The overnight bus to Huatulco was full of Gringos, but I was the only one to get off at La Crucecita, the service town for the collection of resort enclaves that comprise Huatulco. The rest continued on to Puerto Angel or Puerto Escondido, and I should have joined them. Huatulco is boring, with empty beach front restaurants and half-closed shops. Aside from a few Mexican families, the place was deserted and expensive. I booked a room for the night and made plans to move on to Puerto Angel, a little fishing village an hour to the west, the next day.
The sun is sinking over the low headland to the west of the bay, tinting the smokey plumes about the thatched beach restaurants. I'm on a little ledge on the fishing pier, at the other end of the bay, perched fifteen feet about the green ocean, and this is what I see.
To my left, the end of the pier is lined with fisherman. They are all mean, from what I can see, although many are only boys. They throw weighted hooks attached to fishing line into the sea, and then pull the hooks in with sharp tugs, hoping to impale another of the six-inch mackerel they are harvesting. Each fisher has a bag or pail or pile of fish at his feet, maybe a dozen, and each new catch is added without fanfare. This is not sport fishing -- this is life.
To my right is the beach, coarse, utilitarian, a lighter shade of brown than the boys playing soccer on it. There are three separate soccer games being played on the 200-meter stretch of beach. Behind the beach are palm trees, and behind them are the restaurants, open and empty. Hotels grow across the street, some peering over the palm trees, and they are hasty, incomplete affairs.
The sun has set behind the western headland, turning the sky golden. The air darkens but the see begins to glow, picking up the oblique pink and white and gold from the inflamed clouds.
The fisherman have followed the incoming school around the pier to the left, and there are now thirty or forty of them lining that side, in places two-deep. The end of the pier continues to sport a handful, while the right side, where I sit, lends only two lone filaments to the silvery sea.
I hear footsteps behind me. A boy runs to the edge of the pier and leaps, and I catch a glimpse of black hair, brown skin, and orange shorts before he dives into the water with all the grace of a winged bird.
The sky is muted now, its palette softening, save for a single thunderhead reaching high to catch the descending sun's rays. The fisherman have returned to the end of the pier, and whether they are following instinct or statistics or the pull of some celestial body, I'll never know.
I may have found heaven, or I may have found hell. Picture a kilometer of coarse sand beach, packed by thatch restaurants and hotels. My room costs 60 pesos; lunch today was only 35. The weater is nearly perfect (if a little hot). There's a healthy population of beautiful men and women, and a fortunate sample of the latter are topless. An unfortunate sample of the former are completely naked. A cool breeze blows in from the ocean and waves break invitingly on the shore. My girlfriend is far away, and I miss her terribly. This is a place of romance (or, at least, lust) and I'm finding it hard to adjust to the atmosphere by myself. The waves are deadly; two days ago a tourist drowned in rougher-than-usual waters. Ultimately, I think I'm just lonely, but I'm giving myself a bit of time to adjust to this place to see if it grows on me.
The sun is starting to slide down the sky, cooling a bit, and so I've emerged from the shelter of the shade and out onto the sand, where I can better see and hear and feel the waves and better torture myself with views of beautiful women.
There are maybe a dozen people in the water, alternately playing in the waves and battling the vicious currents. The waves alternate in strength and form, coming in series of weak, then strong, then weak, as the lower beach fills and then empties. The water swirls about, making the simply act of standing still a chore. At the moment, the water is racing to the right, en masse, and the population of swimmers is drifting that way as well. There were surfers out earlier today, but they have all retired. They would occasionally take short rides on the biggers waves, but mostly, from what I could see, they just sat on their boards beyond the breakers and did nothing. I have so much to learn about surfing. My education began earlier today on a boogie board. It was exhausting, battling wave after wave in an attempt to reach the perfect spot, which never happened.
I'd been waiting for the sunset for hours. I could see, in the late afternoon, how the sun's trajectory, the offshore islands, the headland, and the surfers heading out for the evening's waves would all align like a good omen. As evening descended I stood with my ankles in the water, watching as the sun sank into the gap between island and headland. Imperceptibly it moved, imperceptibly it dimmed, and as it did both its colour deepened, first yellow, then rosy, then red, until is disappeared behind a distand cloud bank and I ran out of film. I returned to the sandy hotel patio and sat on the edge to watch the rest of the show. The high clouds lit up, catching the colours as the blue night descended.
Near me, on the beach, two dogs started fucking. This is the season for it, to be sure -- many pregnant dogs, teats swollen, can be seen wandering on the sand. Those that aren't pregnant are the subject of a few fights every day. I'd seen these two particular dogs flirting earlier in the day, and it wasn't much of a surprise that they'd chosen such a romantic sunset to consumate their love. They did their business quickly, or at least attempted to, but then he broke off and she chased him, playfully, until he agreed to finish the job. This happened several times, him mounting and thrusting and dismounting and wandering off and everyone on the beach was much amused with their display, except for two small children who were enthralled with a piece of driftwood.
