that we live in a camper the question is not so much “where” as “how”.

The layout of our camper is pretty straightforward. It fits in the bed of a truck and the bed we sleep in is over the cab of said truck. We have a small couch about the size of a twin bed. We have maybe 5 x 2 feet of floor space. We have a small counter with a sink, two burner stove, and a fridge. It’s designed for sleeping, cooking, and escaping the elements.

It’s not really designed for fucking. But design flaws aren’t really going to stop a couple of people from having sex. I mean, think back to the high school backseat days, where someone’s knee was in the other person’s face and the seat belt always left a nice, clear imprint on your ass. Sweaty, steamy, fumbly, and awkward.

That’s kind of how it is now but we’re not teenagers. I like my sex nice and comfy with just enough oomph to prove I’m not dead.

Now don’t get me wrong. Our bed is really nice. It’s a queen and it’s really comfortable. But there are only about 18 inches of headroom so that kind of puts some limits on what can and can’t be done in the bed. Oral sex hasn’t been a problem at all, nor has the standard missionary position or anything else that doesn’t require one to elevate themselves more than 18 inches, so we’re good there. Mutual masturbation is also a great choice, especially when we can’t use the a/c and the idea of sweaty skin on skin action is so, so gross but you’re horny anyway.

Obviously, if we decide that we want to try other positions we have to move to the couch. You know, doggy style or any variations of girl on top. It’s not really a problem but sometimes the cushions slide around and leave one or the both of us unceremoniously deposited on our little scrap of floor. That can be funny or infuriating depending on where your orgasm was when your ass hits the ground.

Climbing around in this camper is kind of tricky too. If one of us is standing on the floor and the other is in the bed then the bed person has to climb down on the couch to get around to the door. Climbing up into the bed requires stepping on the couch or the generator housing and then squirming your way up. It’s cumbersome but I don’t think Will minds when it’s me and my bare bum scrambling up and he’s got the view from the couch.

You know. Because he kind of likes me.

Part of this grand adventure has always included wild camping and we’ve done that a few times now. Deserted beaches, clear water, impossibly beautiful night skies. The perfect setting for a naughty romp under the stars, right?

Wrong.

Do you know the kinds of bugs that come out at night? I’ve seen things I didn’t even think were allowed on this planet. There’s no way in hell I’m getting naked out there and I think it would be really, really hard to get turned on when I might have to ask, “Is that your dick or something else? Because it feels kind of weird.” Then some crazy bug ends up in my vagina and I’m scarred for life.

Yeah, that’s a worst case scenario for sure but I’m sure you get where I’m coming from. And I’m sure an ass full of mosquito bites wouldn’t make for a great time either.

Overall, I never really expected to have to talk about sex as it relates to this overlanding adventure. And as you are all well aware by now I never expected a lot of what’s happened on this trip. Most times it’s like I’m just fumbling my sweaty way around, doing what feels right at the time.

And that pretty much sums up sex in a camper.

#notblessed

September 23, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

Several years ago I had an idea for a blog. This blog would contain nothing but bitching and moaning about all the places I visit. I abandoned that project almost as soon as I came up with it, but it seems as if that long stowed away idea has resurfaced here.

My last few posts have resonated with a lot of people. Why? I think the main reason is because I’ve stopped writing what I think people want to hear and started writing what few travel bloggers do.

The truth.

The truth is that travel isn’t always fun. It doesn’t always change your life. Things will go wrong, sometimes horribly wrong. It’s a messy, confusing, infuriating endeavour at times and I know I’m not the only one that thinks that.

But I am going to be one of the bloggers who writes that.

Travel blogs are everywhere these days. Sometimes it seems that anyone with a passport and some WordPress skills is a travel blogger. My Instagram feed is full of perfectly posed beachside shots full of carefully curated hashtags, one of the most common being #soblessed. I understand this on some level. Those of us who can travel full-time or even part-time are fortunate, but blessed? To me, this implies the benevolence of some deity who has bestowed blessings on you and left someone else out in the cold.

But the other thing that bothers me is that when I visit this #soblessed person’s site I generally find little of substance. There are the same bikini-clad shots found on Instagram, posts titled “5 Ways the Full Moon Party Changed My Life Forever”, or glowing reviews of hotels and restaurants because the PR departments of these establishments paid the blogger to write said glowing review.

