Puerto Vallarta

During a recent trip to my happy place (Puerto Vallarta), I ended up on Vallarta Adventures' "Jeep Safari," which takes hopelessly white people into the Sierra Madre jungle to be devoured by insects.

Our leader, JC, stood as tall as Prince but was considerably more funny. From the hood of his truck, he waved a make-believe cattle prod: "Come on, amigos. Moooove."

En route to Jurassic Park, JC quizzed us on Mexican history, giving us yellow cards for speaking out of turn. Sometimes he shouted "left!" or "right!" so that we could duck oncoming branches.

JC claimed to eat 15 tortillas per day -- as a policy -- and showed us his belly as proof.

"Los Sierra Madres," he said, "es named for its rasor-like edge ... Left!" Everyone on the left side hit the deck.

At the trailhead, JC spotted a Land-of-the-Lost-sized web, and we gathered at a safe, touristy distance.

"Es el golden silk spider," he said. "And watch thees."

He flicked onto the web a cigarette butt, which the spider pounced on and, having cleaned its trap, dropped back into JC's hand.

"The web es so strong that locals use eet for feeshing nets."

JC jumped back and forth across a creek, explaining how everything worked. He showed us cacti with no needles, tunnels created by fire ants, dragonflies that mate the way a space shuttle refuels (we crowded in for this one).

JC wrapped a garter snake around his neck, prompting my neighbor, Sally, to pull my hair. So it goes.

"There es 700 species of snakes in Mehico, and only four es poisonous. How lucky we found one."

Farther on, I stepped in the droppings of a Brahman deer. The Brahman deer, said JC, come from India, where they are idolized by Hindus. In other words, I had stepped in holy shhhh -- JC grabbed a chameleon, which, sensing danger, played dead in his hand. Our guide popped it in his mouth like a peanut.

"Mmm. Taste like cheeken."

JC spat out the lizard, which zipped away to tell its story of abduction.

Our pudgy leader gasped at a hoof print in the mud and turned toward us with scared, Vaudeville eyes. "El Chupacabra ... It sucks el blood of goats and, jes, humans."

At which point JC's assistant jumped out from behind a tree, prompting Sally to smack me in the stomach.

JC laughed and laughed till he noticed a centipede and, to everyone's surprise, did not put it in his mouth. This was the "worm" they bottle with tequila. JC taught us the traditional toast: "Al centro!" "Abaja!" "Arriba!" "Salud."

I myself distrust any beverage that smells like paint thinner. After two margaritas, I can't even read a menu but have to order by photograph. Long live Denny's.

On the way home, trees continued to smack us in the head, but no one seemed to care. We had slipped into Safari Mode, where time does not exist and you are free from gravity itself. I could see why James Taylor would want to come to Mexico. Someday. Without ever having been.

Our team stumbled out of the Jeep, thanking JC in $20 bills and promising to return as soon as the tree welts healed. JC said that he'd be waiting ... unless, of course, the Chupacabra found him first.