The dogs continued their show, but then, in mid-thrust, he did something wrong, perhaps barking the wrong name, and she tried to twist away from him. She continued to turn but he continued his business and then somehow they became stuck. The specific geometry of this is much too painful to describe, but suffice it to say that they were attached, ass to ass, facing in opposite directions. They stood there, looking very forlorn and more than a little embarrassed, and probably wished someone would help them but of course no one did because dogs and people are in separate worlds here.
Occasionally she would lean or walk, and he would lean opposite or follow, backwards, as the case may be. Meanwhile, the sunset finished its show and a soccer game started on the beach a few yards away. The dogs continued to stand there, and amused chuckles occasionally turned to groans from the amused bystanders as they attempted, by leaning, to free themselves.
I joined the soccer game. After some confusion as to whose team I was on, I discovered it didn't matter since no one would pass me the ball anyway. But, I held my own on defence and when I went to retrieve a stray ball the dogs were still standing there, still attached, looking as forlorn as ever. The game continued but soon dissolved as night fell and players drifted away, and when I went to retrieve my shirt I discovered that somehow the dogs had separated. They lay on the sand, about 10 feet apart, each facing away from the other and each intently licking his or her damaged organ. The both still seemed quite embarrassed.
This morning, despite still feeling rather disenchantend with the locale, I paid for another night's stay at Zipolite. I felt obliged to give the idyllic facade at least another day. So, after a brisk walk along the beach's one-kilometer length, and some breakfast, I promptly caught a camioneta and spent the day elsewhere.
This was something about Zipolite, or about me, or both, that wasmaking me unhappy. It could be the scantily clad women scatteredabout, or the overtly romantic couples kissing in the surf. Or itcould be the closed and established social gropus which me and mymeager social skills are loathe to penetrate. Or it could be theheat. In any event my time at Zipolite was sinking me deep into amorass of unhappiness so a visit to one of the nearby beaches soundedlike a brilliant idea.
I walked out to the main road and flagged down a camioneta (or, moreaccurately, it sat there honking until I got my ass in gear andran out to meet it). A camioneta is a converted pickup with shadedbenches in the back, and it cruises along a set route between thevarious beaches along this part of the coast. Simply hop on, finda spot among the locals and tourists, and pay three to five pesoswhen you get to your destination. I'll never spend time with thoseextortionist cab drivers again.
I got off at Mazunte, about five kilometers down the road. It featuredthe Mexican Center for Turtles, which was closed that day, and a naturalcosmetics factory. I wandered down to the beach, which was quiet andbeautiful, with a few families playing in the surf and quiet palaparestaurants lined up on the sand. I was still in quite a funk, imaginingall kinds of evil plots against me, and ate my torta and shrimp cocktailin stewing silence.
A couple had set up a little jewelery stand on one of the nearby tables, and after lunch I went to peruse. I discovered a small amulet on their table which suddenly, strangely, appealed to me in a very deep way. I've never been much for crystal necklaces, but this one, with its tiny crystal, even tinier sphere of tiger's eye, and offset spiral accented handle, reminded me of a minute lantern -- the perfect talisman for a traveller wandering in the dark. I bought it.
And lo, my mood brightened. I immediately set off on an ambitious quest to reach the next beach over by land. I climbed to a a small abandoned shack perched at the edge of a small headland, then down to a secluded cove. Moving on, I walked across a flat stretch of snail-encrusted rocks before reaching yet another tiny cove -- and this one posed a problem. I observed the waves and then descended into the water, which was alternately ankle- and thigh-deep, until leaping to security on the loose gravel at the top of the cove. I could have swam across, but I doubt the camera and books in my backpack would have appreciated the journey.
I again timed the waves and hoisted myself out of the cove and onto another wide rocky ledge about the water. This had been quite an effort so far, all this scrambling around beneath the intense afternoon sun, and when I rounded the headland my heart sank. Another cove awaited me, and this one had no dry means of access. Large waves pounded against the end wall and filled the air with mist. With my destination in plain view, a scant fifty meters away, I turned around.
...and had a rather unsettling thought: I had no idea if the tide was high or low, or if it was coming or going. The rather tenuous path I had just traversed could disappear in an onslaught of foamy brine. With my pulse quickening, I set off on the return route. There was really only one tricky sectoin, which required hoisting myself from a precarious perch on an inundated rock onto a relatively secure rock shelf. My initial attempts met with failure, but after stowing my pack high on the objective shelf, and straining muscles which appeared markedly weaker since my last rock climbing session more than a year ago, I achieved the safety of the rock shelf.