But despite this, these blogs that reveal the narcissistic underbelly of this saturated industry, there are some beacons of light. These are blogs written by people who aren’t afraid to show their vulnerability, people who write very helpful and insightful content, and people who write with such passion and skill that I melt in their company.

I’m talking about bloggers like Kate McCulley of Adventurous Kate who truly gives the lowdown on travel as a solo woman and she does so with exquisite prose. If you haven’t read the post about her shipwreck go do so right now. There’s also Jeremy Scott Foster of travelFREAK who recently went public with his critical battle with Lyme disease. And then there’s Bret Love, a man so passionate about what he does and what he stands for that Green Global Travel is a must for anyone who wants to live a more eco-conscious life, whether traveling or not. His recent post on the Rwandan genocide moved me to tears. Talon Windwalker is another truth-teller, and he weaves together his travel and personal stories so well at 1 Dad 1 Kid.

I like reading honesty. I like reading truth. And I’ve now discovered that I like writing it too. Because while we made this travel choice consciously, we had no way of knowing exactly how it would play out. Overlanding and the challenges that come with it are far, far different from a guided tour of Paris or a comped stay at a luxury hotel. Overlanding comes with its own unique set of realities and I want to tell the truth about that.

And the realities of it are very, very raw. Just like the wounds covering my legs after I lost my balance on the steps leading up to Moby’s camper. But that’s another whiny, bitchy story.

I’m not trying to bash anyone here. I understand the fear, risk, and vulnerability that come with putting many aspects of your life online for everyone to see. Few people would say to your face the things they say in a comment box. It’s tough to be, well, tough. And I understand that everyone has the right to blog as they see fit even if I don’t personally like their style.

I’ve also never considered myself to be a #soblessed person. We worked hard to make this journey happen, we work hard every day to keep Moby and each other safe and sound, we work hard at our respective jobs, and I work hard on this blog. #soblessed has absolutely nothing to do with that.

So, I’ve decided to adopt the #notblessed hashtag. I don’t use Twitter that much but if you follow me on Instagram you’ll find it there. And for those of you who were hoping this would be another post about how much I suck at overlanding, stay tuned.

The tale of woe that is me falling off the steps, cracking my skull on the cement, and scraping up both my legs is next in the queue.

Essential Beauty Tips for Overlanding Women

September 15, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

I know lots of people who are self-proclaimed makeup addicts. They have pots, tubes, pencils, and various other containers full of all the things that they brush, slather, and blend on a daily basis to look and feel beautiful. Then there are the various lotions and potions that go on the skin before the makeup. Anti-wrinkle creams, skin brighteners, moisturizers with sunscreen, moisturizers without sunscreen, and serums. And don’t even get me started on hair care products.

I mean, the makeup section in drugstores can take up three or more aisles and then there are the entire stores devoted to makeup and skin care like Sephora and MAC.

I don’t know if I would describe myself as one of these addicts but when it came time to pare down for this trip I figured that the makeup portion of the throwaway process would be the easiest. While I do like makeup it’s not like I had a ton of it, right?

Oh, how wrong I was.

When I sat down to take on this task I realized I had not one but two boxes full of this shit. There they were, all the tubes of foundation, pots of eyeshadow, and at least 5 or 6 different types and brands of moisturizer. Some of this stuff wasn’t cheap so I knew I had to be careful and couldn’t just aim for the garbage can with each and every dip of my hand into the box.

In the end, I took way, way too much makeup and skincare stuff. I went from two boxes to two bags and guess how much of it I’ve used since we left? Almost none. The Visine is really the only thing I go for on a regular basis these days.

So for all you overlanding ladies out there, these are a few of the on-the-fly beauty routines I’ve adopted for my glamorous overlanding adventure. Or you could just trash your makeup and call it good.

Glowing Skin

Everyone wants to have nice skin, but the best thing is when someone comes up to you and tell you that you’re glowing. This is even more welcomed when you’re not currently pregnant. The makeup makers go to great lengths to create products that promise that highly sought after glow but when you’re out on the open road there’s no need for that.

My solution?

Sweat. Sweat is the best glow you can get and guess what? It’s free! Whether you’re frolicking on a 37-degree beach or trudging through a steamy rainforest the sweat that spouts from your face will definitely have people asking, “What’s your secret? You’re positively glowing!”

