We love it when Covington travelers share stories of meaningful experiences from their travels. This poignant narrative came from Chris, a participant on an incentive trip to Los Cabos, Mexico hosted by a corporate client of Covington Meetings & Events. Chris did not want accolades for his actions; in fact, he wished to remain anonymous. But the cultural engagement he experienced was so special and authentic, that we convinced him to share it with Travel Maestro.

One morning, I journeyed to downtown Cabo with the thought of visiting museums while observing the culture. To my surprise, I couldn’t locate any of the exhibitions that I found through the numerous apps on my phone. I decided to flow with the breeze and started walking in the direction of the city’s hustle and bustle.

As I passed through the area full of trinkets, farmacias, and other tourist traps, I noticed a group of gentlemen walking toward me with stringed instruments. Being a guitar player myself, I naturally put my index and pinky fingers in the air to give the universal sign of “rock on” to my brothers in music as we crossed paths. 

I continued to the marina where the beauty of nature kept me busy for at least an hour. The wind pushed me back toward the downtown area where I walked aimlessly while enjoying all that Cabo had to offer the senses. As my eyes scanned the environment, I noticed a Latino man moving toward me with an acoustic guitar held out in his arms as if it were a puppy that he wanted me to love. 

“Here! You’re a rockstar” he exclaimed in perfect inglés. Surprised at the exchange, I asked what he meant. “You did this…” as he returned the hand gesture from earlier. “I know you’re a rockstar. Play!”

He led me to a bench in front of the colorful shops designed to bring our foreign dollars into the Cabo economy. “Play me a song! Sing!”

We passed the guitar back and forth for half an hour or more, blessing each other with the melodies of our homeland culture. We would both attempt to sing harmonies on songs that we had never heard in our lives and the occasional dissonance mattered not.

Joe was his name and he had been playing guitar for seven months. My face showed how impressed I was as I told him with humility that I had 30 years under my guitar strap. We continued playing and chatting, I noticed he took out a label-less liquor bottle now and then to hydrate. I wanted to thank this man for the experience that he allowed me, so I asked him if he’d like to have a drink. 

“I like to play pool! Do you?”

Admittedly, I’m not a skillful pool player but the excitement in Joe’s voice led me to believe this would be enjoyable. As we walked to his favorite pool hall, we talked a bit about our lives.

I am not ignorant of just how privileged I am, so I wanted to give attention and focus on his stories more than mine. It turns out that Joe had once experienced some of the same privileges, but things had changed three months earlier when his beloved mother passed on.

We played three games of pool where Joe came out on top, but not before both of us made some amazing shots that had us jumping up and down in excitement, high fivin’, and hugging. “Amazing!”

The inheritance left by his late mother was hoarded by Joe’s brother, leaving him with only the guitar that he held in his hands. “She gave this to me, Chris,” he said with tears in his eyes. The enormity of this young man’s story was starting to come into focus for me. The nice guitar without a case; the guitar pick fashioned from a random piece of plastic. He truly did not have anything of material possession.

I asked if there was a music store nearby and by universal grace, it was less than a five-minute walk from the pool table we had just conquered together. As we pushed forth, I asked if he was able to make any money by busking for the tourists. 

“I don’t ask people for money. I don’t play my guitar to make money. I play because it makes me happy.”

Now I’m crying in the middle of this gorgeous urban Mexican city.

We get to the music store and Joe immediately greets the salesmen with excitement to be there. He picks up a nylon-stringed guitar, which is different from the steel-stringed instrument that he toted through the city daily, and began to play a moving calypso melody. I was captivated by the sheer beauty, pain, and pure talent that was emanating through this man’s fingers.

Joe’s gift of sound came to an end, and we walked up to the sales counter. I told him that I’d like to purchase a few things for him in celebration of the experience we shared. Together, we picked out two sets of new strings, a handful of guitar picks, and an electronic tuner.

Joe’s gratitude came out in the form of tears, in the middle of that music store, in the middle of Mexico, in the middle of the world. 

As we left, I told Joe that I needed to head back to the resort. “Follow me. I want to show you something,” he requested. I obliged.

Joe took me through a rickety door hung on the side of a dilapidated white brick building, into something that resembles what I’ve only seen on TV as a displaced person’s “home.” We walked past a gentleman sitting in an old rocking chair facing the wall and into Joe’s room which was furnished with nothing more than a mattress. 

“I’m homeless, Chris. This is where I sleep” he says, not with embarrassment but with grace and humility. He puts his newly acquired accessories into a Star Wars toy in the shape of a sphere. “This is where I keep all of my things.”

We left his place of residence as he walked me back to the tourist area. We stopped so I could grab water for myself, and a snack and drink for his sustenance. I handed him the remaining pesos from my purchase as we embraced in an exchange of mutual appreciation.

At that moment, I decided that I was going to come back the next day with my guitar in tow. He jumps in excitement at the idea of jamming out on the beach with his newfound foreign friend. “Meet me back there as soon as you get here,” he points towards that broken door we just left.

I promised that I would be there around 11-12 o’clock and I told him that I love him. We released from our hug, and I turned to find my ride back to my temporary, but comparatively extravagant home for the week.  

I found myself back in downtown Cabo just before 11 am the following day, this time with my guitar in hand. I walked to the white building and yell through the door for my amigo. Nothing. As I start to walk away, the door opened, and Joe’s rocking chair friend comes out to tell me he is asleep. 

I ask him to tell Joe that I was around, and I started walking toward the beach with no real goal in mind. I eventually make it back to the bench where we enjoyed each other’s talents the previous day. I pulled out my guitar and started to strum with the idea of waking Joe up, even from a block or two away. It didn’t attract my friend, but I made conversation with a couple of locals, as well as a woman who was there from California to look at real estate.

Eventually, I zipped my guitar back in its bag and remembered that Joe did not have the privilege of protecting his instrument as I did. Furthermore, that piece of wood meant the world to him, while mine was simply something that accompanied me on these annual trips to tropical lands that I had been so blessed to experience. I have over a half dozen more pieces of wood just like it, hanging safely in my home thousands of miles away, and I hadn’t thought about them once since I left.

Back to the music store I went. I found the perfect case for Joe’s guitar, gave my credit card, and thanked the salesman. Then I headed back toward that wonderfully flawed door in the side of that white brick building. 

I yelled for my friend and again, Joe’s roommate came to the door. I lifted the guitar case and I asked if I could come in to give it to Joe. I walked into the four-cornered room to see him covered in a blanket on his bed, his guitar laying right next to him. 

After some verbal rustling, he awakens and sits up with bright eyes as he realizes that I kept my word. I didn’t give him time to say anything before I told him that I brought a case for his guitar, that he must protect both it and the talent she has given him for it is going to save his life. We hug and I leave to go back to mine, so beautiful and so blessed.

Thank you, Chris, for sharing your lovely cultural encounter. This just proves that “Travel Unites” and makes us better citizens of the world.