I returned to the beach still in a good mood despite my failure to achieve an overland traverse, and humming a smart little salsa riff which I had invented and have since forgotten. On the way back to the road I ran into an acquaintance from the hostel back in Oaxaca City, and then made small talk with two Canadian girls, and by the time I boarded the camioneta it was clear that my day was looking up.
I moved on to the next beach, which the guidebook reported as having good body-surfing. Indeed, the bay looked wonderful, small and enclosed but with large waves, and after a few inquiries I realized I could take surfing lessons. This could be the place where I could realize the ultimate goal of my Mexican travels: to learn to surf.
As practice I tried boogie boarding and failed miserably. I caught no rides, except on the foam, which is strictly the domain of children, and the one serious, gutsy attempt I made to catch a big wave resulted in me being churned through the sea like a rag doll, and I had to sit down in disgust for an hour to evaluate my options. My return to the sea elicited no improvment, but I did return, and that is something.
On the way back to Zipolite, in the camioneta, I met a British couple and they have invited me out for drinks this evening. I am loathe to give credence to superstition, but it appears my day and attitude improved considerably after purchasing my little lucky charm. I let you decide who is to blame.
I had a great night last night, which was followed by no small amount of horror. I went to one of the local beachfront restaurants to drink and talk with two British couples. We spent a few hours there, talking about travelling and about nothing, and just having a good time. I also drank a rather unfortunate amount of alcohol. I'd had three drinks with dinner, and three more with my new friends, and took my malaria medicine in between. I felt okay at the restaurant but as soon as I returned to my room I knew I was in trouble. The room spun and I couldn't focus on anything. Closing my eyes produced instant sensations of being spun backwards, over my head, faster and faster. I suspected that sleep wasn't in the cards, so I mentally prepared myself for the long road back to sobriety.
I eventually decided that some fresh air would do me some good and headed outside. That helped -- the cool air, and the dim abstract night waves helped to settle my stomach and head. AFter about a half an hour I returned to my room. That didn't seem like such a wise idea, though, and within minutes I was getting dressed, grabbing my bottle of water, and trying to quickly and casually (as quickly and casually as one can when one is drunk) make it to the beach, where I was re-introduced to the five margaritas and one pina colada.
I sat there in the sand, rinsing my mouth with the water I'd had the foresight to bring. How embarrassing. The hotel's night staff had seen it all before, many times, I'm sure. There was no one else on the beach. But I was embarrassed for me. This was not my normal behavior. Feeling shameful, but physically improved, I returned to my room and went to sleep.
Needless to say, I've been rather miserable all day today. A vague nausea has persisted, and so after packing up and catching a camioneta down the road to San Agustinillo, and then wandering around in the hot sun trying to find a hotel with private bathroom, I was more than happy to just take a nap.
This place makes for a nice little retreat. There aren't many people and there's not much to do -- I couldn't even see any restaurants open for dinner. Not that I'm very hungry, anyway. I did discover a cool flavour of corn chip: chipotle and chorizo. Pretty tasty.
I met a couple from Canada on the hotel's patio. They're from Toronto, and just on the coast for a week courtesy of a really cheap airfare. Tomorrow we might all go to nearby Ventanillo for a nature tour on the lagoon.
All the people I've met so far have agreed that the travellers here, and in particular at Zipolite, are just not very friendly. Most of the people at Zipolite are in well-formed little travelling groups, and not very open to outsiders. But as I get the hang of this travelling thing I'm getting more comfortable approaching people for some much-needed conversation.
I might get sick of the coast soon. It doesn't feel like Mexico -- the tourists and the facilities that support them just aren't authentic. I much prefer the interior cities -- to me, that's where the real Mexico is; that's the one worth seeing.
Today is my birthday. I've been miserable all day from sickness, and don't really mind that there are no presents awaiting me. I'm sure there are emails off somewhere in cyberspace wishing me happiness, but the internet cafe is a few kilometers down the road and I don't quite feel ready to venture out of my room yet.
This morning I awoke in misery. My skin ached, my belly churned, and my head throbbed. There was nothing to be done but lie inside my room, in front of the occasionally rattling rusty fan, and wait for my sickness to do its thing.
Diarrhea came, and then came again. Concerned about dehydration,I began to cautiously sip water -- as much as I felt I could stomach, which was not much. As my trauma continued, my thoughts turned to the Cipro (a powerful antibiotic) I had in my bag. If my sickness was bacterial, the Cipro would take care of it. If it wasn't, well... it couldn't hurt, right? I swallowed the abnormally large pill and then lay down again, tossing and turning and wondering if maybe I'd contracted malaria. The pill didn't seem to be doing anything, and then suddenly it did and I leapt for the bathroom.