Another way to achieve that healthy, sun-kissed glow is a little-known secret that is actually two beauty tips in one. After you apply sunscreen to your face and wipe off the sweat that will try it’s best to wash that sunscreen off, then pat a little sand on your cheeks. When the light catches the shiny flecks of sand you’ll look radiant and when you go to wash your face at the end of the day the sand acts an amazing exfoliator. Win win!

Beautiful, Road-Worthy Hairstyles

Okay, in the spirit of honesty and I do try to be 100% honest about the very real struggles of overlanding I suggest shaving your head. I know, I know… this suggestion isn’t very well received among women but the truth is you will have absolutely nothing to worry about when it comes to your hair. I know this because I did it 7 years ago.

Yes, this is the best hairstyle for overlanding.

However, 7 years and a foot and a half of hair later I can attest that keeping my hair healthy and looking like something other than a rat’s nest is a real struggle. While sweat might do wonders for your face it doesn’t have quite the same effect on hair. Unless you’re the type that likes sodden hair that dries into a crispy, salty mess of tangles.

If you don’t have short, sassy, easy to care for hair this my favorite hairstyle tip, the messy top knot. It really doesn’t even require that you actually brush your hair; you just have to flip your head over, grab all your hair, and twist it into a knot on your head, then secure with pins. The result is an effortless, “I woke up like this” look that will definitely turn heads. “Heads” probably being your own as you struggle to keep your top knot secured and wipe loose, sweaty strands from your face and neck.

The oh so fetching and practical top knot, pre-sweat. — The oh so fetching and practical top knot.

Because, you know, hairspray in a camper? How frivolous!

Smooth, Pretty Feet

Back when I had a house I loved to give myself pedicures. Now that I live in a camper I’ve had to adopt some other crafty ways to keep my feet from looking like they’ve been chewed on by a dog. Since you’ll likely spend a lot of time in flip flops or other types of sandals it can be really hard to keep nail polish from chipping and the skin around your toenails from looking like jerky.

Obviously the best answer here is to just head to the salon for a pedicure. But what if you’re in some breathtakingly remote place and there’s no salon in sight? Well, if that beautiful place happens to be a beach then, once again, sand comes to the rescue. Simply get your feet wet and attack them with sand. Sometimes this can hurt a little, especially if the sand is not the sugary white kind, but keep at it. All that nasty skin and probably a fair amount of dirt will come right off.

Now, when it comes to polish I have a nifty little trick up my sleeve. I don’t have any polish remover because “oh shit, if it spills that stuff will eat through anything and stink up the place” but I don’t let that deter me. When my current polish starts to chip or grow out I just cover it up with a different color. That way, when your polish chips because you’ve stubbed your fucking toe on a rock again you get a nice kaleidoscope effect.

Brilliant and easy.

So, as I continue on down this wild road I’m sure I’ll come up with some other inventive ways to help myself feel like something other than a sweaty, dirty mess. Maybe, one day soon, we’ll land in an area with a climate more conducive to makeup and I can unearth my long buried goodie bags and the gauzy, silky maxi dress I know is in here somewhere and we’ll go to dinner.

I’ll be sand and sweat free, my hair will be down, and I’ll have my much-loved makeup on, and my husband will tell me I’m pretty.

Then, as always, I’ll spill something down the front of my dress. C’est la vie.

A Hurricane of Stupid Proportions

September 12, 2016 by Cate Brubaker

As many of you are now well aware, things haven’t been all rainbows and unicorns since we began our overland journey a month ago. In fact, things have been downright shitty at times as you can see from my previous post.

However, last Friday as we said goodbye to Mulege and spent a blissful night on a relatively cool and deserted beach I began to feel as if things were looking up. I was peeing somewhat normally, I got to go for a swim, and the Bay of Conception is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

But pretty beaches and pristine bays can’t hide the fact that we’ve done some pretty stupid shit thus far. Well, I guess I should say that I’ve done more stupid shit than Will has, but we’re both new to this and mistakes happen. But the big mistake we made during Hurricane Newton really takes the proverbial cake.

The funny thing is that we’re no strangers to severe weather. I’ve been through a couple of tropical storms in Louisiana and Hawaii and we both survived not one but two Category 3 typhoons in Taiwan. We know the rules but apparently the 90 miles per hour winds of Hurricane Newton blew those rules right out the window.

We became aware of the storm that would become Newton on Saturday and made it to Loreto on Sunday. All of the projected paths had this storm headed straight up the Baja Peninsula and right into our laps. On Monday Newton became a Category 1 hurricane and we talked about what we should do. Head for higher ground? No. The Mexican Civil Defense actually advised against that due to the extreme risk of mudslides. Go to a hotel? Maybe, but how will we know if it’s bad enough?

In the end, we just decided to move Moby away from the trees that we were parked under, stock up on supplies, and ride it out. We went out to dinner Monday night and watched as the outer bands of Newton swirled slowly over the Sea of Cortez. It was actually quite beautiful.

The outer bands of Hurricane Newton on Monday night.

Tuesday morning I woke to the pitter patter of rain on Moby’s roof. For a minute I just stretched and savored that exquisite sound of rain that I hadn’t heard in so long until I realized what it actually was. The beginning of a fucking hurricane. Will was already up, we had power but no internet, so we drank coffee and watched Master Chef. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

That’s what I get for thinking.

By noon the winds had picked up and Moby was rocking and rolling. We decided to pull the top down which drastically reduced our living space. Each trip to the bathroom resulted in massive amounts of water coming into the camper and the couch was soaked. We were running out of towels. The full brunt of the storm wasn’t expected to hit Loreto until 6pm so at 2pm we did something really, really stupid.

We decided to go out and find a hotel.

We packed a few things in a dry bag, locked everything up, and headed out to the street. Wait, I’ll take that back. We headed out into a river.

The streets of Loreto were swirling with muddy, brown water and debris that nearly reached my knees. All I could think about was the fact that I was probably wading through actual shit, in Tevas. The Tevas that always give me blisters and I’m wading through filthy water and will probably get gangrene from a blister.

But we trudged on.

Then I realized the second stupid way we might die.

Power lines in Mexico aren’t always a neat and tidy affair. In fact, they’re kind of a shit show. So as I looked up at the power lines precariously swinging directly over my head all I could do was whisper to myself, “Five blocks. It’s only five blocks to the hotel.”

We reached Loreto’s little central square to find the hotel we were counting on was closed. A peek through the door showed a collapsed ceiling over the reception area and water everywhere. We trudged across the square to the other hotel. Nothing. Nada. Closed.

We then waded back toward the beach and actually had to skirt a power line that wasn’t entirely down but way too close for comfort. As we approached the beach hotel and saw the cars and people milling about it looked like a shining beacon of light, a true port in a storm, a magical place that might provide me a dry towel and a goddamn drink.

But no. The hotel was completely empty but the staff were there and said, in no uncertain Spanish terms, that el jefe said no guests today. We probably could have bribed our way in but I just wanted to go back and put some antibiotic cream on my feet. You know, so they wouldn’t rot and fall off.

So, we did what anyone who had just risked their lives by walking around in a fucking hurricane would do. We waded back to Moby and got drunk. We stripped down to our underwear and just wore raincoats when we had to splash over to the bathroom. We laughed about how stupid we were. And as the skies darkened and Newton began seriously dumping rain and throwing out winds that reached 90 mph I freely admit that I was scared shitless. But tequila does help with that.

When I woke up on Wednesday it was like nothing had ever happened. The skies were a crisp blue, a delightfully cool breeze was blowing, and we had internet and power. But the real work had yet to begin.

We did get some water in the camper at the head of the bed so we had to open all the flaps and pull the mattress back. All the couch cushions and their covers had to come out into the sun. Our clothesline was jammed with sodden towels and clothes. The shoes we’d been wearing were lined up in rows. Our bed pillows were laid out with the floor mats. It looked like a damn hobo yard sale.

I’m sure this adventure is going to be full of lots of stupid decisions. Life itself is full of stupid decisions but most of those tend not to involve hurricanes, power lines, and wading through sewage. Luckily, hurricane season is almost over and once we’re further south in Mexico we won’t have to worry about hurricanes again for the rest of the trip.

But who am I kidding? There’s no free pass when Mother Nature is concerned.

We’ve got volcanoes and earthquakes to look forward to.