I stood in front of the toilet like a vile anti-dragon, spewing all the water I'd so carefully consumed. With my stomach finally pumped empty (and it had contained quite an impressive amount of liquid) I continued wretching, spitting, and finally, mercifully, I was done.
I felt better immediately. I even felt good enough to walk down to the corner to buy more water, a coke, and some optimistic snack bars. I returned to my room and lay down, tossing and turning in front of the cool breeze from the fan. The waves crashed outside, but the deep hissing rumble of the foam sounded like a windstorm outside my door, and I've always found windstorms unsettling.
I finally managed to sleep, restlessly, and dreamed a little. In my final dream I was about to leap from cliffs into a deep blue pool by the edge of the sea, but I awoke with a start, bouncing lightly on the hard spring mattress, and I could feel that I had turned the corner towards health.
This morning I awoke feeling better, but not quite healed. However, suspecting that what I needed was some food and fresh air, I wandered down to the road for some corner-store packaged pastries and then waited for the camioneta to Ventanilla. Ventanilla is a kilometer off the main road, about 3 kilometers away from San Agustinillo, at the end of a dirt track leading to the sea, and its main attraction is a boat tour through a lagoon. The walk to the village, under the early morning sun, in my weakened condition, was not pleasant. When I arrived at the village I was told we'd need at least one more person before the tour could start, and so I sat on the steps of the visitor center and waited. The town appeared to be like every other along this stretch of coast: thatched-roof open restaurants with plastic chairs and tables waiting to ensnare wandering travelers such as myself. Along the side roads and up the hills other things may happen, but the view from the beach indicates that fishing and tourism are it.
My body felt more uncomfortable as time ticked by, and the day grew hotter, and then finally the guide agreed we might as well go now, before it got too hot. I payed my 30 pesos and followed a teenage boy out onto the beach. We walked in silence, I following him, for about ten minutes, then headed inland and reached a fleet of boats beached on a small lagoon. I climbed in, he pushed off, and the tour began.
The prime advertised draw of Ventanillo is the crocodiles, but thiswould have been a bird watcher's paradise. Not being a birder, I canonly say that I saw some big ones and some small ones; some that were white and some that were not; some that flew with grace and some that appearedvery nervous.
We saw crocodiles, too, scaly logs cruising serenely through the water,and as we approached they gradually submerged, leaving just head, thennose, then nostrils, and then they would nonchalantly retreat intotheir world, never to be seen again. The two of us spent an hour onthe water, him paddling us slowly through the mangroves under the mid-day sun, and despite the constant buzzing of the swamp and thecalls of the birds, the trip was wonderfully quiet, peaceful, andtranquil.
We returned to the beach, and then to the visitor center, and then I wanderedback up the dirt track to the main road. I passed horses, donkeys, withered cornfields, and one fancy villa behind iron gates, surrounded by green bushes with pink flowers. The yellow and red building was strangely out of place among the simple thatch huts, the pigs and chickens, and rudely ignored the beige and grey and olive green palette that painted the rest of the village.
After waiting a considerable period of time in the shade of a lone tree (the only one of any considerable size that I could see) I boarded another Camioneta and rode over the headland to the next town, Mazunte, where I took a tour of the Mexican Turtle Center. It was a fancy place, but the tanks were small and the turtles looked sad. I wanted to tell people of my amazing experiences working with leatherback turtles in Costa Rica but nobody spoke English.
Again I waited by the road, and again I hopped onto a camioneta. This one was full, and so I rode rather precariously, standing on the rear bumper as we lurched over another headland and back to San Agustinillo. I wandered to my favorite restaurant/hotel/boogie board rental place, and for the first time in two two days I felt wonderfully, legitimately hungry. In triumph I ate a sandwich and a salty salad and watched as the waves roared into the shore. The ocean was calmer today, so after a short siesta I rented a surfboard.
When I asked for instruction the guy mimed all the necessary actions: paddle out, look for a wave, paddle hard, stand up. "Simple!" I exclaimed in Spanish. "Easy!" he responded. I set off to try my hand at surfing. I paddled and bobbed, and waited and bobbed, struggled through the water and failed to catch a few waves, and ten minutes later I traded in my surfboard for a boogie board.
I did more of the same, paddling and bobbing, stroking furiously when likely candidates appeared, and after a while I came to understand a bit about riding waves, and even managed to do just that. An hour later I returned the boogie board, feeling completely cured of my earlier sickness. My shoulders ached from paddling, my neck from craning over the incoming waves, and I had water in my right ear, but I felt good again. I joined a soccer game with some local boys, and was again amazed at how good everyone was. I'm happy to say that I again held my own, though, and they even passed me the ball a few times. When the game finally ended I rinsed off in the sea and walked back to my hotel, feeling exhausted but good, healed again, and behind me the sunset sky was the colour of a heartbeat.